Spyder’s feet were aching like hell. Even with his tough boots, his feet still protested after three days solid work. They had covered nearly a hundred miles in those three days, and his guys were starting to grumble. Spyder used to have a large army truck which they used to get around, but that had taken a rocket a few weeks back and they had left it, a smoldering wreck. It was a shame really – the vehicle had served them well for six years, and Spyder doubted whether he’d ever be able to find anything as good for their purposes again. It was hard for him to get a car – honorable as his purposes were, the warband had caused thousands and thousands of dollars of collateral damage, and if the law enforcement squad caught up with him, he would probably be thrown in jail. So they were walking, heading for the city of Riazza, which was where it was said that Gellar organized his operations, hoping for some clue as to where he might be.

The evening was dark and foggy. They had stopped for a drink and a short break from walking. The dying sun cast blood-coloured rays over the mountains in the distance. Spyder had just sat down for a swig when he heard it. Dim and distant, but unmistakably, the rumble of an engine, which died away as he listened. He stood up to try and get a better view of his surroundings, trying to spot the source of the noise, but the surrounding fog obscured his vision. He thought he could see the hazy outline of a crouched figure a hundred yards away or so. He heard a soft ‘click’ and suddenly he came back to his senses. A car engine, a crouched figure and that click noise could only mean one thing.

A fraction of a second before he heard the thup of a silenced sniper rifle, he threw himself sideways. He felt the heat from the speeding bullet as it passed centimeters from his neck. Reacting fast, he drew his revolvers, squared, aimed, and fired. There was a muffled cry as the high caliber bullets hit the running figure in the back as he tried to reach his vehicle. Spyder hurried to investigate.

The man was still alive, but his time was short. His breathing was ragged and shallow and he winced in pain as Spyder put his boot on the man’s chest. He didn’t need to ask who sent him. The last thing the assassin ever saw was Spyder’s scarred face twisting into a grim smile as he pressed the gun to the man’s temple and squeezed the trigger. He turned back to the makeshift camp as his men were hurrying over.

"C’mon, we gotta keep going. Gellar knows we’re here. That was one of his lackeys." His men groaned, but Spyder grinned and said, "He was kind enough to leave us his car. It’ll be a squeeze, but it’ll make the rest of the journey much more bearable."

So, with Goldy driving, the vehicle sped off across the dusty wasteland towards the small grey patch on the horizon that was Riazza City.