The arm handling the steering wheel of the Phantom VI streaking through the desert is covered with tattoos, serpentine and starred with blooms of color.
The other arm, which terminates with a Ruger clenched in a tanned hand, is bare and catches the shafts of light thrown by the sunset. A cigarette dangles from a lip, blue smoke streaming past the war paint. A feather flickers from a single dread, tickling a cheek.
The old, dusty engine roars as she twists the wheel around, bringing it on a hard curve, scattering the horsemen in mad pursuit. She fires the Ruger through the passenger window and a rider falls under his horse.
She floors the accelerator, the engine howling.
It sputters, shudders. To a stop in a nimbus of dust which the horsemen circle warily.
Her emerald eyes flicker to the gas gauge. A sigh escapes her. She takes a last drag from her cigarette and flings it away, pushing the door open.
She fires at the rider hurtling at her, throwing him backwards. As his horse gallops past, she grabs the reins, swinging easily onto the saddle to ride like hell, her chestnut hair snapping in the wind.
Eventually the pursuers pull in their horses and turn back home, spitting curses.
She watches them go, then rolls herself a cigarette under the stars.