Episode 6 - Enter Sandstorm

Weaving his way through traffic, Z could only focus on one thing: "How could they find out about Mayfield?" he asked himself over and over. "Someone must have talked."

He became so obsessed with the question that he almost didn't notice the red blip representing an incoming enemy missile on his radar until it was too late. He ripped the wheel to the left and sprayed his countermeasures, but they were of no use. The missile was too close: It was too late.

Z gripped the wheel and braced himself for impact, but then, with the missile nano-seconds away from his bumper, it exploded in midair. Just then a red Kawasaki Ninja roared past the left side of Z's Jeep. Before Z could even postulate who the mysterious rider was, he saw where it was going.

A Golden Eagle battlewagon was looming down on his position and he was wholly unprepared to defend himself. The battlewagon dwarfed the motorcycle as the sped toward one another in some cruel game of chicken.

But there was something else in the bike's path: a conveniently placed flat bed truck with the bed down, kissing the pavement. The bike's driver gave it another little burst of speed as it hit the truck bed, jamming all their weight against the handlebars as the bike left the ground. The nose of the bike slowly rotated downward as it arched through the air, reaching a point where it was pointed straight at the top of the battlewagon, the Golden Eagle vehicle's only weak spot.

So many rockets poured out of the front of the motorcycle that Z wondered how many a vehicle so small could fit. Deuce must have done his homework, he thought.

The flames from the exploding battlewagon came up and kissed the bottom of the flying motorcycle, the red in both embracing in a twisted dance of death.

The motorcycle completed its flip, landing something on the road. The driver deftly hit the the brakes, swinging the vehicle around and planting a foot to come to a stop. Only then could Z tell that the driver was a woman.

His eyes ran up the high heeled leather boots and the jet black jumpsuit as the driver removed her helmet to reveal shoulder length, sandy-blond hair.

"Who are you?" Z said out his Jeep's open window.

"Call me Sandstorm. Agent Sandstorm," the motorcyclist replied. "I was sent by -" but she was cut off by a loud explosion.

Both Z and Sandstorm turned to see a large plume of smoke coming from the direction of Mayfield.

"Let's go," said Z.