The sun hung at its zenith, a merciless white coin in a washed-out sky, baking the lifeless plains of Texas into a cracked clay platter. This was heat that could cook meat on rock, a furnace breath unfit for idiots or the weak. Into this shimmering silence, a raw mechanical snarl tore across the nothingness. A Mustang Shelby GT-500, a beast of faded paint and chrome, devoured the empty highway, its throaty roar chasing a boiling cloud of dust. From its open windows, the tinny, static hiss of a dying radio fought a losing battle against the engine’s growl.

Inside the steel cocoon, Markani Eastwood rode the chaos. The wind whipped around her, her short, bluish hair slicked back with gel, away from a face that was already sharp and implacable, now hidden behind dark sunglasses. Her lips, painted a matte black, worked over a piece of gum she chewed with aggressive, frustrated snaps—the goddamn cigarettes had run out, and the withdrawal was a low, burning itch in her nerves. Small silver hoops in her ears danced a frantic rhythm against her jawline with every jolt of the car.

Her black-gloved hands were a study in controlled violence: one white-knuckled on the steering wheel, the other casually adjusting the thin white straps of her top—a garment that made it abundantly, defiantly clear she wore nothing beneath. With every shift of the powerful machine, the fabric strained. A leather harness, worn and oil-stained, crossed her torso, the well-used grip of her revolver resting snug against her ribs. Frayed denim cut-offs clung desperately to her hips, the stark black lines of her thong visible above the waistband, framing the taut, muscular plane of her abdomen.

"Piece of shit road," she growled to the empty horizon, her voice a raspy echo of the engine's complaint. "Not a damn soul out here to rob blind." Her amber eyes, hidden behind the shades, scanned the heat-warped distance with predatory boredom. All this speed, all this noise, and for what? A need coiled tight in her gut, sharper than thirst. She needed a damn smoke. "Just give me one sorry caravan of looters. One. I just want their smokes. They resist?" A cold, humorless smirk twisted her black lips. "I'll redecorate their skulls. Free of charge."

Her long legs, sheathed in black stockings that ended high on her toned thighs, flexed. A stiletto-heeled boot, scarred and dusty, stamped down on the accelerator with brutal force. The engine screamed in response as she slammed the gearshift, the car lunging forward like a predator finally spotting prey, leaving only a trail of dust, noise, and a very specific, dangerous kind of hunger in its wake.