DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.
Bounty Hunter
By Rusty Dillingham
--Chapter Six – Tumbleweed--
It was hot, humid, and damn ugly.
Sand Hill wasn't a place where Fang would ever spend a honeymoon, but he had to be here, regardless. With the likelihood that Claw the Mole was somewhere in the vicinity, he couldn't very well just go anywhere looking to find the guy – Putting off the inevitable wouldn't help. As wretched a place as it was, with its empty, barren desert scenery, occasional peak, and sandstorms, Fang was rather unimpressed with the mole's apparent decision to use this as a hideout. The same could be said for that deadbeat mongrel, Thor the Gorilla, who had indeed still been asleep in bed when Fang had arrived at the old, crappy two-room house of his in the middle of nowhere.
The violet-furred bounty hunter sat there on the Marvelous Queen, making good use of the miniscule air conditioning system it was equipped with as he gazed across the horizon through the high-tech binoculars he'd just recently gotten from the gorilla. Nothing but sand and rock formations met his sight, prompting a groan from his lips. He'd already been out here since he'd gotten out of bed, as he'd left around two in the morning. He'd really hoped to be at the desert by the time the sun came up so he wouldn't have to deal with the heat as much as he'd predicted, but that idiot gorilla had taken almost fifteen minutes to get him the merchandise Fang needed to buy.
So here it was, somewhere in the vicinity of ten in the morning, and he'd been swooping across the sand ever since he'd left Thor's. Fang sneered, annoyed with the lack of progress he was making. Time was money to him, and if he ran out of time, he ran out of money. At least Thor had given him a little bit of information: Apparently, there was a small, run-down shack of a house somewhere far north of the gorilla's cruddy wooden home, nestled somewhere between a set of mountains. A couple of weirdoes had come over to his place from there, demanding weapons and money, but Thor, being the big, crazy bully that he was, along with being a simpleminded nitwit, wouldn't have any of it, promptly kicking them out afterwards.
Sand Hill didn't have much in the way of towns, or civilization in general, for that matter – Most of the housing out here was all alone. Fang would likely find the shack in due time, considering he had a rather obvious nack for that sort of thing. Man, I hate that damn name.
Granted, he'd only been searching for a little while, but still, he was already getting rather fed up with this pursuit. Whether or not he was successful for now fully depended on Thor's honesty. Fang didn't particularly enjoy having to depend on anyone other than himself, but it had to be done often times for him to succeed at his occupation. He lowered the binoculars, his face scrunching up with slight aggravation as he continued to stare off towards the monotonous sand dunes and plentiful pillars of rock teetering across the horizon inconspicuously. He wasn't getting anywhere, despite the gorilla's information, and just sitting here wasn't helping.
He placed the binoculars in a random compartment on the Queen and fired the powerful twin engines back to life, as they weren't required to run the airbike's air conditioning system. With a nudge of the throttle, the machine picked up off the ground and shot out across the desert sand, kicking dirt and dust into the air in its wake.
Past the rocky pillars he flew, searching for anything that stood out in particular. The usual dust devils threatened to get in his way every so often, and he'd have to change course slightly to keep from getting slung off-course further than he wanted by them. Sand Hill annoyed Fang, and he silently wished he could hurry up and just get this bounty over with. The sooner he found Claw the Mole's three hundred thousand dollar ass, the better off he'd be.
Speeding through the wind and past the rock pillars, it was only a matter of time before he came across the first sign of life – An empty campsite. Fang slowed the Queen down and stared at the site to give it a fairly routine inspection, and immediately found more than he wanted to discover. Two sets of bones about his size adorned the ground, shells painted stark white by the desert sun's rays. Both the repugnant-looking skeletons were nestled fairly close to revolvers, but they were also lying beside one another, telling the bounty hunter that they hadn't been responsible for their own murders. He quickly came to the conclusion that they'd been ambushed long ago, and if Claw and his gang were the ones who had performed this vile act, they must have been based here for a long time.
Turning his nose up at the sight, he throttled the airbike again and sped away, hoping his path would lead him to his desired destination soon enough.
He continued on past the bland desert scene. It was an ultimately boring experience, but Fang bargained that the action of the job had to have a more dull side. Yin-Yang, he supposed – It certainly was that way for everything, not excluding himself. He knew he should have welcomed the change of pace, but still, he'd much rather get this over with sooner, even if it meant taking the action side right now. It would be a little bit easier on his nerves that way, anyway. Yes, the sooner he caught Claw, the better, and the sooner he became richer because of that, the better off he and a whole lot of other people would be.
It was around noon by the time he slowed the bike down to let the engines cool off a little bit. Since the airbike could travel hundreds of miles an hour, essentially being a miniature fighter jet, he always had to be extra careful of its well-being, and this damned desert heat wasn't doing it any good. The bright Sand Hill sun shone down upon he and the endless desert life, prompting a grating sneer from the bounty hunter towards it as he began to grow flabbergasted at this point. Bored out of his mind by the monotony of the scenery and his lack of progress, he switched on the radio, letting it blast nearly full volume to hear it above the hideous whine of the Queen's twin engines.
As he turned it on, he reached down and plucked out a bottle of water, gulping the majority of the small plastic container's contents in one swig. It's just too damn hot out here.
"—break-in at a Station Square police department last night, where the suspect smashed open one of the windows and stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from a Sergeant's office. No injuries were reported in the fiasco. The department had this to say."
Fang blinked, and listened closer, suddenly realizing what the news report was talking about. Oh Lord, what the hell?
"Sergeant B. Baker of the S.S.P.D. told reporters that the department has the situation well under control, and they have dispatched numerous authoritative figures to catch the criminal. Pending a full report, we asked Sergeant Baker of the crook's identity, but he declined to answer, feeling for the safety of the public."
The bounty hunter's eyes widened as his ears twitched violently, his attention now fully on the report and Trisha Dortmund's pleasant, ignorant little voice that had the ability to grind against his nerves ever so well. Oh, he so did not. Hell no, he did not.
He slowed the bike to a stop to listen to the report, turning its volume down slightly as the engines quieted. "GUN has already addressed the issue and has expressed their own concerns for public safety, also taking the initiative to dispatch authorities to handle the case. They also declined to comment, but much like their police counterparts, they assure the public that the crook will be taken care of at once. Now let's head over to our fun-tastic weather report! Take it away, Jim--"
Gritting his teeth and shutting the radio off, Fang already knew where this was headed. Authority figures, his ass. He hurled the water bottle off into the sand angrily. "DAMN IT!"
He should have figured Baker would talk. This was the last damn thing he needed now; a bunch of yahoo wannabes getting brave and trying to track him down, only to get shot to death. What a waste of bullets, and all over fourteen thousand that Baker wanted to stiff him out of. Sure, Hemorrhoid the Hippo may not have been worth fifteen thousand, nor a piece of crap, for that matter, but still, when someone made a deal, they didn't pull out of it. That was the sign of a bad businessman, and Baker was a terrible one in all aspects.
He sighed and stared into the sky. This was going to get lovely. Very freakin' lovely.
Placing a hand against his forehead, letting his outback hat rise slightly, he felt an equally troubling headache start to come on, but then, before it could worsen, he glanced off to his right and spied something off in the distance, nestled between a set of the typical rocky pillars he'd come to loathe – An old, wooden shack, with multiple, busted-up cars and one or two airbikes out front, not unlike Fang's. It had definitely seen better days. It didn't appear to have any glass in the windows, it had no visible roof – Fang bargained it was flat with wood – and it looked as though it would fall apart any minute.
And Fang knew that to some, it would have looked like a million-dollar dream home. Narrowing a single eagle eye, he gunned the Marvelous Queen's engines and whipped the bike in its direction, and almost before he himself knew it, he was speeding off in its direction, the radio report now nothing but a lost memory.
Sombrero the Gila Monster stared directly up at his enormous companion from under the brim of his namesake hat, the sun boring in through the entirely-open windows, heating the whole room to help and accompany the already tense atmosphere between the two robbers. Dry Horn the Bison looked considerably more dangerous when he was ruffled by something, and the smaller, scaly bandit certainly was intimidated, but he wasn't going to let the big bully push him around like an insignificant yes-man. Sombrero wouldn't have any of it – despite how he was definitely getting himself into thick water when going against the bison, much like anyone else.
"I said, you go get your own damn soda," the crazy little outlaw challenged.
It was a more-than-familiar scene – The boss would leave, providing a huge opportunity for Dry Horn to boss the gila monster around as though he were some sort of miserable lackey. It happened a bit too often, and when it did happen, the bison made absolutely sure to take full advantage of the situation, forcing the lizard outlaw to perform such monotonous, ridiculous duties as getting him food, money, a woman, or having his disgusting feet rubbed. Sombrero rarely did any of it, in particular the very latter, and only at least performed the easier tasks if Dry Horn went so far as to threaten his life. Unfortunately, now was one of those times.
The bison just glowered down at him. "I'm second-in-command of this outfit. You gotta do as I say while the boss is out."
Sombrero's expression sagged and soured at the same time. "No one made your sissy ass second-in-command. Who the hell died and made you the boss all of a sudden? You fat, ugly, smelly excuse for a moo cow. C'mon, moo for me."
"Get your stupid-lookin' butt in that kitchen and get me one before I throw you in there with one hand." Dry Horn cracked his knuckles.
Sombrero's intimidation gave way, feeling his wrath peak. He dropped his gloved hand rest near the blue-finished pistol nesting in his gunbelt's holster as his mouth's expression turned upside down under the white bandana covering his snout. "Why doesn't your big, fat, stupid-lookin' butt get in there and get it yerself? You take me for some kinda wuss? You want a hole through that ugly face of yours? Just gimme the word."
"My face is ugly?" Dry Horn scoffed. "Yours is so damn ugly, you gotta hide it behind that damn bandana all the time. Now shut up and get me a soda, you little bitch, and get some cheese with your whine if you ain't gonna quit it. I'm getting sick of listening to it."
"I swear to God," the lizard garbled angrily, thrusting a finger up at the colossal bozo, "if you tell me to do that one more damn time, I'll take this gun and put so many bullets up your colon, you'll be crapping lead for a week."
"Damn it, just do it already!" The bison swung out and grabbed Sombrero's arm, thrusting him directly into the old shack's beat-up kitchen, if it could have been called that. "And fix me somethin' to eat while you're in there! What a baby."
Sombrero didn't have much of a choice, being slung around like a rag doll and all by a guy about forty-seven times his size. The emergency landing his ass made on the kitchen's dirty floor didn't help his ego much, nor this stupid predicament he was in. Fine, you dirty, ugly crab. I'll fix you something. Let's see how you like puking outside all day afterwards.
Standing, the gila monster stumbled over to a few random cupboards and drawers, fishing out whatever poison he'd fix his crazy partner. "Low-down, no-good, frickin', gall-dang, miserable..."
Dry Horn stood there, listening to Sombrero bitch for a bit, then turned his furry, brown head towards the unsightly door that looked like it was about to fall off the hinges, his gaze quickly switching to the open window. One of Sand Hill's notorious dust storms was starting, what with all the wind and sand being blown around outside. It made Dry Horn think a moment as he prodded the grip of his shotgun with his fingers, the vile weapon hanging from a rope on his multiple belts – a makeshift holster that was the laughing stock of the guy currently occupying the kitchen against his will. "Hey, what time is it?"
Hesitating at first, as though debating whether or not to grace the asshole with an aswer, Sombrero stopped whatever he was doing for a moment. "Well, my stupid Burger Queen Spider-Dude 3 watch has stopped already, so I don't know."
"That's funny," the bison remarked. "The boss shoulda been back by now. Where d'ya think he is?"
"I don't know," came the grumble from the kitchen, the smaller, easily-angered outlaw still muttering and spewing.
"Well, damn," Dry Horn continued, staring outside further, "it's not like it's a long trip. Claw's not a fellow who takes a long time with stuff, where do you think—"
"I— DON'T— KNOW!!" Sombrero screamed.
Silence coiled the scene. Dry Horn mumbled.
The bison thrust a glare towards the kitchen moments later, suspecting the lizard wouldn't fix him the greatest meal ever. The last time Sombrero made dinner for the gang, Claw had gotten four cases of the flu, Dry Horn had to have his stomach pumped, and the gila monster had woken up somewhere in Green Hill talking to a tree. "Hurry the hell up in there."
He cast his scruffy noggin's view back towards the door when he heard a bizarre, almost out-of-place creak that caught him a bit off-guard at first, though he soon realized he had little to fear. The now growing wind had blown it open, which wasn't too hard a feat, as the door threatened to nearly fall over any moment anyway, assistance or none. Dry Horn crossed his huge, tree-sized arms, prodding his mind slightly with slight hope that the boss wouldn't come back, as it would make him first in command of the gang, although they'd have to find a decent, idiotic replacement for the mole. Letting a grin encompass his face at the thought, he chuckled to himself as he shot a half-narrowed eye towards the kitchen.
Sombrero tossed everything he could find in the cupboards and drawers into the hideous mixture he was making, singing to himself all the while as though he were on a syndicated cooking show. "Thi-i-i-is is the ni-i-i-i-ight, it's a byo-o-o-o-o-otiful ni-i-i-i-ight..."
The bison rolled his eyes and looked back to the door. Dry Horn found it bizarre. Despite his lack of personal interest in whether or not the boss came back, it still made him ultimately curious. Claw had left at least thirty minutes earlier, but he hadn't taken his airbike, as the water well was just over a nearby sandy hill, so that probably explained most of the time delay. He'd just go on anyway, despite the strange feeling he now had. Claw would be back soon. If not, oh well. Shrugging his enormous, powerful shoulders, Dry Horn looked back towards the kitchen, turning his black nose up to try and keep some of the sand out of it. "After you're done with that, run on over to that gorilla guy's place and take his TV guide, okay? I heard Paris the Haliotis is on the cover this week."
"Why do I have to go?" the irritated tone from the kitchen queried. "I went last time."
"Because I said so."
"You're not the damn boss yet. Quit bein' a retard."
Dry Horn began to heavily weigh the consequences of using Sombrero's namesake headwear for target practice. "Just do it and stop whining. I like Paris."
"What the hell is a Haliotis, anyway? You've got some weird tastes, you sick freak. Why can't you be normal, and have a crush on one of these millions of poorly-designed female Sonic look-a-likes popping up all over the place these days?"
"I don't know, but I think—"
He heard something rolling across the old wooden floor, and he glanced down to see what it was.
Like a sun going supernova, the explosion threatened to permanently blind anything in the room, whether a bug or a bison, but it was the blast itself that was the danger, as though the world was ending right where he stood. Dry Horn flew back into a set of stolen furniture, crashing through it all in the process and leaving him on the ground.
The entire room rumbled with the aftercourse of the frag grenade's effects, sending chills for whatever remained to keep Dry Horn's body company.
Sombrero the Gila Monster rushed in from the kitchen, at first staring at the not-so-discrete crater in the middle of their living room, then quickly and half-assedly turning his attention to the bloodied gang member lying in a most awkward position.
Initially, he was struck a little dumbfounded. It occurred to him that whatever might have caused Dry Horn's death could very well go for him next like the sick bastard it was, but Sombrero, being the idiot he was, didn't pay the potential danger any heed. All he focused on was the repugnant form lying there, frozen like a statue. Narrowing his wild eyes, the gun-slinging lizard slowly stepped over to his dead partner, staring down at the mess as he steadily approached.
He stopped, gazing down at the bison. What remained was scrunched against the wall, arms hanging strangely from his sides as his shotgun sat in his lap, as though still begging to be used for terror against the unsuspecting bastard who had brought down fire upon its owner. The sight almost made Sombrero cringe at first, but he still only gazed down at his comrade. His disgusting, irritating, slothful, lazy, sorry, ultimately dead son of a bitch-ass comrade who he hated with all his passion. Sombrero hated Dry Horn. He had wished for his death ever since he'd met him, and he hoped to heaven the pathetic bastard was in rotting somewhere in the underworld.
"Damn, buddy," he muttered quietly, "you got screwed up. Screwed up bad. What, you drop one of those damn grenades you were playin' with earlier today?"
There was no response.
"You look like what I ate the other night. And also what came out the same night."
Again, he didn't receive a response. Sombrero glared down at the beast, feeling his wrath begin to seep out of his body as he began to take his unhinged frustration out on his once-partner.
"Well, it serves ya right, ya miserable piece of garbage." Sombrero's vile tone was laced with wrath. "Serves you 'n' yer ten-dollar mother damned right. You like kickin' people around? Here's yer damn soda."
Sombrero held up the bandana over his face and fired a pleasant wad of saliva right down onto Dry Horn's makeshift grave. Not that Dry Horn likely cared anymore. "How's it feel to get screwed with for a change, you ass? Oh, I'm sorry, yer dead. Too bad. I hope you die in the afterlife too, you mangy son of a—"
The audible creak of a wooden floor panel reverberated through his ears like a funeral bell.
Sombrero's crazy, bloodshot eyes froze. Only staring at the sight a moment longer, the bandit slowly – very slowly turned around, eventually fully facing the door as his awful posture straightened significantly.
Fang the Sniper looked right back at him, the bounty hunter's hands resting comfortably on his gunbelt. A sun glint echoed off the holstered .45 semiautomatic, sending a shine across the room onto the lizard's head.
Focusing his own sight directly into the violet-furred weasel-wolf's passionless eyes, Sombrero became more than aware of the danger present. His gimlet stare hardened, the brim of the white sombrero darkening his visage. Motionless, Fang only returned the gaze, expressionless, for his part, but he stared at the lizard with a defining look of intent in his eyes.
They only stood there, watching one another, fifteen feet apart.
Carefully and slowly, as to not send things over the brink prematurely, the gila monster's gloved hand eased down towards the black semiautomatic in his own gunbelt's holster. Carefully, it stopped directly next to the deadly pistol's grip, the bandito's gaze still centered partially on the bounty hunter's black eyes and the rival quick-draw arm, watching for any movement at all.
Fang was already performing the same motion, smoothly and silently. Without an ounce of emotion, the weasel-wolf's own glove carefully hung in the air, coming to rest not half an inch from his own weapon's handle, the glint still shining magnificently off the .45. The brown brim of the outback hat the bounty hunter wore covered all but a small section of his blank eyes, the small slice of white still somehow showing the pupil – which was centered intensely on Sombrero's. The wind from outside shook what excess fur the bounty hunter had, while occasionally shooting sand in on the floor. It was an unnerving sight.
Sombrero felt a poisonous high run through his nerves, one that made his breathing a little uneasier but his blood run hotter. The gila monster was himself known for being particular fast when it came to dropping bodies, but in this day and age, it was difficult to find people who would actually accept such a challenge amongst themselves. Only people such as he and a select few others would bother deciding to let things be decided by finding out who was the quickest with a gun – just like the old times, but while he had an enormous ego when it came to such a thing, he'd never taken on anybody like Nack the Weasel. Of course he was aware that he was an excellent gunslinger, but he was unsure of the extent that it could have been, and it frustrated him somewhat.
He'd heard of him before, though. Fang was regarded as the most notorious bounty hunter in the world, and he'd obviously come here not by his own sweet time but by someone else's. He must have been working for money. But the last he'd heard, Sombrero figured he himself was only worth maybe five thousand bucks to society. A fellow like Fang couldn't possibly want to bother with so-called small fry like himself, but if he had been getting desperate as of late, perhaps the gila monster was in a bind. Sombrero's eyes darkened at the thought, but unlike many of Fang's targets, he was not a cowardly wimp on the run for some little crime no one cared about. The vile outlaw was more than acquainted with gunplay and he wouldn't go down without a fight.
The only audience to the scene were the Sand Hill flies and mosquitoes as they hovered in and circled around the remote mess like a hungry swarm of vultures.
The gila monster stretched his fingers, scanning Fang's all the while. The bounty hunter still hadn't moved a single centimeter from his previous position, and the fact that he wasn't making small-talk made Sombrero a little off balance. So much for bringing them in alive -- Fang had just dealt with Dry Horn in the only manner he'd wanted, and was looking to do the same to him in cold blood. The bounty hunter seemed locked in his stance, as though frozen like a block of ice. He hadn't even blinked since first stopping in the shack.
Sand whipped in through the wide, glassless windows and across the room, but the scaled outlaw only concentrated on the figure standing no more than fifteen feet away. Sombrero narrowed his bloodshot eyes to try and sway the bounty hunter's grit. Fang's expression didn't change in the very least.
His expression turning black, the gila monster felt his ferocity burn to life. His breath lessened slightly.
Fang only stood there, the hot sun beating against his back. The seconds ticked away, lasting what seemed like hours.
It came and went like the wind. Sombrero's hand grasped the black gun's grip and brought it up out of the holster in a flash, his posture dropping as he tried to make himself a more wily target hit in case the bounty hunter got off a shot at the same time. His arm rose in a heartbeat and his finger gripped the trigger.
The shot blasted into the room like a bolt of lightning. The full-metal-jacket round smashed directly across the gila monster's gunside shoulder, and he went spinning around in a wild three-sixty as he was sent flying back into the air a few feet, the bandito eventually crashing onto the dirty wooden floor in a heap next to the filthy mess that was Dry Horn the Bison. The black pistol – along with the namesake sombrero – had gone flailing from his person somewhere in the middle of it. "AGGH!"
Fang allowed the wind to carry the smoky gunpowder away, then spun the pistol on his finger a moment, letting it slip into its respective holster once again.
"Urgh!" Sombrero thrashed about on the shack's bloodied floor, eyes shut tight, a glove grasping the wound as he ground his carnivorous snappers under the bandana. "DAMNIT! DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN! YOU BASTARD! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!! ARGH, I SWEAR TO GOD—"
Before he could even react, he received a face full of leather. Fang let the kick subside, drawing his booted foot back. "Nice try."
Sombrero just growled and spat in agony, tongue and nerves lashing in wrath.
The bounty hunter suddenly bent and coiled his hand around the scaly outlaw's neck, putting a stop to the crybaby's tantrum. "Where's your boss?"
"I don't," the gila monster choked, throat gurgling, "I don't know!"
Fang didn't have time for games. He pulled the .45 back out of the holster and jammed it smack in the space between Sombrero's eyes. "I SAID, WHERE'S YOUR BOSS!?"
"I DON'T KNOW!" the lizard screeched. "I'm telling you, I DON'T KNOW! He was supposed to be here by now, but he's not! He was just goin' off to get some water! I swear to GOD! DON'T SHOOT AGAIN!"
"Don't yell at me, you piece of scum!" Fang pounded the gun into the side of the already wounded outlaw's face, easily doing more damage than necessary. "I'll say one more time, where's your boss?"
Sombrero only lay there, his breathing still constricted by the glove wrapped around his neck, his thoughts racing at a mile a minute thanks to the wound he had and the rising probability of a slightly more fatal one being brought to him in the next few moments. "I don't... I dunno, I, I... I—"
"You dirty liar, don't you lie to me." Fang's grip on the gun intensified.
The gila monster's green face was by then even whiter than the bandana hiding most of it. "I'm... telling… the truth..."
Glowering down at his prey, the bounty hunter sneered and released the lizard's neck, rising fully. "You'd damn well better be."
Suddenly, without warning, a high-pitched shriek shot off across the desert – a machine. Fang immediately recognized the unmistakable sound of an aerobike engine, as they sounded similar to those of high-powered indy cars, but it wasn't his own, as the Marvelous Queen was equipped with two. He stepped away from Sombrero and gawked outside.
"I," Sombrero whimpered, "I want my mommy."
Fang could already tell from the heavy dust build-up, despite the dust storm, that something had taken off as fast as it could from just outside the shack. The bounty rushed over to the window and gazed outside, and almost instantly spotted an airbike speeding off in the distance at hundreds of miles an hour, the outline of a short, fat pilot quickly recognizable.
His eyes dilated, and he sped right back over to Sombrero, pointing the gun directly at his head again. "WHERE THE HELL IS HE GOING!?"
"How the hell should I know!?" Sombrero spat, using up whatever dignity he had left.
"He's your damned boss, you oughta know!" It wasn't much of a request – Just a statement. Fang holstered the gun a second time and sped outside as quickly as he could, despite the protest his legs brought about, and he hurried over to the Marvelous Queen, quickly starting up its powerful twin engines before he was even fully on the aerobike's seat. It was only a second before the bike was ready to blast off in pursuit of who he already knew was the little bastard who he'd come here for.
But Fang stopped suddenly; his breathing ceased.
He glanced over his shoulder, not suspecting the obvious presence of a wounded Sombrero and his dead ally, but of something else.
His dark eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat. Choosing to ignore the odd feeling, the bounty hunter whipped the airbike around, and, throttling it as hard as he could, he thundered off away from the shack, in pursuit of three hundred thousand dollars on the run.