19
Your gunfire blows open the front tyre and sends the motorcycle skidding away to your left, missing the pump by inches. (Remember to deduct the relevant number of rounds from your Ammo Pouch.) With a screech of buckled metal it crashes down on its side, rolls over and over, and then slams into the gas station wall. Cautiously you approach the tangled, smoking wreckage with your gun poised. You are still very wary of this maniacal rider even though the chances of his surviving such a terrible crash must be slim indeed.
As you expected, the rider is dead. A close examination of his broken body reveals that he was already dead before his machine hit the ground. He was killed by a ricocheting bullet as he sped over the bridge, and his body, slumped over the handlebars, kept the machine balanced in an upright and fixed line.
Thinking of how close you came to death makes you break out in a cold sweat. Uneasily you wipe your forehead with the back of your trembling hand as you turn and walk away from the dead clansman and his shattered bike.
