155
You fire, hitting the Angelino clansman in the side as he roars past your hiding place, and sending him tumbling from his machine to hit the ground in a cloud of dust. (Remember to deduct the relevant number of rounds from your Ammo Pouch.) It is not until the dust settles and your pulse slows that you realize just how close you came to being killed.
Seven neat indentations run in a line across the trash can, marking the place where the biker’s machine pistol bullets ricocheted off the thick steel plate. They are barely an inch below the top of the rim. Had he aimed a fraction higher, the bullets would have hit you for sure.
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 climb out of the trash can and walk away from the bridge.
