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After witnessing what happened to the first vehicle, none of the black men in the back of the pickups dared stand up to man the mounted machine guns again.

On terrain this uneven, even those wearing seatbelts inside the cab risked injury. For the ones exposed in open truck beds with no protection, the idea of standing upright while the vehicle bounced forward was pure madness.

Still, just because the machine guns were useless didn't mean their rifles and pistols were. As long as they kept themselves steady, the black men continued to pour bullets at the two fleeing Land Rovers.

The brunt of the fire naturally fell on the rear vehicle—the one Mark was driving. The lead car sped ahead like a phantom, drawing the whole enemy convoy in pursuit, which made the lagging vehicle the first target of every shot.

Sam and Old Bernie leaned out of opposite windows to return fire, but two guns simply couldn't compete against more than a dozen.

At these speeds and under these conditions, even expert marksmen couldn't do better than the black men who fired blindly. Luck decided whose bullets found their mark. A few did—punching through the Land Rover's body panels and making Sam and the others curse in pain.

As another young man himself, Sam snapped angrily, "Fk! Mark, can't you pick up that goddamn motherfking gun and shoot back?!"

Mark, already on edge, roared, "Shut up! Shut your damn mouth! Don't distract me! Do you even know how tense I am right now just trying to keep up with that bastard up front?

"Motherfker, did the lady hire that lunatic assistant straight from a rally race? If you don't want us flipping and dying here, stop bothering me! I don't have time to grab a gun—got it? No time for that fking gun!"

A quick glance at the speedometer—well past 100 km/h—made his heart pound even harder than his words suggested. He'd never flinched under enemy gunfire before, yet now his palms and forehead were slick with sweat.

The others might have been too busy shooting to notice, but as the one trying to keep up, Mark understood exactly what kind of speed they were hitting.

They weren't on a paved road; the ground was raw and uneven. Still, there were always slightly smoother tracks—paths that Henry's lead car was carving out.

With a four-wheel drive, as long as all four tires stayed planted, it could deliver maximum traction. By sticking to the smoother lines, the car bounced less and maintained far more speed.

That's exactly what Henry was doing.

At first, Mark hadn't realized it. He'd simply followed the lead vehicle's tail, causing his Land Rover to hop like a kangaroo.

Then he noticed something—the lead car's movements were almost unnaturally smooth, gliding as though it were racing on a manicured track. Mark finally understood: it was following precise tire grooves.

Once he began mirroring those tracks, his vehicle steadied, and its speed climbed dramatically.

But even as his speed increased, it didn't close the gap. Instead, Henry's lead vehicle accelerated further—as if he'd been holding back earlier, waiting for the second car to keep up.

The realization didn't exactly infuriate Mark, but it stung his pride. Eyes locked on that slightly swaying bumper ahead, he pressed harder.

Each time Mark grew accustomed to one level of speed, the lead vehicle would drag him into the next. By now, both Land Rovers were tearing across the plains at an average of 120 km/h.

For comparison: on the savannah, prey animals that relied on speed to survive could hit around 60 to 80 km/h.

Lions topped out around 80. The fastest cheetahs could sprint up to 120—but only for a brief burst before exhausting themselves.

Cars weren't cheetahs. As long as they had fuel, they could keep going. But even so, vehicles weren't meant to maintain highway speeds off-road. Rally racing and cross-country off-roading were entirely different worlds. No sane driver mixed them.

Yet here they were, Land Rovers flying across open grassland at speeds they should only hit on paved highways.

Behind them, the pursuers' vehicles—whether pickups or older SUVs—were bouncing like carnival rides. The black men in the back beds were being shaken so violently they likely questioned their life choices.

Worse for them, their tires weren't gripping the ground properly, so they couldn't maintain full traction. Their speed lagged, and the gap slowly widened.

Anyone foolish enough to simply floor the accelerator risked disaster. Hit one bad dip, and the entire truck would go airborne. At best, it'd land hard but stay upright. At worst, it'd fishtail, spin out—or roll end over end.

These were men who'd grown up on these plains, and even they couldn't manage such speeds. Yet Henry could.

Mark, drenched in sweat, imagined every horrific crash replaying with his own vehicle as the victim. He didn't want to die from bullets, but he sure as hell didn't want to die in a wreck either.

If they flipped and somehow survived, only to be shot by the pursuers afterward… that would be tragedy multiplied by two.

And Sam still wanted him to shoot right now?! If Mark had a free hand for a gun, the first thing he'd do would be to jam it into Sam's mouth and pull the trigger—several times.

Still, Mark's effort wasn't in vain. They were slowly pulling away from the enemy convoy.

But the downside was obvious: the pursuers now focused all their fire on Mark's car, the closer target, rather than the more distant lead vehicle.

Mark didn't even have enough energy left to curse. The lunatic up front had just accelerated again.

Suddenly, one of the pursuing trucks broke formation, recklessly surging forward. Predictably, after pulling ahead for only a moment, it hit a bump, launched into the air, and began flipping violently.

Just as Mark muttered, Another idiot, a figure leaped from the airborne truck bed.

The man's jump was unnaturally powerful—beyond what any ordinary human could do. His trajectory aimed straight for Henry's lead car.

"F**king mutant!" Mark swore, instantly realizing what they were dealing with.

If that guy landed and interfered with Henry's driving, slowing him down, their entire situation would collapse.

But it never came to that. From the driver's-side window of the lead car, a hand extended holding a Colt pistol.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots cracked, each hitting the leaping attacker mid-air. The force spun him off course, sending him crashing to the ground well short of his target.

His body slammed onto the path directly in front of another pursuing truck, becoming a sudden human obstacle.

No surprise—the truck ran him over, jolted violently, and then itself launched upward, flipping end over end.

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