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Max was opening the door to the Jeep when he noticed a figure scrambling over the top of the hill, above the mine. He whirled around and pointed at the nearest guard. "Is anyone else supposed to be out there?" he demanded.

"No, just us," the frightened man responded.

"Shit. Saddle up boys. We've got a witness to take care of. One of you is going to earn a silver notch today."

"You," he pointed to the less experienced guard, a large black man from Alabama that had recently joined the company, "take one of the work trucks."

"And you! Take the Jeep, but don't fucking scratch it," Max pointed at the other guard, a seasoned veteran. The stocky red haired man carrying a suppressed M-16 nodded, stowed the assault rifle in the back of the SRT-8, jumped into the driver's seat and fired up the engine.

"I saw someone up on the ridge above the mine. Go get whoever it is before they get to the road," Max ordered. His tone implied that the guards would meet a fate similar to The Mole's if they failed him.

He hated not taking care of business himself, but Max the Enforcer was in a position of command. Max needed to set up damage control and deal with the remaining miners. For better or worse, he and Max were one and the same to those around him. While the guards had become lax, they were not incompetent. They could surely track down a lost hiker and dispose of the unfortunate soul on their own. There were times when he resented Max's character for holding him back, keeping him from the hunt where he could use his natural talents to their fullest.

The guards were part of an elite group of men, carefully recruited for their ruthlessness, and capabilities. The belts were an integral part of a system that helped guarantee their loyalty and provided a macabre competition between the killers. Each man in Max's organization was given a special black alligator skin belt when they joined. Carved into the leather was a notch for each confirmed kill the man racked up before joining Max's personal army. Kills made while working for Max were marked by a notch filled with silver. Silver notches were highly coveted and competition for them was fierce. The monetary reward accompanying each silver notch wasn't shabby either.

The tundra above the mineshaft was steep, but relatively smooth, allowing the extended cab 4 X 4 work truck and the Jeep to chase after the fleeing figure. Their careless driving destroyed the delicate tundra, but the guards had other things on their mind. Specifically, Max's fifty caliber Desert Eagle and the gaping hole in the unlucky miner's head. They were not going to fail.

Back in high school Liv hadn't been the fastest runner on the track team. But at this moment, Liv was certain she was breaking a few dozen world records. She desperately raced back to the road and possible salvation.

She heard the roar of two engines starting. Though she didn't think it possible, Liv ran even faster, gulping down mountain air as her muscles responded to her flight instinct.

Liv nearly tripped over her own feet when she heard the loping exhaust note from a high-powered engine. A turbocharger wastegate blew off excess pressure. "Ooo! It's got a Hemi. And a turbo!" she thought in spite of herself. Liv couldn't believe her brain. She was going to die and all she could think about was how awesome the truck was that would run her down. She mentally shrugged. "At least if I'm going to die it won't be because I got run over by some piece of shit Honda."

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