Lester hates fucking Utah.
How could this backwards little shitbag mining state be so well known for its tourism and economy? It was a desert wasteland, and 60% Mormon, for Christsake! If he had his way, Bullseye would have done to the Mormons what the Spanish had done to the Anasazi and Fremont tribes who owned the land before them.
But, it was a waste of time, and not what he was getting paid for, besides. He might not know who was doing the paying, but Bullseye had fairly strict rules about getting jobs done once he'd accepted them - and he never missed.
This time, he had help, too. Two hired shmucks who could handle a gun better than spell their own names, but what the hell? They'd be useful for grabbing the briefcase and taking out the courier, and then he'd most likely kill them, too. Less to share, that way.
He had a clear view both east and west along the highway he was expecting the courier, and it wouldn't be long before the bike came into view. From there, he simply had to wait until the bike rolled over the small C4 charge he'd buried in a depression in the pavement. Then he'd activate the charger, send the bike and it's contents flying, and send the boys to clean up the mess after.
Lester grinned, rolling the plunger in his hand. He couldn't wait.
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