36
The dunes continued to be mayhem. Zoe was passed by motorcycles going the other way, who would then circle and head back and race by her, assuming she knew what she was doing and they were wrong. It was a marginal bet at best.
She did feel sorry for them. The dunes between Nazca and the finish line at Lima were far too close to sea level. This was no high-altitude course. The sun was blazing hot, cooking the sands to sun surface temperatures. Every time they turned so that the sun shone in the windshield, it felt as if their air conditioner had broken. The guys on the bikes must feel like burnt toast.
Zoe really wished she hadn’t thought of that analogy. The image of Bernie’s face came back to her.
“Where is that bastard?” she finally snarled out. She wanted a piece of him. A big on
