On foot and wounded.

Luis Rivera opened the driver's door and peered inside. He did not give a second thought to fingerprints. The car was his, and a "stolen" report would be filed with the federales in due time. For now, establishing the name and destination of his enemy was more important. If the gringo bastard managed to escape with what he obviously knew about Rivera's operation in Sonora, he could make sufficient noise to rouse the Mexican authorities, compel them to forget the years of rich mordida they had accepted from Rivera as compensation for selective blindness. If Rivera's enemy escaped, if he was free to talk, then it was finished. Loss of merchandise worth millions was enough to put the man on Rivera's hit list, but the drugs could always be replaced. Provided that he was free to make the deal. But he would not survive in prison, even with his wealth to shelter him from harm. His empire would be picked apart by jackals in his absence, and he would be left alone to face the years of isolation, fighting for his life against the animals inside.

It was too much. Rivera pushed the image out of mind and concentrated on the car. The body armor had deflected several dozen rounds, as it was meant to do. The windows had cracked into tiny cubes in back and on the driver's side, but they had held. Rivera smiled and made a mental note to have another set of wheels just like it readied for his use within the week. There might be something they could do about the undercarriage to prevent a ricochet from wreaking havoc underneath the hood as this one obviously had. In any case, the shield around the gas tank had prevented an explosion, stopping several rounds, and there were still a few miles left in the puncture-proof tires.