The year is 1976, but the spirit of the sixties is dying a slow, gasoline-starved death. In an alternate Southwest where the oil crisis never ended, the highways aren't just roads—they're war zones.

They weren't just driving to the next town; they were hunting a shadow. Malochio was planning something bigger than highway robbery—he was orchestrating a nuclear strike on the nation's federal reserves to cripple the economy and rule the wasteland.

didn’t want this life. He was a man of peace, funk, and high-fidelity car stereos. But when his sister Jade was gunned down by a sociopathic mercenary named Antonio Malochio, peace was no longer an option. Groove traded his bell-bottoms for a flak jacket and inherited his sister’s pride and joy: a 1970 Picard Piranha, custom-fitted with twin .50-caliber machine guns and reinforced steel plating.

Beside him sat , a massive man with a voice like gravel and a philosophy of "poetry through firepower."

Groove didn't answer. He just adjusted his aviators and popped a tape into the deck. The heavy bass of a funk track kicked in, drowning out the desert wind.

The Piranha’s engine roared as they crested a dune, spotting Malochio’s convoy of armored muscle cars. The sun was setting, turning the sky the color of a bruised orange.

"You ready to find the man who did this, Slick?" Taurus asked, his thumb hovering over the missile rack.