Being the leader of this small assembly Rowen made sure he was the first man in to any sort of "operation" and always the last man out. It is due to this policy that Rowen had been making his way to a particular rendezvous after a successful "operation," but found that his team had -- apparently -- deserted him. So, he waited. He waited quite some time, plotting the ways he would make the fuckers pay for leaving him stranded in the middle of the Deadlands, and continued waiting until he heard the sharp whine of an engine. He took out his pistol and idly checked the current situation of his ammo. He'd managed to get out of the entire "operation" using only one bullet. Rowen allowed himself a brief smile under his mask at the accomplishment, then returned his attentions to more pressing matters. In the distance he could see the deadly trail of shrapnel that the motorcycle kicked up in the rusted desert. Quickly, Rowen stood, taking care to line the shot; after all, bullets - and by extension: oxygen - were expensive.
The motorcycle was practically flying, and Rowen took heart in the fact that the driver was probably so focused on staying upright at that speed, that he would never consider taking the time to check the surroundings for, say, the glint of a gunmetal in the high afternoon sun. Rowen thus made sure just to keep his arm steady, and resumed waiting. Admittedly, this was a different kind of waiting. Waiting and bemoaning his misfortune left him bored. But this was the waiting of a practiced hunter, waiting for the right time for pounce on unsuspecting prey. That kind of waiting was invigorating; it put his entire being on edge. The feeling of pure, unadulterated joy was, in fact, so great, that he waited even until the motorcycle passed by him before he released the tension of anticipation.
And pulled the trigger.
Pulled the trigger, which allowed a brief burst of oxygen to escape from the pressured canister, while the internal flint struck the tinder, lighting the gunpowder, causing a small explosion that still had enough power to drive that bullet over the 100 meters until it hit the resistance of cloth, then skin, then bone, then brain. Even the last of this, however, did not apparently provide enough resistance to stop the bullet's forward motion, as it then continued through brain, then bone, then skin, then cloth, and finally hit the air again, until it impacted with the rusted ground, far beyond Rowen's sight. In fact, the vast majority of this incredible process happened without Rowen seeing it, apart from the man falling: a dead man to match the dead earth.
Rowen had many more important matters to deal with than to wax philosophical. Things like how he was going to lift that motorcycle, or how much time his remaining oxygen would give him to get to a town, or how those fuckers were gonna make all this trouble up to him...