The wind blows. Rourke runs the numbers.
He feels the degree to which it tries and fails to tip his weight. He pushes back, leaning his weight just-enough against the blasts. Grass bends in the frame of his view of Adair; he can see a bullet’s path bending over and with it.
Over the sear of the sun on his cheeks - heck, even heating his hair?
The sharpness of the chatter of people and animals in the distance yet much too close?
It’s good to have something he knows, acutely, to focus on.
Remind him he knows how to think.