Jerome Preisler - Net Force--Attack Protocol

Pushing the gas pedal all the way down, he bashed into the Rezvani inches forward of the taillight, right about where its fuel-tank door would be located. He heard the crash of metal on metal and rocked back and forth in his seat. His next move was automatic and instantaneous. It was a burst of synaptic sparks firing through his neural pathways to trigger a muscle memory. It was what the Blackstone course had embedded in his reflexes.

As the Rezvani spun to the right, counterclockwise, toward the castle steps, he immediately cut his wheel to the left, turning in the direction the other vehicle had been going, veering away from its spinning trajectory.

Which left him hurtling toward the spot where Carmody and Schultz had stood moments ago. They had scrambled off the apron into the bordering hedges, leaving behind the two motorcycles. They leaned on their kickstands almost directly ahead of him.

Dixon knew it would be tight. He slashed the wheel to the right again, an instant before he would have smashed head-on into the bikes, shaking and bouncing and jolting over the cobbles as he slid his foot off the gas and applied it to the brake pedal. The Cat rumbled on for several more feet as its brake pads clamped over its rotors and finally ground to a lurching halt.

A moment passed. Dixon exhaled, a long slow stream of breath. To his left, Carmody and Schultz were hurrying back to the motorcycles. He was still on the apron, the castle’s western bastion five yards or so to his right, his headlights pointed toward the open field behind it. The main entrance was another five yards off to the right. A colossal arched doorway made of tall wooden planks, it was recessed deep in an ornate stone portico. A set of wide low oval stone stairs scalloped down from the door to the apron.

The Rezvani was partly overturned on the top step. Though the snow had subsided to flurries, the cobblestones were coated with whiteness. He could see wildly looping skid and yaw marks where the vehicle had spun out toward the castle and rolled up onto its stairs, crashing and bouncing off the arched entry door before coming to a halt in front of it. Flipped partway over, it was tilted almost completely on its passenger side, its right wheels off the ground, its front end facing east. With its high center of gravity, it probably would have rolled over completely if the big wooden door hadn’t stalled its momentum.

Dixon gave it all a quick glance, then turned to look at Kali. “Your stop.”

She dropped her hands to her harness buckle, undid it, and shrugged off the straps. Then she gave him a fractional nod, pulled her balaclava up over the lower half of her face, and sprinted off into the darkness, deliberately leaving her door wide open.

“Good luck,” he said to her receding back.

Kali and Schultz dashed in opposite directions, crossing each other’s paths like relay racers, Schultz running straight for the BearCat’s open door as she ran past him toward Carmody and the bikes.

He stood with his night goggles flipped up over his helmet, an MK7 AI carbine slung over his shoulder, another across his chest. The motorcycles were behind him. They stood side by side, facing north, warm and idling on their kickstands. Kali felt her shoulders stiffen.

“They’re for us. A shared gift.”

“No. They are only toys for your ego.”

“You’re wrong, Kali. I love you.”

“ Boy . You do not even know me.”

But that was long ago. Now she heard Dixon gun his engine behind her and broke her eyes away from the bikes. Carmody was approaching her.

“All yours,” he said, and dropped a key fob into her hand. “Take this, too.” He slipped the carbine off his left arm. “It’s Schultz’s.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Take it anyway,” he said. “We have no time. I need you to ride like you did in Germany. But not unarmed. You trained with one of these for a reason.”

Kali didn’t reply. She took the gun from him and slung it over her shoulder. Carmody unfastened a spare magazine pouch from his rig, stepped closer, and passed it across to her.

“There’s sixty and sixty,” he said “Okay?”

“Okay.”

She clipped it to her belt, and they mounted the bikes. Kali got hers out of its lean, pushed up her kickstand, and clicked into first gear with her heel.

Their headlights came on and speared the darkness. The north access road was just around the west bastion. They could see it running straight back from the castle through the tall trees behind it.

“Let’s do this,” Carmody said.

Kali nodded.

He revved up and sped off toward the access road. A split second later, she opened her throttle and followed.

Dixon shifted into Reverse, gunned his engine, and backed up with Schultz still climbing through the door into Kali’s vacated seat.

“You in?” Dixon said.

Schultz grabbed his harness straps. “Barely.”

“Barely’s cool,” Dixon said.

He wrenched his wheel to the right and made a K-turn, pointing the BearCat at the castle and the flipped-over Rezvani. Its driver was trying to exit in a rush, but the vehicle had stopped with its front end angled high in the air, and he was struggling to get his door open against the tilt. Dixon saw another guy pushing up through its right-rear door.

He stepped on the gas and lunged across the cobblestones. The man in the Rezvani’s rear tumbled from the door to the ground, slipped in the snow, and dropped his weapon, a Sig semiautomatic. Then he was groping for it on his knees.

Dixon rolled straight at him. The guy stared up into his headlights, his hands around the weapon. But the Cat was on him before he could bring it up to fire. As Dixon struck the guy, he saw the gun fly from his grasp, then saw his hands come up and go down below the Cat’s hood. There was a flat thud and a bump and a drag under the tires as the guy was caught underneath them.

Dixon backed up two or three yards, swinging his wheel to the left to bring his front grill perpendicular to the Rezvani. The guy he’d hit dragged brokenly along for several feet and at last spilled free of his spinning tires. A crushed, shattered heap, he crabbed across the ground on his stomach, leaving a smeary wet trail in the snow.

“Hang tight in back!” Dixon ordered over the crew intercom. “Turret and gun ports shut! Got me?”

“Yes, sir!” Carter answered.

Schultz breathed in. He saw two more men coming out of the Rezvani. Then Dixon pushed the shifter into Drive, and the BearCat lurched forward, running over the guy in the snow again as it rolled straight toward the vehicle on the stairs.

“Here goes,” he said.

“What’s he doing?” Bogdan screamed. He’d partly hoisted himself through the driver’s door of the Rezvani, his fists pushing up against its frame.

Lazlo stared silently across the short distance between their vehicle and the oncoming BearCat. He was already outside, squatted precariously on its right-rear door, his Sig Rattler clenched in his fist. Its third remaining passenger, Khasan, was unconscious in the back seat, his head and face covered with blood. He’d gotten badly knocked around when they tipped over against the castle door, and that was too bad. Like Lazlo himself, he was a Chechen and tough as nails.

“I need help getting out of here,” Bogdan said. He was waist-high out the door and straining to get the rest of the way up. “My leg’s caught on something.”

Lazlo didn’t answer. He glanced over his shoulder at the castle entrance and noticed that its wicket door had been slammed inward by the impact of the Rezvani’s collision. Suddenly, he had an idea. It was a gamble, but he had seconds to live unless he took it.

“Do you hear me?” Bogdan gasped. He was pushing up with his fists. “I need some fucking help. ”