“They won’t get a chance to actually PIT us,” Jack explained to a slack-jawed Lisanne Robertson — and the others holding their collective breath on the net.
“Nah,” Lisanne said. “They’ll just put a few bullets in our skulls.”
“There’s that,” Jack said, watching the car behind him grow larger in the rearview mirror after slowing down for a sharp left curve. The guys in the Peugeot had to get lucky only once. For this to work, Jack had to do everything right.
The PIT, or pursuit intervention technique, allowed the driver of one vehicle to use his front quarter-panel to untrack the rear wheels of a second vehicle while traveling at highway speed. When done correctly, the vehicle on the receiving end simply spun out of the way, allowing the vehicle initiating the PIT to continue driving, or, as in the case of the guys in the Peugeot, turn around and murder Jack and Lisanne while they sat stuck helplessly in the ditch.
Lisanne leaned forward, craning to see around a white stucco building as they reached the junction with Route 124–1. Lagoa and Portimão lay to the right. To the left were Carvoeiro and the sea. “I can’t see left,” she said. “But I’ve got a good view toward Lagoa, and the bike is nowhere in sight.”
Ryan punched the gas, shooting around the corner to the left as the black Peugeot rounded the corner fifty meters behind them.
“Turning toward Carvoeiro on 124–1,” she said over the radio, her calm voice belying her wide-eyed look.
Jack brought the Audi out of another tight turn and mashed the accelerator to the floor on a relative straightaway. Houses gave way to tree-covered limestone hills on either side of the road. If he was going to do anything, this was the place. “You know the OODA Loop?” He asked without looking up.
“Of course,” Lisanne said.
The OODA Loop described the steps the human brain had to go through in order to take action — Observe, Orient, Decide, Act. An interruption of the process meant starting over — or a costly mistake. Disorient someone, they had to observe again, before making a new decision. Change things up as that decision was being made, and the original action was often executed, even if it was wrong.
“Well,” Jack continued. “I’m gonna throw a wrench in their loop.”
Ding came over the net again. “Can you make it into town? I show you just a couple of klicks out.”
Another volley of fire answered the question. More rounds popped against the Audi’s trunk.
“Not likely,” Jack said.
He tapped the brakes, bringing the speed down to just below seventy miles an hour. His serpentines back and forth across the winding two-lane grew less pronounced, allowing the Peugeot to inch up on the left side.
Lisanne slid down in her seat so she could just see out the side mirror. “Now we’re down to the nut-cuttin’, as my father used to say. Jack… Guy on the right is lining up for a shot.”
“I’m counting on it,” Ryan said. He kept an eye on the Peugeot in the side mirror, holding his breath as the passenger leaned all the way out to take careful aim in the buffeting wind. The guy seemed sure in the knowledge that since Jack was trying to run, he’d just keep running.
Twenty feet away, fifteen, then ten, the shooter leaned half his torso out the window.
Jack stomped the brakes hard, coming just shy of locking them up. He let off immediately so he maintained control, but the damage was already done. The Peugeot sped past. Metal screamed against metal, catching the hapless shooter and smearing him between the two vehicles with a sickening thump and dragging him out the window of the Peugeot.
The decision for his next move already made, Ryan floored the accelerator again before the other driver could reorient. He nosed the Audi up next to the Peugeot’s rear tire. Tapping the brakes slightly caused the Audi to squat, stabilizing it as he cut the wheel toward the other car. At nearly seventy miles an hour, it required little more than a kiss to untrack the Peugeot, but Ryan started his PIT aggressively, giving the other car a solid nudge. He straightened the wheel immediately after impact. The Peugeot fishtailed to the right, continuing to spin around in front of the Audi, crashing against a low limestone wall facing the other direction and flipping up on its side. Steam poured from the radiator.
“And… they’re done,” Lisanne said. She rose half out of her seat so she could get a better look as they flew down the road toward Carvoeiro.
“Son of a bitch!” It was Midas on the radio, obviously passing a piece of the dead shooter in the road. “That had to hurt.”
“You guys okay?” Ding asked next, checking on his troops.
“Good to go,” Ryan said, breathing for the first time in thirty seconds. “But the Ducati is in the wind.”
7
Ryan cut left on a cobblestone road that led into the hills just before entering Carvoeiro proper. Distant sirens said the Guarda Nacional was responding to the accident from several directions. The lack of a rear window as well as an untold number of bullet holes in the Audi’s body made police contact a certainty if they were spotted.
Lisanne took the moment of relative calm to change out of the tight climbing shoes and into a pair of Brooks runners from her daypack. They rode on in silence while they worked through the quiet neighborhood of vacation rental villas and down the hill toward town, leaving the radio net to the others. Ryan figured he had a good fifteen minutes before the two or three Guarda units stationed in Carvoeiro broke loose from the scene and came back into town to look for a dark Audi. Human nature would make them want to stare at the mangled body, at least for a short time.
Ryan made a slow right on Rua do Cerro. Trees lined the quiet street, lush and green with new spring foliage. Low limestone walls, thick hedges, and dazzlingly white villas made him wish he were here on vacation instead of on an op.
“This is incredible,” Lisanne said, her voice hushed as if she were in church.
Ryan stopped at the bottom of the hill, at the intersection with the larger Estrada do Farol. Midas and Ding were to the east, waiting to pick them up so they could abandon the Audi, which had been rented under a false ID.
“What do you think?” He looked at Lisanne. “Keep looking or turn left?”
Chavez answered, “Get your ass over here.”
“Copy that,” Ryan said, making the turn. He hadn’t gone a half-block before Lisanne gave an excited bounce in her seat, humming with sudden emotion.
“On the left,” she said. “Red Ducati.”
Ryan slowed, peering up a cobblestone drive alongside a white three-story building with a bar and restaurant on the ground level and two floors of apartments above. The fuel tank and front tire of a red Ducati Monster peeked out from behind a rock wall in back.
“We might have her,” Ryan said, giving their location over the net. “She could be in one of the upper apartments.”
“Or the next building,” Chavez said. “Or across the street, or just maybe she’s abandoned her bike and is at this very moment hauling ass to Lisbon.”
“Your call, boss,” Ryan said. “But we’re sitting right here. I think I should try and get a plate number off the bike. I’ll drop Lisanne off here so she can watch the front, then I’ll drive up, take a look, and be down the hill in a flash. I’ll pick up Lisanne and we’ll be outa here in two minutes, maybe less.”
“Two minutes,” Chavez said. “We’ll head your way.”
Dominic Caruso asked the waitress for a touch more Foral de Portimão, an inexpensive local red that she’d recommended. Adara reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze, prompting him to follow her gaze over his shoulder.
“Our friends on overwatch are starting to get antsy,” she said, once the waitress had poured the wine and left.