Cyber Thoughts

by Dima Zales

  “Great job,” I chime in. “Now do that to the rest.”

  “The rest aren’t as hackable as the Cherokee was.” Muhomor’s avatar suddenly appears less smug. “I’ll keep trying, though.” More defensively, he adds, “I’ve been distracting your opponents by having their phones text each other nonsense and vibrating at random. It beats messing up someone’s RPG.” Muhomor gives Mitya’s hoodie-clad avatar a derisive stare.

  I ignore Mitya’s reply and my own racing heartbeat as I assess the remaining enemy forces ahead. There’s a yellow Hummer driving in the rightmost lane, a silver 4Runner in the leftmost lane, and a blue Honda Ridgeline truck ahead of the others, riding in the middle. Plus, there are four more bikes riding between civilian cars ahead of the 4Runner. Of course, there’s still the red truck behind us, the one Joe is still shooting at—a truck I finally recognize as a Toyota Hilux. This is odd, because I don’t think this model is sold in the US.

  “They’re slowing,” I tell my friends in the conference. “I think they’re planning a TPAC.”

  When I get asked, I explain what I read online. TPAC stands for Tactical Pursuit and Containment formation. The maneuver is used in England. Specifically, it involves boxing in a car between four other cars, one in the front, one in the back, and one on each side.

  “Screw that.” Mitya’s avatar angrily pushes his glasses higher on his nose. “I’ll take their British pursuit tactic and raise them a good-old American one called the PIT.”

  Mitya must activate the nitro—that, or someone shot the limo with a rocket—and we torpedo forward at 250 per hour.

  We whoosh between the Hummer and the 4Runner so fast no one gets a chance to shoot at each other. In a blink, we’re on the tail of the Ridgeline—the car that must’ve planned to position itself at the front of the makeshift box these people wanted to build around the limo.

  I research the PIT, and as soon as I do, I want to object to Mitya’s idea, but it’s too late. The limo is already passing the Ridgeline on the right, nitro boost gone.

  The PIT, or Precision Immobilization Technique, is something American cops do, and it involves ramming the offending car behind the back tire.

  And that’s exactly what Mitya does.

  The limo shudders with a disgusting crunch, but it’s worth it. The Ridgeline loses control and swerves onto the median strip that separates us from oncoming traffic, sparks and plastic flying in every direction.

  As a bonus, the yellow Hummer is forced to slow down to avoid crashing into the remnants of the blue truck.

  “That’s a lot like the maneuver you did to those bikers,” Muhomor points out. “Just with a fancy name.”

  “Cops aren’t allowed to do a PIT on motorcyclists,” Mitya responds pedantically.

  I don’t shut either of them up since their competition to get rid of our problems is a win-win fight.

  Unfortunately, the impact makes us lose speed, and the 4Runner gains on us. The bikers in front of us slow down as well.

  “Boys,” Ada intervenes. “Can you focus on keeping us alive until the next exit? It’s a measly minute away at this speed.”

  Mitya replies to Ada, but I don’t listen because my attention is on the 4Runner as it begins to pass us on the right. Its windows are down, and at least four helmeted enemies are staring out, ready for action.

  Then I see something extremely worrying.

  The front passenger in the 4Runner is holding a grenade.

  “Grenade!” I yell just as it begins flying in an arc toward the limo.

  Adrenaline makes the flight of the cursed object seem glacial, like slowed footage shot with a high-speed camera.

  If my boost-assisted calculations are correct, this grenade is going to land in the middle of the limo… and blow up next to Ada.

  Chapter Thirty

  As the grenade flies, I mentally scream for Mitya to adjust our course, though I know there isn’t enough time.

  I reflect on the cruelty of thinking fast without being able to move proportionally fast. If I could move like the Flash, I would jump on the grenade and cover it with my vest-clad body. But I know I won’t make it in time, so I don’t even try. Instead, I put the aim-assist app’s line in the center of the helmet of the guy who threw the grenade and, without a single qualm, pull the trigger.

  The guy’s head begins to explode inside his helmet just as the grenade flies through our broken window.

  I consider saying some last words to Ada but decide against it on the off chance she doesn’t realize we’re about to die. I figure if I didn’t know our situation, I wouldn’t want it explained to me either. Besides, even if Ada could see the grenade, what would I say?

  Then I notice something happening in the path of the grenade’s trajectory—something that gives me faint hope. Gogi’s hands are closing in on the exact location where the grenade is about be. He’s about to pull a maneuver that looks like a slowed-down replay of a catcher getting the baseball after a strike out—though being an immigrant from baseball-less Russia, I might have this analogy wrong.

  “Could they have taught him a move like this in the Georgian Special Forces?” I manage to ask in the chat as Gogi grabs the grenade and tosses it right back at the 4Runner. Even his throw reminds me of a high-speed pitch from baseball.

  The grenade’s flight seems to go much quicker on its way back, and I watch without blinking, still adjusting to the idea of continued existence. When the grenade lands on the floor of the 4Runner—meaning no one in that car possessed Gogi’s skills—I allow myself to blink. As soon as I open my eyes again, the 4Runner turns into a big fireball, and chunks of silver SUV fly in every direction.

  Simultaneously, I hear gunfire coming from both in front and behind us. The Hummer and the red Hilux are still far enough behind us not to be a cause for concern, but the same can’t be said about the four bikers in front.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, I see that the bikers are toting AK-47s.

  We didn’t blow up just so we could get shot a moment later instead.

  The rattle of machine guns gets louder, and shattered glass rains onto the floor in the front of the limo.

  When I glance at Eli, the guy behind the wheel, I see his left arm covered with blood, but that isn’t preventing him from shooting at the motorcyclists with his right as bullets cut through the divider on the passenger side. Two bullet holes appear in the TV screen that Mitya and Muhomor have been using, and Mr. Spock’s aura is now a color I’ve never seen.

  Maybe I was wrong when I thought black was the worst mood a rat could be in.

  Though I know our exit ramp is coming up soon, I fear it won’t arrive soon enough. Still, I check the satellite view, and what I see makes no sense.

  There’s a small dark cloud heading straight for us.

  “Guys, am I having an LSD flashback?” I ask, my heart rate speeding up further as I examine the low-flying cloud that’s getting closer to us.

  “It looks like something out of an American antidepressant commercial,” Muhomor quips. “Like your personal rainy day.”

  “You must be talking about my work,” Ada says. “The only way we’ll make this exit is if we get rid of these bikers in our way.”

  I’m about to complain about her lack of explanation, when I realize the cloud is close enough to see through the limo’s front camera.

  Now that I can see it, I realize that, of course, this isn’t a cloud.

  It’s a swarm.

  A swarm of drones—as in unmanned aerial vehicles, not to be confused with male wasps.

  “Babe,” I mentally say, “please tell me your big idea was to take control of all the drones at Mitya’s LAR facility and fly them toward us?”

  If Ada says no and the drones belong to the bad guys, we’ll be beyond screwed—and until a few moments ago, I didn’t think our situation could get any worse.

  Ada doesn’t answer, but I can see my supposition was spot on, because the swarm dives, and the drones hi
t the first biker. He does a one-eighty in the air before landing on his neck.

  There is a new, more frantic round of AK-47 fire, and a bullet hits Luke in his bulletproof vest, causing the poor guy to yelp in pain.

  Ada’s answer is instant. Five drones hit the second motorcyclist, two from the front and three from the back. The resulting cartwheel looks like something people do in extreme sports, except stunt people don’t usually fly out of their seats like this guy does—nor do they go splat against the road like that.

  The third and fourth bikers stop shooting at the limo and open fire at the descending drones.

  Many drones get damaged, but even with automatic weapons, the motorcyclists don’t stand a chance against the number of drones Ada has under her command.

  A single drone, with delivery package still attached to its bottom, lands under the tire of the third biker. The bike flies into the air and does a half rotation before the driver cannonballs onto the asphalt.

  I guess Ada got especially bloodthirsty, because she hits the fourth biker with a dozen drones all at once. They all fall in a heap of plastic and metal as the motorcycle draws the number eight in the air.

  “Well,” I message Mitya. “The good news is all the bikers are gone. The bad news is all these broken bikes and damaged drones have created unsafe road conditions.”

  “You’re right, but I’m taking the exit anyway,” Mitya says from the broken screen on the wall. “It’s going to get bumpy again, so hold on.”

  Remembering what happened the last time Mitya said this, I clutch the seat in front of me and hold on as though my life depends on it—since it might.

  Taking the turn at 150 miles per hour is bad enough, but when we hit the bike and drone debris, we begin to skid.

  Since we didn’t die the last few times I thought we would, I remain optimistic. If we hit the wall, though, this could be it.

  We don’t hit the wall—not exactly. We crash into a yellow, water-filled barrel, a device placed on highways to lessen the impact of such hits, though I doubt the barrel was designed to help at our insane speed.

  My heartbeat feels hypersonic, and that’s with all my perceptions slowed by the boost.

  Water sprays the limo in a fountain, and the impact makes my hands slip.

  I fly across the limo, trying my best not to land on Ada.

  Gogi manages to grab me by the leg mid-flight. It’s the only thing that prevents me from flying out the window.

  My head hits the seat so hard I’d have a cracked skull if it weren’t for the cushion. As is, I see white stars dance around my vision. The real world blurs in my eyes, but the AROS screens remain as sharp as ever.

  “Ada,” I shout telepathically. “Are you okay?”

  “Busy,” she replies. “Have a look at this.”

  The link Ada gives me leads me to a strange camera view, one that resembles something a fly or a spider would see. It’s the world seen through hundreds of eyes, all of which are looking at the Hummer and the red Hilux truck, but also into the distance.

  “See that black Chevrolet Suburban speeding through the lanes up there?” Ada’s mental tone is tense. “I’m worried about it.”

  “Yeah, probably more bad guys, but I wouldn’t worry about them,” I reply. “They’ll be too late to kill us, since the guys in the Hummer and Hilux will surely beat them to it.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Ada counters, and dozens of drone views go into dive mode.

  The ground rushes toward each drone. I quickly get dizzy, so I look through one of the limo’s back cameras.

  From this vantage point, what Ada is doing to the yellow Hummer looks like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, only with drones attacking.

  “Ada, don’t forget to send some toward the red Hilux,” I say, but it’s clear she’s already on it. It’s just that the helmeted driver of the Hilux is insane. Though he must have zero visibility due to the diving drones, the red truck still speeds up.

  Ada must be desperate, because the swarm separates into two halves, and each group drops onto one of the cars.

  For a moment, I can’t even see the Hilux or the Hummer under the mess made by the drones.

  Then, to my relief, the drone-covered Hummer hits the freeway wall.

  Unfortunately, the Hilux ignores the drone parts scattered across the asphalt in front of it, the drones sticking out of its broken windshield, and the drones diving at it.

  Then my boosted mind calculates the truck’s trajectory and reveals its driver’s intent. I scream out loud, “We need to get out of this car!”

  For the first time, I take in the wreckage inside the limo. The place looks like that grenade did explode in here.

  My cousin begins to move, as do Gogi and Luke. Based on the drones’ behavior, I know Ada is conscious, as is Mr. Spock, because I can see his horrified aura. No one else is conscious enough to move, yet that’s what we must do and fast. In the camera view, the red truck is getting closer, and I’m a hundred-percent certain it intends to ram into our stopped limo from behind.

  Ada is my biggest worry, so I get up and instantly have to enable the Relief app to mask the pain spreading through my body.

  The Hilux looms closer.

  “The people in the Hummer are getting out,” Mitya says mentally. The wall TV is too busted for him to say it from there.

  “Let’s hope we live long enough to worry about them,” I grimly reply.

  “And don’t forget about the black Suburban,” Muhomor chimes in.

  “They’ll need to take a number.” I wish I felt as confident as my mental replies suggest. Out loud, I say, “Gogi, Luke, let go of Ada and try to get out of the car.”

  The men separate, and when I see how pale Ada is, I want to kill someone again. Only there isn’t time. The Hilux is seconds away from turning us into a pancake.

  Ada tries to stand up, but yelps and crouches again. “I’ve been sitting on my leg, and it’s completely asleep. All pins and needles.” She tries to get up again but nearly twists her ankle. “Go. I’ll follow you.”

  “Help her,” Luke grits out, his face twisted in pain. “I got Gogi.” Matching action to words, he begins dragging the Georgian out of the car.

  “Lean on me,” I tell Ada and put my arm around her slim back.

  “No,” Joe says with an intensity that brooks no objection. “Grab her legs. I’ll take her arms.”

  Ada mumbles something about the indignity of the situation, but Joe and I grab her like a sack and scramble for the door.

  In the camera view, I see the truck is about to slam into us.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  My foot is still in the doorframe when the Hilux rips into the limo, destroying our car with the enthusiasm of a competitive eater chomping on his first hotdog.

  It feels as though it’s the sound wave of the impact that pushes me the rest of the way out. I stumble and nearly drop Ada’s legs, but I recover and grab on to her tighter.

  “At least we’re done with Vincent Williams,” Ada comments in the virtual chat.

  “Afraid not,” Mitya replies. “Whoever built the Toyota Hilux must’ve been inspired by tanks.”

  He’s right. The red truck is just slightly bent in the front—completely disproportionate to the totaled state of our ride. If the Hilux had airbags—a safe bet—and if the riders wore seatbelts, which I think I recall seeing, they could easily still be alive.

  “I have one more operational drone,” Ada says. “Should I crash it into someone’s head?”

  “Let’s use it for reconnaissance,” I suggest. “Can you raise it up a bit so it can check on both the Hummer and the Suburban? Since we’re still alive, we need to worry about them now.” While the mental conversation is happening, Joe and I carry Ada to the grass by the road and gently put her down next to Gogi and Luke. Out loud, I say, “Gogi, Luke, please get back into your earlier position in case bullets start flying.”

  “No,” Ada says out loud.
“Give me a gun. I can use the aiming app same as you.”

  “Shit, that reminds me.” I pat myself down. “I don’t have a gun.”

  As though taunting me, Joe reloads his weapon at that very moment, and Gogi and Luke check their weapons as well.

  “I guess going to a gun range is one thing, but being a professional is something else entirely,” Muhomor comments sardonically. “How could you not grab a gun on your way out?”

  “Here.” Gogi hands me his pistol. “You and Joe should draw fire away from us.”

  Joe is already running back toward the limo, and I follow while frantically trying to add Gogi’s Makarov Pistol to my aiming app.

  “Crap,” I say after a frustrating moment. “Mitya, why is this gun not in the gun database?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mitya responds. “Maybe because it’s of Russian design? Do you even need the aiming app anymore? You got all that practice.”

  “I practiced at the shooting range, not in the field.” I weigh the unfamiliar weapon in my hand as I approach the limo. “Plus, I did it with a Glock.”

  “Hey, Mike.” Mitya’s Zik message is full of worry. “I don’t like what I’m seeing from the drone.”

  As though to highlight Mitya’s concerns, a gunshot rings out, and a bullet zings by my head.

  Joe and I duck under the limo’s carcass, and when I look through the drone’s view, my feet freeze to the ground. While we were busying ourselves with surviving the crash, the fourteen people sitting in the wrecked Hummer left it. They’re running toward us, their shiny black helmets unmistakable.

  Even worse, the black Suburban is just a few feet behind the fourteen new attackers. Assuming there are eight people in that car, Joe and I don’t have enough bullets, even if we put each bullet directly into each person’s brains. And that’s without the two people in the red truck who might be coming to their senses, if they haven’t already.

  My depressing math is interrupted when I spot the attacker closest to us aiming a scoped rifle at where Ada, Gogi, and Luke are.