Rico swerved, hit the gas, and bailed out at the last second, letting the unmanned vehicle careen off a cliff. He deployed his parachute, drifting down toward the winding mountain road below. He landed softly, rolled twice, and found himself staring at the general’s limousine as it sped past, its rear tires mere inches from his face.
He smashed the rear window, crawled through the shattered glass, and landed in the lap of General Sastro, who was mid-sip from a champagne flute. The general’s monocle popped off in surprise. bolopatch just cause 2
The limo crashed into a fuel depot thirty seconds later. Rico walked away from the explosion, not looking back, because looking back at explosions was for action heroes with worse insurance plans. His wrist device hummed quietly, already forgetting the suffocation, the panic, the sheer absurdity of a world where dragging a man behind a plane was fine—but holding onto a bumper was a death sentence. Rico swerved, hit the gas, and bailed out
He grappled onto the rear APC as it rounded a coastal hairpin. A quick thwip of his parachute, a mid-air reel, and he was on the roof, prying the hatch open with a crowbar born of pure disrespect for private property. The driver didn’t even have time to scream. Rico yanked him out, tossed him into the jungle canopy like a used candy wrapper, and took the wheel. He smashed the rear window, crawled through the
“Me,” Rico agreed, and tapped the Bolopatch on his wrist. It beeped happily.