He fired his grappling hook. The line snagged the limo’s rear bumper with a metallic clink . And then he was flying.
With of air left, he reeled himself up the cable hand-over-fist, ignoring the burn in his arms and the cartoonish wheeze coming from his own throat. He slammed against the limo’s trunk, gasping. The red light on his wrist flickered, then died. OXYGEN: 0. The screen flashed CRITICAL .
General Sastro’s convoy was a fortress on wheels. Four APCs, two attack choppers, and a limousine so armored it probably had its own gravitational field. The only way in was to make a hole. And Rico’s favorite way to make a hole was to turn one of their own vehicles into a high-speed, low-drag battering ram.
Rico sighed. The game’s stupid rule. You could tether a man to a jet and drag him across three islands, but if you tried to hitch a ride on a speeding limo, the universe decided you were suffocating. The logic? There was none. Just the cold, arbitrary law of Panauan physics: Drag is death.