Page 196 of The Fourth Option
Don’t PIT the wrong car.
He kept the hammer down.
Black Dodge Charger.
But was it Bates?
Walker got closer and read the plate number he and Belle had identified in photos from Dorado Freight.
Bates.
The Charger was in the fast lane.
You got this.
Go!
When the front of the Eagle was parallel with the back right quarter panel of the Charger, he edged his vehicle to the left and made contact.
The PIT maneuver was one he had practiced countless times in courses with the SEAL Teams and CIA at BSR in West Virginia, the Farm in Virginia, and the Constellis Training Center in Moyock, North Carolina. At lower speeds it was a relatively safe way to end a pursuit by putting the target vehicle into a predictable spin. At the speeds of the Eagle and Charger, the result was an uncontrollable rotation. As the newer car’s electronic stability control system attempted to correct the sudden turn, the front left tire caught a rut just off the right shoulder, interrupting its forward motion. The friction at such a high rate of speed, combined with the car’s momentum and center of gravity, caused the Charger to rotate and flip off the road.
Walker slammed on his brakes and the Eagle skidded to a stop. He threw the car in reverse and maneuvered it off the road onto the shoulder. He then exited the vehicle, sticking the Staccato into the holster that was still on his jeans, and grabbing the AR. He activated the weapon-mounted light as he limped down the slope toward Bates’s car.
Walker’s beam found the vehicle upside down. The hood and front tires were submerged in the swamp. Steam rose from the undercarriage as the downpour made contact with the hot exhaust manifold, pipes, and chassis. The slope of the embankment had provided ideal conditions for a violent rollover.
As he got closer, he saw that the airbags had deployed.
Movement.
Bates was struggling to get out of the car.
The numbness in Walker’s left leg became more pronounced as he stumbled forward. The rest of his body felt like an overused pincushion, an aftereffect of the electricity. He shook his head to clear his blurry vision.
Just hold it together for a few more minutes.
He got to the car, tucked the butt of the rifle under his right arm, andgrabbed Bates by the back of the shirt, pulling him through the broken window.
He then stepped back and trained his rifle on the dirty cop.
“Tell me about the Afghan.”
Bates coughed and pushed himself to his hands and knees. He stood and fell back against the closed door of the overturned Charger, looking at Walker in disbelief. His nose was clearly broken.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Walker said.
“You look like death,” Bates said. “Nice FBI jacket.”
Walker was dizzy and off-balance. Even though he had only walked fifty yards down an embankment, it felt like he had just sprinted to the end of the BUD/S obstacle course. Sharp, stabbing pains radiated from his broken ribs.
“Where’s Stanton? Dead?” Bates asked.
“I want to know about the Afghan.”
“I bet you do. Did you kill him?”
“Tell me.”
“You can hardly stand up. You were half-dead when I left. The Afghan said that nobody could take what he did to you.”
