We hit the door at sixty klicks or so, and through we go. The only thing that keeps me in my seat is my death-grip on the wheel. Something goes squish-pop in my left wrist and it feels like someone’s set fire to my thumb, but I’ve got other things to worry about. My cargo, for one. Paco and a couple of crates of rifles come forward at high speed, and suddenly I have to deal with company in the driver’s compartment. Some of the metal from the door’s still plastered across the front of the Bulldog so I can’t see squat, and we’re still taking fire from somewhere. We bounce off something—the way this night’s going, it’s probably a fragging Citymaster, or maybe a panzer—but at least the impact removes the metal blocking my view. (The windshield, too, but you can’t have everything.)