The engine lights up instantly, thank the gods; this is no time to have to call the Motor Club. I slip the automatic transmission into gear, tromping on the brake with my left foot while pushing the gas pedal to the floor. Hardware complains, and the torque of the big turbocharged engine tilts the truck a couple of degrees to the left. More rounds spatter off the armor. Ducking down low, I slap at the row of switches for the lights. Lots of lights, and big lights, all over the Bulldog. Christ knows how many millions of candlepower or lumen-feet or whatever, but enough to light up an area the size of a football field brighter than noon. Anyone looking even near the truck is going to be flash-dazzled inside this dimly lit warehouse. Don’t quote me on this, but I think the lighting rig kicks out enough photons to overload even flare compensation in cybereyes.