Wiping the dust that rained down from the wreckage off the screen, Rebecca wanted to make sure there wasn't a glitch. But sure enough, the dot stayed put. Had he lost his infrared feed? Why else would he stop before taking out a sitting duck like her?
Swiping away paint chips, Rebecca stifled a sneeze. Now would not be the time for a hay fever attack. Then a pebble hit her head. What the hell? With great effort, she took her eyes off the screen and glanced upward, but she found only the metal maze above her head. It both sheltered and trapped her.
Glancing back at the screen, she found the dot had moved a single step forward and then stopped. Could he be getting instructions from his superiors? She had so little experience with such things.
Rebecca stifled a squeak as something quite a bit larger than a pebble hit her head. This time she stared above her. Was the ceiling collapsing? It would be about the right time for something else disastrous to happen.
Squinting, she could make out an object far above her, nestled in the rafters. She looked back at the screen. Only the goon outside to worry about. And he hadn't moved a single inch. Getting braver, Rebecca stared above her. Was there movement?
Then the most wonderful thing happened. A smile shone from the darkness. Now that she had a landmark, Rebecca could make out a man, well camouflaged, hiding high up in the rafters.
Rank: Private. Name: Davidson.
Rebecca had no idea how he had hidden himself from the infrared, but nevertheless a guardian angel watched over her through the lattice-like metal. She started to reposition herself, but the private ever so slightly shook his head.
Stay put. She got it.
Looking down at the screen, she realized her stalker had also gotten braver and was about to enter the wreckage. The doctor looked up in panic. Did Davidson have a clear shot?
In answer to her unspoken question, she heard a sound not even as loud as a soda pop can opening, and then the dot slumped backward.
The kid was that good.
She looked up as Davidson repositioned himself to fire into the southern portion of the hangar, but one of the enemy must have seen the private's muzzle flash, because the gunfire shifted toward the rafters.
Davidson could maneuver only so much on the narrow girders. He didn't cry out when he took a round to the stomach, but she did. Even hit, the private grabbed hold of a pulley chain and might have swung to safety if his injured shoulder hadn't given out.
"No!" she screamed as Davidson tumbled through the open air until he caught the chain with his bad arm.
Rebecca slung her laptop over her shoulder as the private dangled precariously from the rafters. The only thing preventing a deadly plunge was his dislocated arm. Brandt and his men must have realized the danger as the gunfire quadrupled. They might be able to keep the shooters from picking Davidson off, but the private couldn't hold on much longer.
Without hesitation, Rebecca began climbing the metal lattice like a huge jungle gym. Sure she could pretend she was suddenly brave and all about the heroics, but in truth she simply didn't want to live with the guilt if Davidson fell. She had enough of that emotion to last a lifetime.
What if she had dived into the river after Yerato? What if she had followed the river another quarter mile? Could she have saved him? She would never know. Rebecca wanted no such questions about Davidson.
Free of the tangled metal, she stood atop the wreckage. "Hang on."
The only response was a thin, pained whisper, "Don't."
Ignoring the private, Rebecca grabbed hold of the chain. She noticed that her hands were no longer shaking. She might not be able to hold her own with guns, but this, this she could do. As it turned out, climbing the metal was even easier than the jungle vines. No thorns.
Hand over hand, she made her way up the chain, every second expecting Davidson to plummet past her, but somehow the kid hung on. However, unable to brace against his bad shoulder, the private flailed, trying to catch hold of the chain with his good hand, which only made it harder for her to climb.
"Hold still," she hissed, but didn't know if he could hear her over the barrage of gunfire. Brandt was definitely holding down his end of the job, keeping the enemy occupied, as Rebecca reached Davidson's feet. Now she could see his pained features.
"Brace off my shoulders," Rebecca said, as a bullet flew past her ear. They were dangling midair above a full-scale firefight, but the soldier still thrashed. "Damn it, boots on my shoulders!"
This time the private obeyed, and after a toe to her jaw, Davidson balanced long enough on her shoulders to grab the chain. Breaths of relief escaped both their lips. "I'm climbing over you, but don't get any ideas."
The military tone returned. "I can get up on my own."
As the air took on the smell of gunpowder, Rebecca didn't have time to argue. She simply grabbed the chain between his legs. Instinctively, Davidson tried to stabilize himself, but the pain caused his arm to drop limply. He wasn't going anywhere on his own. Rebecca pulled up face to face with him as the chain spun them gently.
"What did I say about getting ideas?" She put a hand above his head.
Davidson wouldn't look at her, let alone answer. Rebecca made sure to brace against his good shoulder as she climbed over. After that, it was a quick ascent to the catwalk. Dark and gloomy, the bright muzzle flashes of the gunfire far down below almost looked pretty.
Grabbing the chain, Rebecca pulled up as hard as she could, but only gained a few inches. For such a skinny kid, Davidson was dead weight. The private tried to climb but made excruciatingly slow progress as the fight shifted in their direction. She might be hidden in the murky heights, but dangling in midair, Davidson wasn't so lucky.
Then Rebecca found the pulley mechanism that Brandt had used. Quickly she ran the chain through the winch, and then pulled harder than she ever thought she could. Her own shoulder felt like it would pop out, but she hauled Davidson up an entire foot. Securing the slack around a girder, Rebecca heaved again. The private seemed encouraged and started making progress on his own as Brandt's team renewed their aggressive fight.
Within seconds, they had closed the gap. She grabbed him by the vest and hauled him up onto the beam. Davidson was safe!
Then the hangar bloomed in flame.
Their nice, dark hiding place shone as bright as the day.
CHAPTER 5.
Belgium Airstrip Fuck, fuck, fuck, Brandt thought as he emptied the last clip of his automatic rifle. His maneuver to bring them equal to their foes by raising the hangar's temperature to a human's, had instead made Davidson and Monroe prime targets. He didn't have time to wonder what the hell the doctor was doing up there in the first place as he pulled out his service pistol and took aim through the thick, billowing flames.
The enemy's focus turned to firing into the brightly lit rafters. The private had Monroe on the move, but no one could outrun automatic weapon fire for long. Even though he couldn't see his target, Brandt squeezed off seven rounds, stopping at least one assailant from firing upward. The sergeant wasn't arrogant enough to think he had killed him. Winged the bastard, maybe. Startled him, for sure.
But you never assumed that you'd neutralized the enemy until you saw gray matter on the floor, and even then you still put another bullet into their hearts. There were no do-overs in combat.
Complicating matters even more, the smoke that was supposed to flush out the enemy now made it impossible to see his own team. Friendly fire was not only possible but probable in a situation like this. Carefully, Brandt made his way to the southwest wall then continued parallel to it, minimizing his profile. He really wasn't in the mood to take a stray bullet.
"Lopez? Svengurd?"
Checking his radio, Brandt cursed as static answered. They were still being jammed. Another peppering of fire upward. Brandt used another five bullets to close him down. Lopez or Svengurd must have done the same to the third assailant because the hangar was suddenly devoid of gunfire. Only the roar of the oil-fueled fire filled the empty space.
Brandt continued his northern progress, using the only real advantage he had-the knowledge of the labyrinth-like pattern of the fire. And now that the fuckers couldn't track his team, Brandt felt he had truly evened the odds.
Before he could figure out how to turn this into an advantage, a gunman stumbled into view as he backed from a burst of flame. Three bullets later, he was down. Brandt kicked the gun from the assailant's hand. Blood trickled from the man's lips. Another shot to the forehead.
For just a moment, the sergeant hesitated. He only had thirty-one bullets left. Another twelve in the small caliber handgun tucked into his boot. Given that he had just spent over three hundred rounds in the last five minutes, forty-three bullets wasn't going to get him very far. Still, he put another one in the bastard's chest. He had to be sure.
Brandt patted the man down. Sure enough, he found a PDA showing the blurry infrared feed of the hangar. He pocketed the device for the techies back home when he realized that the PDA was heavier than it should have been. Dropping it like the hissing snake, Brandt threw himself backward, but the explosion still knocked him onto his ass.
The damn thing must have been equipped with a fingerprint-sensitive dead-man's switch, loaded with just enough C-4 to blow a hole the size of a watermelon in the man's chest. Which would have been Brandt's heart if he hadn't caught a clue. These bastards were not only well armed, but extremely well financed. Maybe so, but the fuckers were also whittled from nine to three, maybe even down to two.
Turns out money couldn't buy everything.
Rebecca half-dragged, half-carried Davidson toward the hole blasted into the roof by the missile attack. Was it a bad sign that she missed the RPGs? Because right now they were in danger of dying from either smoke inhalation, blood loss from their injuries, or taking a ricochet to the back.
Heat-seeking missiles just did not seem like such a big deal anymore.
"Let me up," Davidson complained, but she ignored him, again.
Besides his shoulder, the private had taken a bullet to his abdomen and another to his right calf. Not that she was much better. At this point, Rebecca didn't know what was shrapnel, wood fragments, or bullet wounds. And at this point she didn't care. She could see open sky through a thick veil of black clogging smoke.
Oxygen. Sweet, sweet oxygen.
Her nose, mouth, and lungs were filled with the oily, syrup-thick smoke. The only benefit to the choke-inducing soot was the fact it shrouded them in darkness again. Their position was well hidden, but toxic. The private's body shook with a raspy cough to prove her point.
They had to get out of here, like now.
Rebecca made her way to the blown-out roof. The rafters extended to the edge of their escape hatch, but the metal had a ragged edge. Beyond the danger of getting the private over the sharp ledge, the opening was a good three feet above her head. Rebecca tested the catwalk to make sure it wasn't damaged in the blast. It could support her weight, but both of theirs?
A moister-than-normal cough brought her attention back to the injured private. She rubbed his back as he wretched out blackened sputum. What else could she do? Rebecca was the wrong kind of doctor to help with smoke inhalation.
Feeling helpless, she kept murmuring that he was going to be okay as Davidson gagged and gagged some more. He finally coughed up blackish blood, then leaned against the beam.
"Monroe, get out of here. You've got a smart gene to find."
"Yeah, right," she said as she checked the wrap on his calf. It had soaked through yet again.
He grabbed her arm with more strength than she thought he had left. "I mean it. Get your ass out of here."
"And leave my guardian angel behind? Never."
Davidson held her gaze. His eyes were suddenly so much older than his scant decades. "It's too high. You'll never be able to get me up there, and every second you waste-" The private descended into another coughing fit.
As much as she fought against it, the kid was right. She just didn't have the strength to push him up onto the roof. At least not unassisted.
Then she knew exactly what she needed. Her trusty pulley. Unfortunately they had left the mechanism all the way across the hangar.
Pulling her shirt over her nose, she turned to Davidson. "Don't wander off." The private just gave her that look. "I'll be right back."
With that, Rebecca headed back into the nearly opaque hangar.
Picking up the pace, Brandt made for the northwest corner. The maze of flame should force their attackers there. Or at least that's what he hoped.
A smattering of gunfire came from behind. Swinging around, Brandt raised his weapon, his finger to the trigger, but he hesitated, not wanting to nail Lopez or Svengurd if they were retreating in his direction. It took another second for the sergeant to register the pattern of shots being exchanged.
The pursuer was firing at an insane rate. Lopez. The pursued gunman tried to keep up, but who could? Brandt aimed at the spot the fleeing enemy should appear. A leg came into view, but the sergeant waited. With so few bullets, he had to make every shot count. Abruptly, Lopez stopped firing.
Shit, was the corporal out of ammo as well? Whether completely empty or just re-loading, there was nothing to push the man into Brandt's sights. The leg paused as the assailant's muscles contracted, ready to change direction and rush forward.
Forty-two. Forty-one. Forty.
Brandt counted down his ammo. He'd clipped the guy in the hip, but not enough to stop him from retreating to safety. Using four rounds for cover, he charged forward. Just a few scant yards ahead, the maze branched. They couldn't lose this slim advantage.
As Brandt turned into the narrow pathway between the wall and the raging fire, he found their adversary trapped between himself and a newly reloaded Lopez. Their quarry tried to dart down the side path, but Svengurd stepped from the smoky corridor, blocking the prick's escape. They had the slippery bastard dead to rights. For the first time, Brandt considered they might actually capture one.
And find out what the fuck was going on.
"Lower your weapon." He leveled his weapon. "Now!" The man coolly pulled on a ski mask. "Damn it, hands down!"
Then the bastard did the most incredible thing. He leapt into the fire. They rushed forward to see if he had really, actually jumped into the flames.
Shouldn't there have been a scream or something? No one burned alive in silence, but there was nothing but a wall of flame. No smell of burnt flesh. The sergeant's mind whirled, and that same pit in his stomach formed, just like it had before the PDA blew up.
"Back away!" he yelled, even before the full threat formed in his mind. "Disperse!"
The charred air filled with gunfire. Screw counting, Brandt thought, shooting rapidly as two masked men emerged from the crackling flames.
The fuckers had fire-resistant body armor.
Which meant they had the protection the entire time. Which meant they had taken their sweet time luring all three of his team together, to more easily dispatch them.
Lopez and Svengurd tried to hold their ground, but had to fall back. As Brandt's firing pin hit metal, he had no other option but to run as well. Scrambling low, he pulled the twenty-two-caliber handgun from his boot holster.
Twelve bullets.
The sergeant cursed his initial orders. Carrying all those non-lethals had left them vulnerable to this attack. They were prepared to take on a bunch of spear throwing, dart-blowing natives, not a veritable cadre of Special Forces soldiers.
Firing to keep his attacker at bay ate up another five bullets. If he wasted many more staying alive, he wouldn't have enough to save his life. As the smoke stung his eyes and choked his throat, he realized his mistake. After the initial skirmish, he had tried to go at these guys head-to-head.
Fuck that. He needed to go back to his low-tech roots.
Using the last of his bullets to ensure his route, the sergeant threw the gun away as he dove into the burning husk of a biplane. Brandt found what he needed quickly, then rolled out the other side. Despite the blistering heat, he crouched under the plane. At least one of those bastards was tracking him. Brandt would not underestimate them or their equipment again.
When his tracker revealed himself, Brandt pretended to be surprised and narrowly missed being shot as a consequence, but he needed the man to feel confident enough to close the distance. Without any return fire from Brandt, the attacker became bolder as he circled the plane.
Listening only for the man's footfalls, Brandt bundled his muscles until they shook in anticipation. Another step and the sergeant launched up and threw the small fire ax in his hand. The man's face was barely able to register shock before the blade sank into his skull. Without a sound, his assailant pitched backward and hit the ground.
Scrambling over, Brandt grabbed the man's gun and went to check the gun's clip, but it wouldn't budge. The sergeant hit the release again, but nothing. Was it jammed? Could he have somehow taken down the only terrorist with a jammed gun? Then Brandt realized his mistake.
Shit. It wasn't jammed. It was locked.
And it was heavier than it should have been.
He chucked the thing into the plane before it exploded. Again he got knocked on his ass.
What had he just said? He wouldn't underestimate their enemy or their equipment. Yet what had he just done?