Static answers, then the terse acknowledgment I need. “Copy, Flint. QRF en route.”
I shove Carolina toward the path. She moves like a machine, boots finding purchase in loose dirt, pack thumping against her back. I angle myself between her and the shooters, weapon up, eyes slicing the slope for movement.
The sound draws fire from the first shooter, rounds kicking up dirt twenty yards from her position. I return fire, three controlled pairs at the muzzle flash, and have the satisfaction of seeing the shooter duck back into cover.
The second shooter is closer now, maybe forty yards and closing fast. I shift aim and engage, forcing him to dive behind a boulder. My magazine runs dry, and I drop it, slamming a fresh one home without taking my eyes off the threats.
The drill is so ingrained it's automatic—muscle memory built through thousands of repetitions until it's faster than thought.
Carolina is ten yards, and then five, from the clearing. She hits it and drops into the scrub, flattening herself the way we train—small, controlled, ready for pickup.
"Flint, we have visual on your position,"the radio crackles."Helicopter inbound, sixty seconds."
I key the mic while tracking the second shooter. "Subject is in place. I'm holding position to cover her movement."
"Negative. Break contact and extract."
"Not leaving her exposed." I fire again as the first shooter tries to advance. The round catches him somewhere center mass—he staggers—but he's wearing body armor and stays on his feet. Damn it. "Get the subject out. I'll be right behind her."
That's a lie. If these two are competent, they'll keep me pinned here while Carolina extracts, and that's fine.
My job is to get her out, not to make it home myself.
The bracelet on my wrist digs into my skin as I brace my shooting position, and I think about the promises I didn't keep three years ago, the people I was too slow to save.
Not this time. Not her.
SIX
FLINT
Movement to my left—thesecond shooter is trying to use the terrain to flank me. I pivot and engage, two rounds that force him back, but it exposes me to the first shooter.
A round catches my vest high on the right side, just below my shoulder. The ceramic plate catches most of it, but the kinetic energy is enough to spin me partway around and drive the breath from my lungs. The impact feels like getting hit with a sledgehammer, pain radiating through my chest and shoulder.
I stay on my feet through sheer stubbornness, returning fire even as my right arm goes partially numb from the impact. The second shooter is moving again, trying to close the distance while I'm hurt.
I track him, squeeze the trigger, and see him go down hard. Not dead—he's moving, trying to crawl to cover—but out of the fight for now.
The first shooter opens up on full auto, hosing my position with rounds that kick up dirt and shred vegetation. I flatten myself against the side of the draw, making myself as small a target as possible, and wait for a reload.
The instant the firing stops, I'm up and moving, running in a low crouch down the draw after Carolina. Pain radiates from my shoulder with every jarring step, but I've been hurt worse and kept moving.
Evac is closing in. The distinctive thump of rotors echoes off the hillsides. It comes in fast and low, heading for the clearing.
More shots from behind me, but they're poorly aimed, desperation fire from a shooter who's lost his tactical advantage. I don't return fire, just keep moving, eating up ground with long strides that send jolts of pain through my bruised ribs and shoulder.
The draw opens up ahead, spilling into flatter ground. The helicopter is touching down.
Carolina is there, fifty yards ahead, running flat out for the aircraft. Her pack bounces on her shoulders, and her braid has come partially loose, dark hair whipping in the rotor wash. She's twenty yards from the helicopter when I see the third shooter.
He comes out of the tree line to her left, rifle shouldered, tracking her movement. Time compresses and expands simultaneously, the way it does in combat when adrenaline kicks perception into overdrive.
He acquires his target. Finger tightens on the trigger. Carolina runs with no idea he's there.
I’m moving before conscious thought kicks in, angling to intercept, weapon coming up, even though I'm too far for an accurate shot at a running sprint. I fire anyway, three rounds that go wide but close enough to make him flinch. His rifle swings toward me, tracking the new threat, and in that split second, his attention is off Carolina.
His muzzle flash is bright even in daylight. I feel the impact in my vest again—two rounds center mass that knock me off my feet. The ceramic plates hold, but the force is like getting hit bya truck. I hit the ground hard, air driven from my lungs, vision graying at the edges from the impact.
