"Roger," I said.
We leveled out at 4,500 feet, the air, cold and thin, humming against the fuselage.
Reynolds flicked a switch, frowned at the radio hiss. "Interference again."
"Soviets?" I muttered.
He shrugged. "Either that or ghosts."
Knowing this city, I wasn't ruling out either.
Five minutes later, I felt it, a shift in the air pressure, a flutter in the yoke.
And then: a shadow sliced across the clouds like a shark fin.
A Soviet Yak.
Flying too low. Too close.
Too damn fast.
Reynolds cursed. "Jesus—he's right on top of us!"
The Yak dove across our bow, a deliberate buzz so close I could count the rivets on its belly. Turbulenceslashed across us like a whip. The Dakota bucked hard. Cargo straps groaned in the back. My pulse detonated.
"He's not supposed to be in the corridor," Reynolds hissed.
"No," I growled, gripping the wheel tighter. "He's not."
The Yak circled us once, twice, like a wolf sniffing prey. Then it peeled off toward the Soviet sector, and that was when I saw the flash. A tiny spark on a rooftop ruin. A muzzle flare.
CRACK.
Something slammed into the starboard fuselage, metal screaming as the bullet tore through skin and frame. The plane jerked violently.
"Christ!" Reynolds shouted. "We're hit!"
My dragon roared awake so violently, I nearly blacked out. Heat surged under my skin. My vision sharpened unnaturally, edges turning gold.
Every instinct screamed at me to turn, dive, obliterate the threat.
Burn them,the dragon snarled.Let me burn them.
I pulled back hard on the yoke, forcing breath through my teeth. "Hold steady!"
Another flash.
Another shot.
Another metallic shriek as a bullet punched the underside near the cargo bay.
Reynolds gaped at me. "They're firing on us, Griff! They're SHOOTING at us!"
"Don't say it on the radio," I barked. "Do not—say—anything."
"They're trying to kill us!"
"If we broadcast this," I ground out, "the Soviets get exactly what they want."
