But something moves in the snow. My instincts snap tight.
Then I hear it—a sharp, high whine cutting through the wind.
I turn, spotting a strange little drone drifting toward the helicopter. No green or red lights. No markings. Just four rotors and bad intentions.
What the hell is a drone doing out here?
“Ridgeway, we’ve got an unmarked drone in the area,” I call in. “It’s not friendly. Looks autonomous.”
“Say again?” Lexi says sharply.
“Unknown drone. Acting hostile.”
The thing zips through the air, circling the chopper’s hoist cable like it’s hunting it. I don’t need a manual to know this isn’t some civilian toy.
Its movements are too familiar. Too precise. I’ve seen this behavior before—on base, during a test demo. Riley Willow’s drones move just like this.
Except this one’s not wearing her name.
“Pedro Two, what’s your status?” I ask.
“Hover is steady. Visual on the drone.”
“Hold hover. I’ll handle it.”
I dig a jammer from my harness, jam it into the snow, and flip it on. A pulse of interference rolls out, enough to throw off most cheap drone systems. The quadcopter stutters in midair—then adjusts and pushes forward.
Okay. Not cheap.
I pull out the collapsible net launcher from my pack. The guys laughed when I picked this up. I didn’t.
The drone zips low, aiming for the chopper’s cable. That’s when I make the call.
“Pedro Two, trust me. Six seconds.”
“Trusting you, Hawthorne. Make it count.”
I hold my breath. Wait.
Now.
I fire. The net spreads midair, tangling in the rotors. The drone spirals down like a kicked wasp and crashes in the snow at my boots. It whines once. I stomp. It doesn’t whine again.
“Drone down,” I say. “Hoist on three.”
I get the pilot into the rescue cocoon and strap him to my chest. This should’ve been a simple lift. But nothing’s simple anymore.
“One, two, three…”
The cable lowers from the bird, gleaming under my night vision. I clip in. The winch hums. We lift into the storm, my arm locked tight around the unconscious pilot. The snow howls and the rotor wash batters my gear. The floor of the chopper slams under my boots. A crewman hauls us inside.
“Nice takedown,” he yells over the roar. “You kiss that thing first?”
“Next time I’ll bring flowers,” I shout back.
The chopper banks hard toward Ridgeway.
I work fast. Cut away the pilot’s sleeve, find a vein, get warm fluids flowing. His eyes flutter open.
