With a curse, he whipped into the truck. Kept low. Shifted it intoDrive. Leaned out the driver’s side.
Ping-ping! Crack! Pop!
As the truck rolled forward, he peered under the open door as he steered. Couldn’t veer too far right or he’d expose himself. Too far left, he’d run her over. Coasting, he watched her body slide into view beneath the door. Shifted intoPark.
He scrabbled over her. Knelt at her side.
Bullets struck the truck. Cracked the windshield.
Range shoved himself out and crouched at her side. “Kas.” Eyed the bullet wounds—three. Non-responsive. He pressed two fingers to her carotid. Thready.
Raven-haired Atia screamed, wriggling to get out from under her mother. Got on all fours. Dust erupted near her.
Range yanked the girl back to himself. She howled her protest even as he tried to wrangle her into the truck. “Stay,” he barked in Pashto and Arabic.
Wide brown-green eyes, streaked with dirt and tears, fastened onto him.
He repeated the command and she stuck the two fingers between her pinky and forefinger into her mouth and sat down on the floorboard.
Can’t believe that worked.He whipped back to Kasra. She needed immediate life-saving measures, but the situation was too hot. Dangerous. They had to get out of here. But moving her was a risk with the bullet wounds.
Ping-ping-ping-crack!
Rocks and dirt crunched behind him. He glanced back and saw an SUV barreling toward them. He snapped up his M4 and fired at the SUV. the rounds bounced off the windshield. Armored.
Are you freakin’ kidding me?They were screwed. Dead.
A whistle streaked through the air. Another.
He knew that sound. Threw himself over Kasra.
Boom! Boom-boom!
Range saw an orange flash as the SUV flipped into the air. Flames roared from the lean-to. What the heck?
That’s when he heard the thunder. Saw movement, a man emerging from the consumed lean-to. With a weapon.
On one knee, M4 tucked into his shoulder, Range fired several rounds until the man thudded into the dirt, his head bouncing off the hardpacked ground. A Black Hawk whizzed overhead and circled back, hovering over them. Rotor-wash chewed the air and spit out dirt and rocks.
Range covered Kasra’s body as the bird set down. Had no idea who’d come to his aid. And didn’t care. The bird seemed to back off, letting him focus on saving her.
“Kasra.” Stabilizing her head and neck, he shifted her onto her side, then eased her onto her back. A trail of blood slid down her temple. Exit wounds on the right side of her chest and lower abdomen. The third hadn’t exited. Not good. Made CPR tricky. A miracle the kid hadn’t taken one of the bullets that exited.
On his knees, he pressed two fingers to her carotid and lowered his ear to her mouth to check for breathing. Nothing—no breathing, no pulse. Focus warred with panic. “C’mon, Kas,” he muttered as he began compressions, monitoring the abdomen wound and how much it bled. “C’mon, c’mon. Don’t do this to me.”
Hands threaded on top of each other, he did thirty compressions. Then opened her airway and pinched her nose. Gave two full breaths. Back to compressions. “Kasra! C’mon!” In his periphery he heard the kid crying. Boots thudding toward him.
After tilting her head back and opening her airway, he blew into her mouth. After two more breaths, he glanced toward the bird. A half-dozen men had poured out of it. Nearly on him.
Range snapped up his M4 and aimed.
“Blue, blue!”
He saw the face—nearly faltered. Canyon. No time. He refocused on Kasra.
Counting … breathing … Counting … breaths.
Two men slid to the ground with large packs. Others started prepping a litter.
