“Doc! Last full mag!” Someone—Jethro? Yes, by the bloody head bandage over his blond hair—hit the release dropping his rifle magazine into the dirt. Unable to move enough to shoot anymore, he flapped a hand to offer it.
Looked like “Doc” was going to be his new tag—for the last few minutes of his life. Fine, he’d own that. Time to deal out some 5.56 mm medicine.
He turned and saw blood streaming down Smith’s waist. She was still kneeling at the edge of their hole and firing.
Shit! If Smith went down, he was definitely toast.
A bullet must have skipped off a wall, ducked behind the pickup, and gone through-and-through just below her ribs. While grabbing the mag, it must have missed his head by inches. He’d certainly never heard it go by.
He yanked off his gear belt, slapped it around her middle, and cinched it tight.
Not one damn word. Not even a grunt of pain.
Doc wondered for the hundredth time what drove her. It was a question that no one asked twice. Anyone who asked got the “Look” that said death was coming for them if they were shit-stupid enough to ask again. He counted himself smart because he’d never actually asked even once.
He rapped the salvaged mag on his helmet to seat all the rounds to the rear of the carrier, and slapped it into his own rifle. He flipped the selector to semi-auto—against his better judgement—to conserve the last of their ammo, and yanked the charging handle to load a round in the chamber.
Coming up out of the hole ready to fire the moment his scope lined up, he didn’t lack for targets.
But even as he lined up, he knew he was too late.
Someone had anticipated where he’d be popping up.
Time slowed.
There was a distinctive look to a rifle aimed in your general direction versus one that was dead on. Was that how Smith operated? Every shot finding that perfect alignment where the target was no longer a question but now a certainty.
No time—he fired.
Even as he did, he knew it was his usual six- or seven-ring shot, not the ten-point bullseye that he needed.
For a full point-seven seconds that his round was traveling the fifty meters, he knew he was looking straight into death’s maw. He would never move fast enough to get clear of the return fire.
Then, through his scope, he saw the target blown backward.
Shredded.
The man’s rifle tossed upward in reaction to the hit.
No way did a NATO 5.56 mm round do that on impact.
Then Doc heard the buzzsaw.
Emerging over a low building, a pitch-black Black Hawk helicopter slid into view. Lead was pouring out in three directions. Not only were both of the crew chiefs’ side-mounted Miniguns slicing into the attackers, but the hard-mounted forward gun as well.
Smith grabbed his collar and jerked him down out of view.
She grunted as he landed hard against her.
“Sorry.”
“Just keep your damn head down. That’s a 160th Night Stalkers DAP Hawk and it cuts a wide swath.”
The buzzsaw cut off after just another three seconds, leaving only the pounding thud of the blades washing down from the sky and rattling between the buildings.
There was a moment with no other fire. From anyone.
“Damn, but that’s precision.” Smith was looking up at the sky. “Night Stalkers rock.”
He peeked up in time to see four Little Bird helos arriving from the four points of the compass. Simultaneously, they all slid to a halt like goddamned synchronized swimmers.
Fire resumed from their attackers, now directed at the helos in the sky.
Spec Ops of some sort started roping down from where they’d been sitting on the side-mounted bench seats—four per bird. Those above providing cover fire to those heading down. As each reached the ground, he knelt, shouldered his rifle, and began taking out additional targets. Semi-auto, single-round shots Doc noted with some chagrin.
“I want to cry, I’m so happy.” He spotted a rifle slipping out of a window down the block.
He fired too fast and his round skipped off the lower sill.
Smith nailed the shooter, and he tumbled back into the darkness.
“We might just get out of this.”
“Chickens,” she said as she popped up and fired another round at the window without appearing to even look first.
He peeked out to see that, sure enough, another shooter had come to the window—probably with the dead man’s weapon. No, definitely with the dead man’s weapon. Smith had simply known how long it would take someone to grab it from the dead man and return to the window.
“Okay, still eggs.” He wasn’t going to start counting his chickens until he was somewhere hell-and-gone away from here.
It was his first major firefight. He hoped to God it was going to be his last. He’d somehow avoided the grinder of Iraq and Afghanistan, mostly pulling base duty in one place or another.
Maybe he’d just stay hunkered down right here.
“Hey there.” A deep voice sounded from above him. He looked up at the helmeted American looking at him over the shattered engine of the pickup truck. “Y’all want a ride?”
Okay, maybe it was okay to count to “one”—even while he was still an egg.