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Anya's ankle was swollen from the fall. She held onto Thorne's shoulder as they walked. He had his arm around her waist, supporting her. The injury had slowed them down. The sun was up. For the last ten minutes they'd been crossing rough ground. Ahead, a forest of birch trees shimmered in the morning light.
"See those trees?" Thorne said. "That's the border. We're almost there."
"I hear a helicopter," she said.
They looked back the way they'd come. In the distance a helicopter was coming in fast, headed straight for them.
Inside the aircraft, Petrov pointed.
"There they are!"
"Buzz them," Ivanov said.
The pilot brought the helicopter low and flew over the fleeing figures on the ground. Then he hovered over them. The wind from the rotors beat them down, throwing up bits of dirt and rock. Thorne and Anya went flat to the ground.
"Set us down," Ivanov said. "We'll get out. They'll make for the trees. As soon as we're out, go up again and block them."
"Yes, sir," the pilot said.
When the helicopter banked away, Thorne and Anya got up and moved as fast as they could toward the trees, Anya hobbling while Thorne half carried her. Ahead was a white stone marker.
The border.
"They are landing," Anya said.
"That's a mistake."
Thorne took out Stepanov's pistol. He'd checked the magazine. It was full, with seventeen rounds. He clicked off the safety.
Anya looked back. Two men got out of the helicopter.
"It's Ivanov. Petrov, too. Bastards."
The helicopter lifted off. Ivanov shouted something at them. They couldn't hear him against the sound of the rotors.
"Keep going," Thorne said.
The helicopter flew past and turned back toward them. Thorne raised the pistol and aimed at the air intake under the whirling blades. He fired as the aircraft dove toward them. Three rounds glanced off the side of the engine housing in a shower of sparks. Two disappeared into the open maw of the engine.
The results were immediate and spectacular.
The turbine came apart in a tortured screech of metal. The housing shattered. The rotor shaft snapped, sending the blades whirling through the air. The helicopter dropped straight down, slammed into the ground, and exploded in a fireball. The shockwave knocked them down. One of the blades scythed into the earth in front of Anya's face and ricocheted away.
Thorne hauled Anya to her feet. Ivanov and Petrov began shooting. Thorne felt the breeze as a bullet passed close by. He turned and fired several shots. Petrov pitched facedown onto the hard earth. Bright flashes came from Ivanov's pistol.
Anya cried out and stumbled to the ground. Thorne fired again, the unfamiliar pistol hard in his hand as the slide racked back and forth. He kept firing until the pistol was empty. Ivanov dropped his gun. He clutched his stomach and toppled face forward. He didn't get up.
Thorne turned to Anya. She lay on her back, breathing fast. Bright blood streamed from a wound under her right breast. Black smoke from the burning helicopter rolled over them, setting him coughing. His eyes stung. He knelt by her.
She struggled for breath.
"Michael. It hurts."
"I know. Don't move."
Stop the bleeding.
He pulled off his shirt, folded it, pressed it against the wound. He took her hands and placed them on the makeshift bandage. It was turning red.
"You have to hold this tight. Press hard. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
Her voice was weak. She looked pale. Her eyes fluttered.
"Anya."
"Yes."
"Stay awake. You've got to stay awake. I'm going to pick you up and carry you across the border. It will hurt."
She didn't answer. He picked her up. She cried out in pain.
"Press with your hands. Don't let go."
He was pumped with adrenaline. She didn't seem heavy. He ran toward the trees, past the border marker, into Estonia. He set her down in a grassy clearing among the birches.
"Anya."
She didn't answer. Her eyes were closed. The bandage was soaked red with her blood.
"Anya." He pinched her cheek. "Stay with me. Open your eyes."
Her eyes came open. She was looking up through a circle of branches at blue sky. Her skin was pale, the color drained away. He pulled out his phone and called Jenna.
Come on, answer.
"Mike. Where are you?"
"Estonia, right over the border. I need medevac, now. OPERA is with me. She's been shot."
"Turn on your GPS."
Thorne fumbled with the phone and activated the GPS.
"Okay, I've got you," Jenna said.
"Hurry."
He dropped the phone and turned to Anya.
"My...guardian angel," she said.
"Help is coming," he said. "They'll be here soon."
"I love my country," she said.
Her voice was weak. He had to bend down to hear her.
"Promise me...you will tell them."
"You'll tell them yourself."
"Promise."
"I promise."
She coughed. Blood trickled from her mouth.
"I'm...tired. Hard to breathe."
"Don't try to talk. Stay with me. Fight it."
She coughed more blood.
"Easy," he said.
His hand trembled as he gently wiped blood from her lips. He placed his hand over hers, where they pressed down on the bloody bandage. Her skin felt ice cold. Fear bloomed in his chest.
"You have to hold on," he said. "A helicopter is coming. I'll get you to a hospital."
"I'm frightened."
"I know. It's all right. You'll be all right."
"Michael...I can't see you."
She was looking right at him. A fist closed around his heart.
"I'm right here, Anya. I'm here."
"I...love you. You...we might have..."
She let out a long sigh. Her chest stopped moving. Her eyes were open, but the light was gone.
Nothing was going to bring her back.
He reached out and closed her eyes.
His face was wet with tears as he picked up his phone.