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HANNAH BIT DOWN on the fleshy part of her thumb to keep from screaming. With the aid of night-vision glasses, she had watched the stealthy assault. When the four men of the Whiskey Team reappeared with the fifth and headed for the rendezvous point, she exhaled and removed the goggles. She closed her eyes so they could adjust to the darkness, but when she opened them, the blinding incandescence of parachute flares filled the sky. The barking chatter of automatic weapons added a sharp staccato to the booming detonations of hand grenades.
She almost wet her pants when a hand clamped onto her thigh.
“Help me.” Lightfoot's voice barely registered above the cacophony filling the once-silent night. He still wore his night-vision goggles.
“Oh, God.” She whimpered, guessing he'd been blinded by that first flare. She ripped the goggles off and tucked them inside her jacket. She discovered one of Mac's bandannas in her pocket. “Close your eyes.” She bound his eyes with the cloth, praying his retinas weren’t permanently damaged.
“You have to cover their back trail.”
His quiet voice sounded so matter-of-fact, she almost believed she could. “I'm not a sniper,” she protested.
“You don't have to hit anything. In fact, make sure you don't hit one of us.”
Just like that. Simple and in a nutshell. Don't hit one of us. She whimpered again but shifted over to line up with the sniper rifle. The goggles gouged her abdomen. She pulled them out and fitted them into a pocket. “I can do this.”
“Yes. You can.”
Had she actually said that out loud? Since Lightfoot answered her, evidently she had. She took a deep breath and then another. She put her goggles back on and her hand only shook a little as she wrapped it around the grip and touched the trigger with her finger. Sighting through the scope, she searched the slope for movement. Green specters darted from one phantom tree to another. One. Two. Three. Four. The first looked misshapen, like a caricature of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Mac. She was sure of it. He still had a man slung across his shoulders. A flicker in the corner of her vision caught her attention. More apparitions darted up the slope in the wake of the Wolves. She aimed at one well wide of the four and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked in her hands and bullets zipped through the trees.
“Remember your firing discipline.” Lightfoot's voice carried a cutting edge. She'd probably fired off at least ten rounds—half of the ammunition in this clip. She fumbled, looking for more clips. Two magically appeared next to her hand. “Squeeze gently,” he reminded.
At least her wild burst had sent the hounds to ground. She found the Wolves again and focused along their flanks and back trail. A wary head popped up. She squeezed gently. Leaves rained down and the head disappeared. Lightfoot didn't say anything but she could almost feel his smile. Moments later, her ears picked up a thin whisper. He was saying something into the radio headset he wore. A figure darted between two trees. She fired off another round and grinned madly at the grunt of pain. Ha! Take that you miserable piece of shit. Her elation was short-lived as four more apparitions scurried across her field of vision. She emptied her clip. Before her fingers closed on a second clip, Lightfoot's hands brushed hers out of the way. In seconds, the fresh clip slid home and he released the rifle back to her.
“Get ready. I want you to fire three short bursts at whatever you see moving. Wait thirty seconds, fire off one more quick burst to empty the clip and close your eyes. When I say go, leave the rifle and we're getting the hell out of here. Do you understand?”
She shrugged into her pack as her inner accountant cringed. “I am not leaving our packs or the rifle behind.” She was adamant. She heard the rustle of whipcord and figured he was shrugging. “Ready?” She wasn't sure if she was asking him or herself. At his touch, she squeezed off the bursts and then counted, “One, one thousand. Two, one thousand.” At thirty, she emptied the clip, her eyes already closed. Thunder boomed and light flared beyond her closed eyelids as the castle keep lit up like the Fourth of July. Blindly, she groped the sniper rig and managed to break it down. On her knees, she slung the M25 over her shoulder, pushed to her feet, and reached for Lightfoot's hand. “Which direction?”
“North, back toward the cave.”
With as much stealth as they could muster, the two of them stumbled through the forest. She tried not to get pissed that even blinded and carrying a pack, Michael was more sure-footed. “How far to the LZ?” she panted.
He stopped and cocked his head, listening. “Not far. We need to hurry.”
Off to the right, she caught the tell-tale whumpf of a mortar round firing. Instinctively, she fell forward, taking Lightfoot with her. She buried her head as the sky lit up. “Bastards.” She ripped the goggles off, the forest bright enough now for her naked eyes to pick out their path. “Let's go.” She struggled to her feet and pushed on. Approximately half a mile further, even her ears could pick up the throaty grumble of the Blackhawk's engine. They were almost home free.
Even as the last flare died, another lofted skyward. Small arms fire chattered like incensed squirrels. An angry wasp whizzed past her cheek.
“Run!”
She didn't need his urging. Her legs were already pumping. They burst into a large clearing side-by-side, though Lightfoot's hand rested on her shoulder for guidance. Like a sleek and deadly bug, the helicopter squatted in the center. Another wasp buzzed by much too close for comfort.
“RUN!” Mac's voice reverberated in her chest, filling her lungs and heart with a final burst of speed as she put her head down and charged toward the chopper. She faltered when Lightfoot's hand dropped away. “Run, baby.” Mac's voice whispered in her ear and she realized Danny was leading Michael as Mac ran beside her even as he stripped the rifle from her shoulder. Each breath seared her lungs and her legs turned to lead but she kept running. Without warning, she was boosted off her feet and tossed. She skidded across the metal floor of the chopper as it lifted off.
“MAC!” She screamed his name.
“Right here, baby.” His arms pulled her back across the deck of the Blackhawk and held her close. “I've got you.”
Her fingers clawed through the material of his jacket and fisted in his tee shirt. She clung to him, fighting to swallow the sobs lining up like cars on a freight train. Despite the fact her cheeks were slick with tears, she choked out, “I'm not crying.”
Mac stripped off her backpack and shifted them both up onto the hard bench seat, leaving more room on the floor for Sean to work on the unconscious Tornjak, now secured in a Stokes rescue basket. He settled her in his lap. “Of course you aren't.” He rubbed his cheek across the top of her head, his whiskers snagging in her hair. He simply held her like that for a long time, the whupwhupwhup of the rotors matching the beat of their hearts.
Eventually, almost all of them slept, vibrations from the twin engines quietly throbbing through the cabin soothing everyone's frayed nerves. Mac watched the scenery scroll by as the pilot skillfully skimmed the treetops. Thank god the Blood Moon leave was almost here. They'd transfer to a C-130 at Tuzla Air Base in Turkey and fly directly to Virginia. After a quick debrief with Captain Harjo, the unit would go their separate ways for a month of R and R. Hannah stirred in his arms. He kissed her awake, hungry for her company. When she pushed back to look up at him, his dick throbbed in time with the engines. She squirmed in his lap and he grinned wolfishly. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“No.”
“Well, I do, darlin'.”
“That's Major Darlin', to you.”
