TOOMEY LIKED THIS GUY Joe. Or he would have, under other circumstances, where they didn’t need to kill him. Like if they’d just been in a bar somewhere, trading stories over a beer. At first, he hadn’t thought much about him. The only reason they even went up in the chopper was to observe: Richards because he liked to play general, sit there and watch his money at work; Nikolai because he had to report back to Moscow; and Toomey because he needed to be sure that everything went off like it should. His mission was too important to leave to amateurs. It was only when he saw them riding that bike across the roof, the girl jumping it expertly, and then Brody taking out the searchlight, doing what he himself would have done, that he began to think he was finally dealing with some pros. Then they pulled some shit that really impressed him.
First they took cover under a metal shed that shielded them from the bullets that their gunner, Tony, a kid who’d done a tour shooting insurgents before he signed on with Wildwater as a merc, was raining down on them indiscriminately. Then, as he deduced later, the Russian woman drew their fire, tricking the pilot, Trey, into exposing their flank, the open panel by Tony. A skilled sniper, Brody must have been lying in wait. He took that kid out like he was winning a teddy bear in an amusement park. Outstanding shot.
His next shot stunned Trey, bouncing off his helmet and ricocheting into the fuselage. Another hit the bulletproof plexi, which was great when Brody had been shooting at them before, but now the bullet struck the plexi from inside and bounced back, grazing old Richards himself in the leg and ruining those nice pants. Richards yowled, Trey took evasive action and rapidly ditched, Nikolai cursed in Russian, and Toomey grinned, bracing himself for the crash.
They went down in a corner of the square. The chopper was totaled of course, but strapped in and helmeted, they were all fine, just a little battered and whiplashed. Except for Richards, moaning and carrying on, never having been shot before. It was nothing, a scratch, but the blood was spreading through his khakis. Toomey used Nikolai’s handkerchief to bind the wound. Trey took off his helmet and let down that ponytail that he insisted on, a trademark gesture that he thought let the world know he was a free man, but that really just showed he was at least a decade out of fashion. Actually, both were true: he was one of Toomey’s best men, a brave and ruthless fighter who, much like Toomey, was more at home in a warzone than in any of the places—Florida, where he grew up, the Marines, where he’d learned his skills, or Colorado, where his one-time fiancée now lived—that might have passed for “home.” As for family, it was his team that mattered. And now, head still ringing, he was cursing and swearing vengeance on Brody for taking out Tony, his pal. Nikolai just shook his head at the mess and lit a cigar. Toomey called for help to come fetch them, patted Trey on the shoulder, and silently congratulated Brody in his head. He’d look forward to crossing paths with him again some time, and to buying him a beer. Or killing him. Or both.