“HOLD ON!” I shout as loud as I can.
I hear a thump on the bulkhead between the cargo area and cab, letting me know they heard me.
I keep the pedal floored, pointing at a gap in the wreckage where the noses of two different cars touch. I brace my hand on the wheel, pedal floored, and the nose of the truck hits the burning wrecks with a concussive impact, jolting me backward. The noise is terrific, and I feel heat billow into the cab from the broken window, scorching me—I smell burning hair as my forearm is crisped by the blasting heat.
Then we’re through, but rounds still clank off the roof of the cab, making me feel like I’m inside a bell being hit with a hammer.
I’m parallel with the Humvee, and the gargantuan man standing at the .50-cal throws me a jaunty two-finger wave, then gestures behind himself. “Four clicks that way!”
I’ve heard stories of the mighty Thresh, a man who stands seven feet tall, with the body of an award-winning bodybuilder even in his fifties, who speaks multiple languages, and can shrug off wounds that would cripple anyone else. Hearing the stories is not the same as seeing him in person. He makes the monster .50-cal machine gun look like a toy. The back of the Humvee sags under his weight.
I wave back and keep going; I hear the .50-cal start up again, but it’s behind us and things are quieting. We’re on a trail rather than a road, barely a two-track through the arid desert. The sky above is clear and pale, the earth underfoot hard-packed and dry. There’s nothing in any direction except the fortress, and the road heading past the ruins on its endless journey from north to south. This track I’m on heads west, away from the coast, and it’s rutted and pitted, forcing me to slow or risk crashing.
Four kilometers takes both an eternity and an instant. I hear a helicopter, and the closer I get, the more deafening is the noise. We’re in among olive trees, suddenly, the narrow track slicing between rows of low spreading trees in the loose light soil spaced in four-square formations, and they extend as far as the eye can see in three directions; there’s a larger path ahead, an access road just barely big enough for the helicopter…which is a Chinook, a double-rotor monster of an aircraft. The rotors buzz just above the treetops, and the prop wash is so powerful the branches creak and wave and bow, threatening to snap. There’s another .50-caliber machine gun in the side door, and someone I can’t make outmanning it. Whoever it is, he’s gesticulating wildly, hurrying us.
I don’t know who that is behind the gun or why they’re so frantic, but if they’re frantic, I’m going to listen.
I jam the brakes and slew the wheel, and the tires skid in the dirt, the weight of the truck slinging us sideways and leaning frighteningly hard onto the suspension, nearly toppling before slamming down onto all four wheels. Another glance at the gunner—they’re smaller than I’d originally thought, wearing a black helmet with a microphone; through the skirling dust, I realize it’s Layla, and she’s gesturing at me to move forward, parallel to the helo. I glance out the shattered passenger window and see that the Humvee is now hurtling toward us at a reckless pace, jouncing and bouncing over the ruts, the back end squirreling sideways, expertly kept on course by Thresh.
I look past the Humvee, back the way we came: through the dust cloud, I can just barely make out another vehicle, a paramilitary special—a Toyota pickup with a bed-mounted machine gun.
Which is chattering, spewing bullets this way. High and wide, for now—but this is why Layla wanted me to move. I realize the rear bay door is open—the bay door is big enough and the Chinook powerful enough to accept the Humvee, but I think this truck is too big, or I’d just drive up and in. I pull forward more, and as soon as I’m out of the way, Layla opens up, firing right over top of the Humvee.
After that, I can’t afford any more attention for that side of the action—I leave the truck’s motor running and throw myself out, clambering down and jogging to the back. Corinna is already out and dropping the tailgate.
“Cover us—I’ll get them on board.”
With a curt nod, she drops to a knee with her back to the rear double tires, drawing bead on the approaching Toyota. Which, I realize, is not alone.
The Humvee slews around behind the Chinook and lines up with the bed, the engine guns and it bounces up and in, tires squealing. The truck rocks as Thresh unfolds his mammoth body from behind the wheel, reaches into the bed of the Humvee and retrieves a weapon, a SAW.
From the rear doors, Duke and Puck, each armed for bear. All three men sprint at full speed out of the bay door—Puck rounds the rear of the helo to cover the far side, and I hear his carbine begin barking immediately. They’re over there, too?
Thresh drops to his belly on the ground beneath the bay door, firing alongside it toward the rear—I glance that way and spy shapes on foot heading this way among the trees.
Duke stands in the opening, scanning.
All this occurs in the space of sixty seconds, at most.
Dirt chews up toward the rear of the truck, and I realize I’m frozen, and the women in the back are huddled together, waiting. Yelena is surrounded by the women, at the center of them. Her eyes meet mine.
I reach up my one good arm, and the nearest body drops onto me—the pain from the impact is unbelievable, but I ignore it. Gunfire roars in all directions, and bullets fly, plinking off the truck and thudding in the dirt.
It’s chaos, then, and pain, as I reach up, bring a body down, send her sprinting up the ramp, covered by Duke and Corinna. I look up and see Yelena, waiting. She jumps confidently down to me, arms small and thin but strong around my neck, and I place her on the ramp myself.
“Go on up!” I tell her. “GO! It’s not safe down here.” She whimpers and inches up the ramp, but her eyes remain on me. “You have togo, Yelena! They’re going to take you home to Mommy and Daddy, okay? You’ll see me soon, I promise.”
A round smashes into the ramp near her feet, and she screeches, tumbling backward. Duke sees this, and leans down the ramp, his carbine tucked one-handed against his hip, grabbing Yelena by the waist and catching her up against his chest. Leaning into the bay, he sets her down, where she’s scooped up protectively by Anh, who’s still armed. Anh cradles Yelena against herself, pistol clutched in one hand, putting her body between Yelena and any possible threat.
I continue my work, helping the women down from the truck—I don’t see faces or features, they’re just bodies to move to safety.
The truck is empty, then.
Anselm appears from the swirling dust, a giant rifle cradled in his arms. “Evac, now!” he shouts. “They are too many!”
He kneels on the floor near the bay door, unfolds the bipod, lies behind the rifle, and then there’s a massive, concussive
BOOOM!
