The girls on the helo all throw themselves to the floor, covering their ears. Puck scrambles aboard next, followed by Thresh.
The helo’s double rotors pick up speed and noise. The wheels show signs of the weight lessening.
“Get on board!” Duke yells—at me, at Corinna.
Bullets hit the side of the helo. The dirt around me.
The Chinook is lifting off.
We’re several feet from the helo, with rounds zinging between the helo and our position.
“We have to go!” Duke shouts. “We’re taking too much fire!”
The massive rifle booms again.
The .50-cal is still talking.
Bullets fly, pinging off the side of the Chinook, which now hovers a foot off the ground.
Corinna isn’t responding—
Mere seconds have elapsed since Anselm arrived, but it’s stretched into an eternity…
Corinna is down, blood bathing the side of her face. I catch a glimpse of her chest rise, and I know she’s alive.
The Chinook is too far, the risk too great—we’ll both be hit. The truck is our only chance, now.
I yank my pistol from my belt and sprint over to her, pop a couple rounds off. A quick glance at her head tells me the wound is a glancing blow, enough to stun her and paint her face with blood, but not life-threatening.
Yelena is on board that helo.
She’s the most important thing. She’s the reason we’re here, to get her home.
I scoop Corinna into my arm and throw her over my shoulder. Sprint for the truck’s driver-side door.
“GO!” I shout, over my shoulder. “GO, GO, GO!”
There are no second chances.
I hear the .50-cal sawing, feel rounds dig up the dirt at my feet, pluck at my clothing. The helo is lifting higher, and even as it lifts, Anselm is cracking off booming shots and Layla is at the door gun, laying down fire. Someone is firing from the other door, now, both sides. And the rear.
Covering for us even as they make their escape.
I can’t afford to care about the pain in my wounded arm—I have to use it. I hold Corinna with one arm and climb up the fuel tank, yank open the door; my ruined elbow screams in agony, protesting. I can barely function with it, the pain overriding even my desperate need. Once the door swings open, I throw Corinna unceremoniously inside—thank god I left it running. She flops limp to the bench seat, but she moans. Her rifle is tangled up by the strap in her arms, the stock caught between her legs, which hang off the bench.
I shove the shifter into gear and floor it.
Corinna moans.
“Wake up, babe,” I say, sounding remarkably casual, even as rounds dent the hood and the door—one of them pierces the door and barely misses Corinna, smacking into the far door.
She groans again.
I don’t know where I’m going—just through the trees, which smack against the windows and windshield and roof with a clattering din. The engine roars as I keep the pedal mashed to the floor.
“Corinna!” I shout, letting go of the wheel and keeping it straight with my knee as I shake her. “Rin! I need you, babe.”
I see a truck pulling up alongside us, in the next row over. The bed gunner swivels this way.
