Bryn pops up and rakes a long burst across both SUVs while an RMI operative does the same the other way, keeping the enemy's heads down.
I lurch into a sprint, skidding around the hood of the SUV and diving for the girl. At that moment, a tango rises over the hood and pulls a bead on me. I see it happen in slow motion, and there's not a damn thing I can do. I've got the girl in my arms, my rifle hanging by its strap behind me. I drop to a crouch and turn my back to the shooter, curling my whole body around the child. She's gone silent but I feel her shuddering uncontrollably. CRACKCRACKCRACK! Something hot sears past my left ear. Another round creases the outside of my left arm. The third digs into the blacktop near my left knee.
CRACKCRACK—
Overlapping reports conflict, one burst cut short. An elephant kicks me in the back, shattering the air out of my lungs and sending me toppling forward. I curl my arms in a vise around the girl and twist my torso as I fall, taking the brunt of the impact on my shoulder, log-rolling several times toward the doorway where the mother huddles, still screaming hoarsely in an extremely Swiss mixture of German and French.
I can't breathe, can't draw in a breath. Spots dance across my vision. My limbs won't cooperate. I can feel my toes, at least, so I'm not fucking paralyzed, but this shit is not fucking fun.
I hear Bryn yelling my name, but it's all I've got to force my body to obey, shoving a knee under me as I gag for oxygen, mouth flapping emptily, vision blurring and narrowing. The girl has my vest clutched in her little fingers, face buried in my throat. For a moment, it's Eliza.
"I've got you, sweetheart," I whisper—or at least, that's the intent. All that comes out is a hissing croak.
A horde of bees swarms past my skull. I've got to move. Through sheer stubborn determination, I force my body to move despite the lack of oxygen. I lurch to my feet and stagger forward, half-tripping on the low kerb. I slam into the door beside the girl's mother, mouth working as I struggle to suck in a breath. The mother is speaking, but I can't hear anything over the roaring in my ears.
My knees give out, and I sink to my ass, panic bubbling in my gut as I feel darkness welling up inside me—how long have I been unable to draw a breath? Thirty seconds? Longer?
I still have the little girl in my arms. I look down at her. Big, frightened blue eyes meet mine. A tiny soft hand touches my cheek. Her little mouth moves, asking me a question, but the roaring in my ears drowns it out.
I fight the panic, draw my knees up to my chest and push my stomach out slowly, focusing on trying to force my diaphragm to move. Pull my belly in, force it out. When you've had the wind knocked out of you like that, especially as hard of a hit as I took, you have to learn how to do something that goes against everything your body is trying to tell you—you have to forcibly relax yourself. Don't panic, get your diaphragm moving, and try to get little sips of air as you can.
Very, very slowly, my breath comes back. At first, it's like wetting your lips when you're near dead of thirst, and then drawing in enough to coat your tongue, and then finally allowing a full swallow. Bit by bit, my lungs start to work again, and the roaring in my ears fades, and the crackle and chatter of the firefight return.
"Hallo? Herr? Bist du verletzt?"
"Nein, nein." I look down at the little girl, addressing her in German. "You're okay. You're not hurt."
She shakes her head, patting my cheek with her warm little hand.
I can't help but hug the girl tightly, until she squirms.
"I have a daughter," I say to the mother.
She gathers her child to herself, her tear-wet eyes wide. She doesn't say thank you, too busy weeping and kissing her daughter, but she doesn’t have to. I see it in her eyes, the gratitude, the relief. I look out at the scene, assessing what's happened while I was fighting for my breath.
Enemy bodies lay slumped by tires and beneath doors—I count six. We've lost three RMI guys, but I see two of them still moving so hopefully they're just wounded.
Bryn is edging around the back of the SUV as if about to make a break for it, but I hold out a hand to stop her. I don't need her here—the doorway isn't big enough for three adults and a scared child.
An RMI operative rises to send a burst over a hood—and takes a slug to the eyeball, rocking backward, dead instantly; an instant later, another operative retreats to the next SUV down the line, leaving Bryn isolated. Pugli's men sense an opportunity and pop up in unison, laying down heavy fire. I assume a firing position, one knee up, elbow braced on that knee, sending rounds at the enemy, but that only draws their fire my way—and toward the mother and child.
RMI guys are retreating—the tangos at the rear of our line are all gone, dead or wounded, leaving only the six now working in coordination. Bryn is alone. They're making a play for her.
"BRYN! Retreat!" I shout.
"Not without you!" she shouts back.
"I'm fine! Go!" I gesture furiously at the RMI guys scuttling backward as they fire at the enemy—most of their rounds going high.
Stubbornly, Bryn refuses to retreat.
I've nowhere to go.
If I fire, I risk drawing their rounds this way, endangering the innocent mother and child. If I dart out, I'll make it maybe ten steps before I catch a round—the bullets whip back and forth in a thick, whining hail.
And caught in the middle is Bryn.
With Pugli's men advancing.
