bad guys are down, Major,” Angel sang out with gleeful satisfaction.
“Yeah, but what about that marine?” Maya muttered. She landed the Cobra on the hard-packed desert floor. Dust whipped up in all directions around them. She shouted to Angel Paredes, “Go get the girl, Sergeant! We shouldn’t receive any more resistance from the druggies. Stay alert!”
“Yes, ma’am!” Paredes leaped out of the helicopter. Short and stocky, she hustled around the nose of the Cobra and headed for the girl.
“Take over, Dove,” Maya told her copilot. “And keep your eyes peeled.”
“Where are you going?” Dove demanded, wrapping her long fingers around the controls.
Jerking at the snaps of her harness, Maya growled, “To look for that poor Recon bastard. He just saved Dallas and Cam from getting blown out of the sky. The least we can do is find his body and bring him home with us.” She yanked out the cord that connected her with the communications system within the aircraft. Twisting around, Maya quickly made her way between the seats to the small cargo bay, past the fifty-caliber machine gun, and leaped off the lip of the shuddering helicopter. Dust was blowing in all directions, a small sandstorm around the aircraft. Maya drew her pistol, just in case she ran into one of the druggies in all the chaos. She made a sharp gesture with her hand toward her sergeant, who now had the girl beneath her arm.
“Get her on board!” Maya shouted above the noise.
Paredes raised her black-gloved hand to acknowledge the order before she hurried the girl toward the aircraft.
Turning, the captain ran toward the rock and rubble that had been left by the rocket’s explosion. Although she had on her black helmet, with its protective black shield across the upper half of her face, the dust kicked up by the helo’s blades whipped into her eyes. Rubbing them as she ran, holding her pistol high with her other hand, Maya tried to locate the marine among the piles of stone and dirt.
There! She saw the man lying on his back, his arms thrown outward from his unmoving body. Slowing, Maya looked ahead. Where the druggies had once been, rubble now covered half the width of the canyon. The bad guys were down and out. Good. Instant burial. No formality.
Kneeling down, Maya saw that the Marine’s right leg, from below the knee, looked like ground, bleeding hamburger. She winced and clenched her teeth. Jerking off her black glove, she placed two fingers against the sweat-covered column of his throat. He was young and strong, but there was no way he could have survived this.
“I’ll be damned,” she breathed. She felt a faint pulse beneath her fingertips. It wasn’t much of one—but it was there! Hurriedly, she assessed him for more wounds. The only place he seemed to be injured was his right leg. Holstering her pistol, she jerked off all his heavy gear and tossed it aside. She’d have to carry him to the helicopter. Judging from the amount of blood spurting from a cut artery in his calf, he was going to bleed to death—and soon.
Grunting, Maya turned him over and then rolled the weight of his body against her shoulder.
“You would have to be tall,” she growled. Well, she was, too. Maya was thankful for her large-boned, six-foot frame because she’d never be able to hoist the marine into a fireman’s carry position across her shoulders otherwise.
Just as she labored to get her feet under her, she saw Sergeant Paredes running full tilt toward her.
“Angel!” Maya yelled. “Get back to the helo! He’s bleeding to death! Get an IV set up! I’m gonna need your help! Pronto!”
The sergeant skidded to a halt, nodded and sprinted back to the Cobra.
Groaning, Maya cursed softly as she placed each booted foot carefully in front of the other. He was heavy! Well, Recons had to be tough and hardy to do the work they did. Gripping him tightly by one arm and one leg, Maya swayed, fighting to keep her balance. Only a few more yards to go!
After setting up a temporary stretcher across the steel-plated deck, Angel reached out from the lip of the helo. Maya groaned as she sat down with her load. When the sergeant angled the unconscious marine off her shoulders, Maya turned and helped to place the man on the awaiting stretcher. She saw the senator’s daughter looking on, terror in her eyes as she sat huddled in one corner.
Leaping on board, Maya quickly slid the door shut. Turning, she moved between the seats and made an upward, jerking motion with her thumb. That told her copilot to get the hell out of here. To get some air between them, the ground and the bad guys. Though the druggies looked like they’d been buried under that rubble, she wasn’t taking any chances.
Plugging the phone jack from her helmet into a wall outlet, she turned to help the paramedic-trained sergeant.
“I need help!” Angel gasped. “He’s bleeding out! Captain…put your hand there! Now!”
Just then, the Cobra powered up, breaking gravity with the earth. Maya wasn’t prepared and lurched downward onto her knees. Cursing in Spanish, she threw out her hands, palms slamming into the cabin wall just above where the marine lay. Despite the jostling and jerking, Angel was expertly pulling an IV from the black paramedic bag she kept on board.
Maya looked at the soldier’s right leg. “Man, this is a mess, Angel,” she said, addressing the sergeant by her nickname. Her real name was Angeline, but they called her the Angel of Death for many reasons, most of all because she was very good at pulling Maya’s wounded crews back from the jaws of death with her paramedic skills.
“I don’t care what he looks like. Just get your hand on that bleeder,” Angel rasped in Spanish. “Do it! Pronto!”
The captain had no trouble finding the artery that was spurting blood like a fountain. Jerking off her black glove, Maya grabbed a protective latex one from Angel’s medical bag and quickly put it on. She hated to touch the marine’s mangled right leg. She could see bone fragments mixed with the torn muscles, and the whiteness of a tendon that had been shredded by the blast.
“Geez, this is bad,” Maya murmured sympathetically as she laid her hand over the exposed and cut artery.
“Yeah, well, if you’d just taken a direct hit from a rocket to your leg, you’d look like this, too.”
Maya grinned darkly as Angel quickly hung the IV and inserted the needle into the marine’s arm. “Don’t get testy with me, Sergeant,” she said, knowing Angel always got this way during a crisis. But Maya also knew Angel was an extraordinary woman, a Que’ro Indian, the last of the Inca bloodlines in Peru. Maya had wanted no one but this young woman, who had joined her top secret mission three years ago, to be on her aircraft with her. The Angel of Death had saved a lot of lives. She fought with her heart and soul to keep them alive.
Growling under her breath, Angel quickly jerked some thick, sterile dressings out of her pack. Paper flew in all directions as she ripped open the containers and got the sterile gauze out for use.
“Put these under your hand,” she ordered Maya briskly. “And press down hard. A lot harder than you’re doing right now. You want this guy to bleed to death on me? No way. He’s mine. I’m not letting him go over yet….”
Blood from the marine’s leg was pooling all over the deck. Maya felt the Cobra leveling out. They were gaining altitude.
“Get us out of Bolivia’s airspace as soon as you can, Dove,” she told her
