done with them and a trail of bullets chased toward his heels as he pushed to his feet, dragging the wounded pilot along. Thirty feet, twenty…Riley fell behind the remains of a wall, the rest of the building destroyed by Russian missiles to keep the border uncrossable. It was working—but it was where he needed to go.
He lifted Wyatt’s arm from around his neck, then leaned him against the wall before easing him to the ground. The morphine deadened the pain, but Riley worried the splint he’d made wouldn’t hold. The leg was already at an odd angle. Sam needed better medical care and soon. He was bleeding again.
Snaps of gunfire struck the ground, the wall, and Riley considered how to get his ass out of this one. The air moved slowly, thick with smoke and dust and covering the sun. No place was safe. Smart people fled to the countryside. The city was deserted except for scatters of rebel resistance trying to protect themselves from Serb soldiers bent on genocide. Oh yeah, that wee bit of U.N. cease-fire negotiations worked splendidly. He took his bearings, then surveyed his immediate surroundings for better cover.
He had maybe a half hour before the patrol caught up with them, and they had trucks. Time to eat crow and call in the cavalry, he decided, and reached for his radio. He found a smoldering jumble of wires and melted plastic. “Bugger me. So. Fighting it is then.” He checked his supplies, but he knew exactly how much ammunition he had left. Not enough to keep renegade Serb soldiers off his back for long.
Jagged cinder block shattered above his head in a spray of chalky rocks. A chunk hit Wyatt’s cheek as Riley pushed him further to the ground. He howled, and Riley let him, but held him down to keep him from thrashing. Bullets chunked away at their position, intermittent, taunting. Northeast, he thought, and hovering over Wyatt, he aimed. He didn’t get off a shot.
A line of bullets sliced across his position and he felt each hit vibrate the wall, chip near his boot. Jesus Mary . Two directions . It wouldn’t be long before the barrier was gone. He looked at Sam, thinking he’d made it worse for him, dragging him all this way. Now the fractured bone threatened to come through the torn skin. He couldn’t pull the tourniquet any tighter or risk Wyatt losing his leg. Riley glanced behind them. The border was less than four miles away. The closer he got to it, the better his chances of friendlies.
Three successive shots hit the ground twenty yards to his right and made a chunk of rock dance. Immediately, a second shot knocked it over. Excellent shooting, he had to admit, and followed the trajectory, his gaze climbing. A three-story building lay about forty yards south. The lower outer walls were scarred by fire, marked with soot and shattered windows. The upper-floor windows were blown out, the interior a blackened skeleton.
That’s the target.
He searched each floor, moving right to see the south side. Gunshots peppered around him, keeping him pinned, but he peered just enough to focus his binoculars. From the top floor of the building just beyond it, he spotted a rifle barrel before it slid out of sight. A second later, a hand appeared, held up two fingers, then a fist, then pointed. Riley felt a chill at the familiar military signals.
The disembodied hand repeated the gesture. Wait two minutes, then go.
If this wasn’t a fine one, he thought, aware he risked a trap. Yet the sniper had several chances to kill them already, and didn’t. But there were other shooters out there.
A mortar round hit fifty yards away, the impact throwing cars, street benches and toppling a statue. “Shoulda worn the smart shirt, Donovan,” he muttered as he quickly knelt beside Wyatt, checking his wounds before he worked off his Kevlar vest and strapped it on the pilot. He hoisted him on his back and prayed his legs were strong enough to make the distance. Testing the field, he raised his hand and nearly got it shot off.
Instantly, the sniper returned automatic fire to the north, covering him as he rushed out into the open, crossing the street like a hunchback, then moving alongside walls shattered by bombs. Sidestepping rubble challenged each step. The building loomed. The sniper laid down constant cover fire, and he glimpsed a shooter drop from a window, another from a balcony. Riley pushed on, the burden of Sam’s weight pounding his hips. Safety loomed in the shell of steel and concrete.
Bullets chewed the ground at his heels, and he felt a muscle pull in his thigh as he rounded the charred edge. He stumbled into the safety of darkness, Wyatt’s weight slamming him to his knees. He rolled Wyatt off his back, then crawled to his head, gripped his flight suit at the shoulders and dragged him from the opening. He returned to aim out the doorway blown wider by missiles. Smoke twisted on the air. The tat-tat of gun fire spun closer.
Where was the sniper?
His gaze ripped over the streets once more before he turned to Wyatt, taking him deeper into the remnants of a restaurant, a yawning hole in the ceiling exposing three floors above. At least it was defensible. He dragged the six-foot-tall man onto a fallen piece of drywall, then inspected his wounds. Blood saturated his pant leg, and although the wood splint held, the fractured bones threatened to cut an artery.
Wyatt’s head lolled on his neck and his eyes opened. “Donovan.”
“Sir?”
“You’re a brave man to do this.” Sam reached to offer his hand and flinched. Riley had tied his arm to his waist. His ribs were broken.
“I bet the C.O. has a different opinion.”
Wyatt tried to laugh, but only coughed. “I’ll put in a good word.” He breathed in short gasps.
“After you just crashed one of his jets? Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re on his shit list too.” It didn’t matter. A court-martial was in his future, he knew.
“Call me Sam, will you?”
“Certainly.” Riley grinned. “But command’s going to call us both dead if we don’t get out of here.”
Riley offered him water, then made him comfortable in the rear of the building. From his position, he could see anything coming, and had solid wall at his back, but he knew time was ticking by before the patrol found them. Armed, he scoured for anything useful, stuffing it in the bag he’d stolen from the medic’s supply. He used the painkillers sparingly. Whatever was left in the kit had to do. He hoped it was enough.
Then he focused on Sam’s wounds. Resetting the fracture was going to hurt like hell. He broke open the morphine capsule and injected Sam’s thigh, then inspected the break. He felt the jagged crack of bone under Sam’s skin and formed a plan to reset it. They couldn’t travel another four miles with it tearing inside his body.
“You don’t have time for that.”
Instantly Riley scooped up the pistol and spun on his knees, aiming.
A figure stood near the blown out entrance. Shit. He hadn’t heard a thing.
Still as glass, the man’s head and shoulders were wrapped in dark scarves over a green military jacket, now a dull gray like the weather. The only skin exposed was his eyes. Around his waist, a utility belt sagged, and the sniper rifle was slung on his shoulder, the weapon held across his body, ready to sight and fire. Yet he stood casually, without threat.
“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have wasted bullets to see you two safe and alive.”
The sniper, Riley realized with a wee shock, was a woman.
She advanced with easy grace, stepping over piles of rubble to hop down at his level. Her rifle looked
