shot past them and he turned his face away.
“That’s mortar fire,” he said. “They’re trying to get a lock on this location.”
Her gaze jerked to his, suspicious.
“I’m clean, and the beacon is in the ejected seat fifty miles north.”
She eyed him a second, then turned away. “Then it’s thermal and someone’s close enough to give them coordinates.”
“Well shit,” Sam said.
“That’s what we’ll be if we stay.” She agilely stepped over rubbish, and they kept up, but it was costing Sam. His breathing was fast and hard through gritted teeth. Safia slowed in the alley littered with debris and ahead, she stopped briefly, her shoulders sagging before she continued. When he passed, he saw the pair of legs, thin and small, the rest covered in trash and broken windows. Aw hell. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen children discarded as collateral damage, but as he left the alley, the image haunted. Three blocks and two turns from the last hit, Riley stopped her.
“This isn’t working. We need a ride.” He moved up behind her, and Sam fell against the wall, exhausted and shaky. He looked a little gray.
“I don’t think a cab will come to this neighborhood.”
Riley passed her, pistol drawn, then edged the building. “There’s a truck about two blocks up.”
She shifted to see, then shook her head. “It’ll never run or it’d be gone.”
“So negative,” he chided, studying the terrain. “We don’t have another option. He can’t walk to the border, and we need to get the hell out of here.”
Riley took off, keeping low and reached the truck. Mortar rounds hit, each impact coming closer. They were hunting for them by destroying anything in their path. He didn’t get it. All for one pilot?
At the truck, Riley threw open the door, ducked under the steering column and pulled wires, striking them. The engine caught and sputtered, smoke billowing from the exhaust. He climbed behind the wheel and drove to them.
He jumped out to help Sam. “You drive.”
“I planned to,” she said climbing in and putting it in gear.
Sam in, she accelerated before he closed the door. Their speed increased and he leaned out the window, watching their back. “Faster woman.”
“It won’t go any faster!” Smoke was filling the cab.
He drew inside to add, “It better, because ugly has brothers.”
“Don’t they always,” she muttered, shifting gears.
He saw the truck cornering the street, the gun mount swinging into position. Oh, crap. Law rockets. “Turn! Turn left! Now!” he shouted and she did, the truck fish tailing, throwing Sam against the cab. The mortar hit the crossroad they’d just left.
“What do you have, a sixth sense?” she said checking the mirrors, never letting her guard down.
“I saw the ignition flash before it launched.”
“Good.” She pointed in front of his face. “Now shoot them please.”
His eyes flared when a stripped down Land Rover barreled toward his side. The gunner behind a fifty caliber machine gun fired, a line of rounds chewing the ground and taking out the tire.
“Riley, shoot!”
He leaned out the window and fired, unloading seven rounds in the tires, engine, and driver. The driver fell back, hitting the gun barrel and tumbling out of the seat. The out of control Rover clipped their ass, tearing off wood slats and knocking them sideways. The impact dumped the gunner and Riley experienced a sick feeling as they rolled over a bump.
Safia struggled with the wheel, turning hard and the truck tipped for a few feet, then slammed down. The tireless wheel screamed with sparks, riding on the rims.
“That was fun.”
Armored vehicles swarmed in behind the last, knocking the downed rover and barreling hard toward them. Christ. They’d get blown out of their seats any second.
“Come on, baby,” she coaxed the smoking truck. “Just a little further.”
“To where?”
“There,” she said, nodding to the hills.
On a high slope, he saw flickering movement, the endless black sky growing lighter as a helicopter lifted over the mountains. It swept near and illuminated a line of trucks and tanks cresting the hill ahead of it. NATO forces. Ooh-rah.
Behind them, the renegade patrol raced, the convoy grown in size, and he heard the scrape of a tank turret. They were trapped between.
“Time to bail!” She hit the breaks, and he jumped out, helping Sam.
She grabbed the radio and shouted into it. He didn’t understand a syllable. A moment later, the gun ships launched duel rockets. The noise deafened as they whizzed past and impacted in the tank’s turret. Orange-red fire erupted, the explosion peeled open the metal, sending chunks fifty feet into the sky. It was close enough that he felt the heat of the flames.
Shouldering Sam, Riley hurried to the small clearing, the chopper rotors beating the air and smashing trees and grass as the pilot set it down swiftly. Two helmeted men ran toward them. Then above and behind the chopper, two more gunships rose over the hillside and swept forward. The cavalry’s here . The aircrafts laid down cover fire, and the Marines took Sam, helping him in the chopper.
He turned to her. “Come with us!”
She shook her head, the wind tearing her scarves free. “Still have to fight the good fight.” She didn’t smile, then grabbed him close. In his ear, she said clearly, “Ask yourself, why no rescue launch when he went down so close to the border.”
His muscles tightened and he scowled at her, their faces close.
“Your radio was enough to track you.” Then she brushed her mouth across his as she forced paper into his palm. “Watch your back, Irish.” She turned away.
“Safia!” But she was running into the fight.
A Marine grabbed his shoulder. “Sir, we got to go!” Riley threw himself in as rocket-propelled grenades launched, fifty calibers ripped across the Serb fighters, cutting anything in half. The chopper lifted off. Below, the ground was alive with battle. Flames and smoke stirred.
He searched for Safia and prayed she was fast on her feet, yet even after someone handed him headphones, he still couldn’t turn away. The chopper climbed higher, and he pulled his legs inside. A medic hovered over Sam on a stretcher as the aircraft banked.
Riley fell back against the bulkhead and opened his hand.
It was a dollar bill, American. He spread it.
In black ink, one word defaced it. Fundraiser.
