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Rachel was crouched down behind a heavy-duty air conditioning unit. She’d dropped her rifle and now held a pistol in her hands.
Ingmar lay on the opposite side of the roof, his legs spasming as he bled out.
Two men in robes and turbans were coming out of the rooftop stairwell 30 feet from Rachel.
I aimed –
CRACK!
One of the men collapsed backwards in a cloud of red.
The other guy looked around in shock, not sure where the shot had come from.
By then I’d ejected the shell, chambered the next round, and aimed at his chest.
CRACK!
He collapsed backwards next to his companion.
“Thank you,” Rachel gasped.
“Don’t thank me yet – you probably have more coming.”
I swung my scope over to the open door of Rachel’s rooftop stairwell.
It was empty – but probably not for long.
“Gunnar!” I shouted without taking my eye off the doorway.
“What the fuck’s going on over there, brother?” he yelled back in Swedish.
“Watch our six – we might have visitors!”
“Got it!”
“Henriksson,” Rachel said over the radio, “help the soldiers. I can handle this.”
“I know you can,” I said. “But the whole point is, you don’t have to. There’s somebody who cares about you who’s got your back.”
There was a pause like she was taken aback by that.
Then she said, “I really appreciate that, I do – but the guys on the ground are the priority.”
I kept watching the dark stairwell on her roof as I answered.
“There’s 20 Special Forces guys down there, and at least that many regulars. They’ve got each other. Right now, you’ve only got me. So you’re – ”
A burst of gunfire from inside the stairwell briefly lit up the darkened interior.
I saw a figure with an assault rifle and pulled my trigger –
CRACK!
The gunman inside the stairwell toppled out of the doorway and collapsed face-first onto the roof.
“…the new priority,” I said as I ejected the shell and chambered a new one.
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