Harper gasped. “What?—”
“We have company.”
The beam swept back.
“How’d they find us?” Harper’s eyes were wide.
“Heat signature. Or they saw us lift off from the airbase.”
The Mi-8 was faster, heavier, and it had altitude on them. Through a break in the cloud he caught the silhouette—side door open, a figure braced in the frame. The muzzle flash came before the sound.
Rounds rattled through the storm—like hail on sheet metal. Something sparked off the tail. Pav threw them right. The altimeter bled—two thousand feet, nineteen hundred. He was trading height for speed and running out of both.
The searchlight found them again. Harper locked both hands around her harness.
More gunfire. Closer. A round punched through the cockpit behind his left shoulder—a crack, a whistle of cold air, and Harper screamed.
He plunged into the storm. Visibility collapsed to nothing—pure white, no ground, no sky. The hostile helicopter was still up there, hunting. Its rotors thudded through the wind, out of sync with his own.
Something hit the tail assembly. The helicopter yawed right. Pav stamped on the pedal. Nothing. Soft travel, no bite. The nose kept hunting right. The panel lit red.
No. Too soon.
He fought the controls, working the cyclic and collective, trying to keep rotor speed in the green while the damaged tail tried to turn them broadside to the storm. From the rear, a metallic whine rose rapidly.
“She’s not responding.” He scanned below for the least lethal place to hit.
The searchlight swept overhead. Let it hunt. He had bigger problems.
Eight hundred feet.
Six hundred.
“Hold your harness. Tight. Chin to your chest. Don’t fight the drop.”
Harper grabbed her straps and braced, tucking her chin in.
The helicopter dropped. His stomach lurched, but he held the descent, watching rotor RPM, guarding the last of their energy.
Four hundred.
Three.
The storm tore open for two seconds. Below—a slope. Snow-covered. Steep, but not vertical. Dark shapes that could be rocks or trees.
It was enough. Had to be.
He aimed for the widest stretch of white and flared hard. The rotor bit air, trading speed for lift. For one suspended, impossible second, they weren’t falling.
The slope rushed up. One second to choose where they hit. No time for anything else. The skids hit snow, and everything collapsed into pressure and violence.
Metal shrieked. Glass shattered. The harness slammed against his shoulder, and the helicopter slid, spun, the tail swinging wide. Something hit his head, and Pav’s vision blurred white, then crimson.
The cacophony ended. Only the howl of the wind remained.
Get them out.
Sasha.
