A helicopter. A Blackhawk, sleek and predatory, rises up over the edge of the roof. The rotor wash hits with the force of a hurricane, flattening us against the deck.
The side door sits open.
A man leans out. Strapped to the frame, he holds a machine gun.
BRRRRRRT.
A chainsaw tearing through the sky.
The ventilation units where the soldiers hid disintegrates in shredding metal and exploding concrete. The threat erased in a cloud of dust and pink mist.
The chopper pivots. It hovers five feet off the deck.
“Go.” Boyd hauls me up.
He shoves me toward the open door.
I run and dive into the cabin. Strong hands grab me and pull me in.
I scramble to the back of the compartment, making room.
“Boyd.”
He stumbles toward the bird, limping badly now. His right arm swings limp at his side. His face runs gray, washed out by the landing lights.
He reaches the door. The man inside, a giant with a beard, grabs his vest and hauls him in.
“Go. Go. Go.” The giant slaps the cockpit wall.
The chopper banks hard, dropping off the roof before the door even closes. My stomach lurches. We dive into the dark, leaving the burning mine behind.
The cabin flashes red.
Boyd collapses on the bench seat opposite me.
He slides down until he sits on the deck, his back against the bulkhead. His head lolls back. His eyelids half-close.
The adrenaline abandons us. The chemical crutch of the epinephrine burned out, leaving nothing but trauma.
I unbuckle my harness, crawling across the vibrating floor.
“Let me work.” I shove the big man away as he tries to put a headset on Boyd. “Back off.”
He notes the blood on my hands and the look in my eyes. He backs off.
I kneel between Boyd’s legs.
“Boyd. Look at me.”
His eyelids flutter open. Hazy, unfocused. The pupils unequal. Concussion? No, shock.
“Hey, Doc.” His voice slurs.
“Did we get them?”
“We got them. Stay with me.”
Primary survey. Airway is clear. Respiration is rapid but equal bilaterally. Circulation...
