Fuck. "Can you hold the angle on the northeast roof?"
"Five minutes," Marlow said. "Maybe."
"Take him the second he shows." Sterling cracked his neck. "We'll come for you as soon as we can."
"Copy that," Marlow said.
Sterling looked at Snow. "You and me on the stairs. I lead with Restrepo and you bring up the rear."
"On it," Snow said.
"Nick, talk to me." Sterling jerked his chin toward the door.
Restrepo took a tentative step and Sterling gave him a good nudge. They didn't have time to be cautious. They needed to put distance between them and the boots above.
"Moving to the ground floor," Nick said. "Doyle's behind the entry pillar. Bleeding, but doesn't look too bad."
"Right, because you're a medic," Doyle said with the same tone of sarcasm he always had, injured or not. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
"We might need cover on the landing," Sterling said.
"Got you," Nick said.
Sterling steered Restrepo onto the landing, keeping his body between Restrepo and the open stairwell.
Sterling pivoted on the half-landing and brought his rifle up.
The shooter cleared the corner with a stubby suppressed carbine, muzzle flashing in the half-dark.
Sterling squeezed the trigger.
Pop!
His first round punched through the gap above the plate where the man's left arm came up to brace the carbine. The soft hollow under the armpit. The shooter's arm dropped dead, and the carbine fell with it.
Sterling squinted.
Bang.
Right in the neck.
"Take that, you fucker."
The man hit the railing, folded over it, and landed on the ground with a final thud.
A boot scraped the upper flight.
Sterling moved his rifle up six inches and held.
The second man rounded the corner with his weapon high.
Sterling didn't hesitate. One round, just above the bridge of the nose, where the helmet stopped and his face began. The man dropped where he stood and slid two steps before he caught on the lip of a tile.
"Keep moving." Sterling waved his rifle and Restrepo stumbled down the stairs like he'd never seen violence before.
Three flights. Two flights. The metallic taste of cordite sat at the back of his throat. Finally, he hit the ground floor.
Nick held at the front entrance, weapon up, and aimed through the broken door. Doyle wedged himself behind the entry pillar, his pant leg dark from mid-thigh down, and braced his rifle one-handed against the pillar's edge. His face had become the color of sun-aged paper.
