"You good?" Sterling asked.
"Vertical," Doyle said.
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the best you’re gonna get."
Snow had Restrepo against the wall by the entryway, body angled to block any incoming fire from the street.
"Driscoll, status," Sterling said.
"One holdout in the west alley," Driscoll said.
"Holding for us, I suppose." Sterling took a moment to file everything in his brain, nice and organized. "Driscoll, pull the van around to the east door."
"Coming," Driscoll said.
"Snow. You take Restrepo first. Through the door, hard right, into the van. Don't slow down."
"Copy," Snow said.
"Nick, you got the boots coming from upstairs. Doyle, north. I've got south. Eyes on every angle that street can hit us from. We move on my call."
"Got it," Nick said.
"On it," Doyle said.
Sterling's pulse echoed in his ears. He thought about the shirts on the railing. White, light purple, pale blue. Those kinds of thoughts always kept him sharp. Some might think it strange, but for Sterling, it's what made him the kind of agent these men wanted in the field.
The van rounded the corner hot. Tires on wet pavement. The mechanical complaint of the side door sliding open before the brakes set.
"Now," Sterling said.
Snow took Restrepo through the door in a low half-crouch, one hand on the man's neck, the other on his rifle. They crossed the four feet of open sidewalk. Snow shoved Restrepo through the side door, head down, and turned to cover the street.
Bang!
Sterling froze. His gaze shifted north. South. To the van. "Driscoll."
"Driscoll's hit," Snow said. "It's bad."
"Cover me." Nick darted out from cover toward the van.
Sterling raised his rifle. He glanced in all directions. The boots above never materialized. They must have gone up. Or to another apartment. That's the only thing that made any sense.
Bang! Bang!
Sterling glanced up and over his right shoulder to the rooftop where Marlow had been on overwatch. "Marlow, copy."
Radio silent.
"Marlow," Sterling said.
Nothing.
"Marlow, comms check."
Nothing.
