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“You sure you measured right?”
“Only one way to find out,” Rapp said, throwing Semenov through the opening. The man’s scream was surprisingly piercing, cutting through the sound of gunfire as he dropped. The rope caught himabout three feet from the ground and Rapp heard the scrape of the bed as it was dragged across the tile floor. In the end, not having anything more solid to tie him off to had been a stroke of luck. The fact that both Semenov and the end of the rope were on the ground would make life a little easier.
“You’re up,” Rapp said.
Maslick grabbed the larger of two pairs of gloves lying on the floor and used them to slide down the rope. Rapp slung his weapon on his back and went to the bedroom door one last time to check if there was any sign of an imminent breach.
Nothing.
One of the many problems with the Russian regular army was that most of the soldiers were fully aware that they were little more than cannon fodder. The mercenaries were no better—men who were smart enough to know you couldn’t spend your money if you were dead. With all the tear gas, gunfire, and explosions, it was possible that Semenov’s protection detail had decided to seek their fortunes elsewhere.
Rapp grabbed the remaining pair of gloves and used them to half slide, half free-fall down the line. By the time he hit the ground, Maslick had freed Semenov and was running him toward the chopper pad to the northeast. It was another benefit of Semenov’s softer-than-expected landing. They’d planned on him breaking at least a couple of ribs from getting caught by the rope—a reality that would have forced Maslick to carry him.
“We’re on the ground with the target,” Rapp said over his throat mike.
“You have cover north,” responded an Arabic-accented voice.
Bruno McGraw, who was with Coleman securing Semenov’s helicopter, came on just after.
“In position.”
With Maslick focused on keeping the Russian moving, Rapp hung back, sweeping his rifle in search of anyone moving in on them. Their tactical situation wasn’t great, but it could have been muchworse. The only high ground was Semenov’s apartment and the rooftop deck—neither of which was easily accessible at this point. Even less accessible were the widely spaced west-facing windows of the hospital section. All had at least partially collapsed, and most were filled with flame.
Even if any enemy combatants were looking down on them, all they’d see was two Russian soldiers trying to escort Semenov to his aircraft. Without comms, they’d be hesitant to shoot and might even be inclined to provide cover if one of their less cautious comrades got trigger-happy.
When they arrived at the chopper, the blades were starting to turn, and McGraw was on the ground searching for threats through a thermal scope. Maslick lifted Semenov completely off his feet and threw him into the aircraft before climbing in himself.
Instead of immediately following, Rapp crouched and activated his throat mike. “The target is in the helicopter. I repeat: the target is in the helicopter. Do we have any casualties?”
Rapp swore under his breath when an accented voice responded. “Gunshot wound to the stomach near the southwest tower.”
“Can he be saved?” Rapp was forced to ask. This wasn’t a military operation. It was a bad combination of pitch-black CIA and drug cartel. Dead men got left behind.
“If we get him medical attention.”
“Understood. Any others? Everyone sound off.”
His entire team did, confirming that they had only the one injury.
Rapp turned toward the chopper, where he could see Coleman flipping switches in the glass-domed cockpit. The former SEAL had spent much of the last month in a mock-up created from scavenged auto parts and papier-mâché. Combined with a laptop flight simulator, it had been as accurate a training environment as they could create. Hopefully, it would be enough.
“Scott,” Rapp said over his throat mike. “Get Semenov out of here and fly south. We’ll grab our injured man and head in the samedirection. When we’re a klick out and sure no one’s following, you can circle back to get us.”
“You sure? I could just hop this thing over and pick him up where he is.”
It was tempting, but too risky. Rapp wanted Semenov out of there.
“You have your orders, Scott.”
“Roger that. Rendezvous one klick south on your signal.”
Rapp switched to Arabic to make sure there were no misunderstandings with the men they were on their way to help. “We are two men, coming from the direction of the chopper pad. ETA less than two minutes. Do you copy?”
“Copy. Will provide cover.”
The rotors started to pick up speed and Rapp slapped Bruno McGraw on the back. “You’re with me! Let’s go!”
They began running across the compound as Coleman took to the air. Flames from the facility provided plenty of light, but were a bit disorienting as they played off the smoke. Despite this, they found the men they were looking for. One was snipping through the chain-link fence with a set of bolt cutters, while the other was lying on his stomach with a bloody bandage tied around his midsection. He was hit badly, but still capable of sighting through his scope to cover their approach. Barely.
