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He veered off, hoping through some miracle the two choppers collided, when the new machine started firing. Flashes of bright white light amidst the black. Realizing they were aiming at the asshole on his tail was a surprise. One he wasn’t prepared for until his radio chirped, static filling the cockpit.
“I swear to god, Booker, if you don’t get down here in the next five minutes, I’m going to tell Xavier to shoot your ass down, too.”
Un-fucking-believable.
“Wyatt? You sorry son of a bitch, I’ve never been so damn happy to hear your voice.”
“You’d better be happy, jackass, because you ruined my last day with Kirby, so… You freaking owe me big time.”
“Anything, buddy, I swear… shit.”
Everything went silent. No rattling from the engine or the whine of the transmission, just a chug, a lurch, then silence.
He bottomed the collective, keeping the rpms as high as possible as he scanned the area. But other than the clearing where Wyatt was waiting, there wasn’t anywhere suitable to land. His buddy yelled over the radio a second before the thing blew, sending a plume of smoke curling through the cabin.
Callie coughed, though it sounded more like her trying not to puke. “Booker?”
“Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Which means, we’ve finally reached that level of desperate you talked about. Anything I need to know?”
“Stay calm, and if we roll, get out as fast as you can and run, even if I’m not with you.”
“I’m not leaving you behind…shit.”
Her voice cut off as he started flaring the nose up — trading some speed for a bit of height. One last ditch effort to milk it past the final row of trees. Make the edge of the clearing.
Branches clawed as the skids, scratching a line along the fuselage as he tipped her forward, bottoming the collective, again as he crashed through the last bit of foliage before heading for the ground. What looked like a small patch of grass amidst logs and debris. Leftover crap from the storm.
The helicopter shuddered, dropped, then billowed as he raised the collective, one last time, working the pedals to keep the body straight. Hopefully prevent the skids from snagging anything as they bounced onto the grass, catching a bit more air then settling, shaking to a halt another twenty feet ahead.
Not that there was time to celebrate. Two seconds in, and he was ripping off the buckles, helping Callie out of hers, then grabbing the pack from the back and opening the door. Less than ten, and they were hoofing it across the grass. Putting as much distance between them and the machine. What might be an explosive reaction if the sparks shooting out of the instrument panel ignited the remaining gas. Booker didn’t know if Keith’s guy had punctured the gas tank, but he wasn’t waiting around to find out.
They’d put fifteen feet between them and the helicopter when it blew. No ticking clock or smaller explosion as a warning. Just the sound of their labored breathing then everything going supernova.
Booker managed to shove Callie beneath him — cover her body with his — before debris was flying through the air. One of the rotors embedding into the ground a foot from his head. The sky lit up, the fireball raging thirty feet into the air before easing up. Blanketing the clearing in a thin mist as the rain doused most of the flames, leaving a smoldering mess behind them.
Callie gave him a shove, rolling onto her side as she looked at the wreckage. Mud and grime smeared across her face. Flecks of ash dotting her hair. “Jesus, Booker, your chopper.”
He waved it off. “We’re still breathing. That’s all that matters. Besides, Charlie will get a kick out of putting it on my tab, the bastard.”
She frowned, brushing some of the muck off her clothes. “Is this going to get you in trouble? Jeopardize your new job? I can—”
He kissed her. Swallowed whatever else she was going to say because it didn’t matter. His job. The chopper. If he’d end up homeless in order to pay it all off. None of it mattered because she was there. Alive. Her fingers sliding through his hair, her tongue tangling with his as she kissed him back. Practically devoured him on that wet grass, the rain now falling in a steady sheet as more lightning flickered across the sky. The other side of that storm they’d weathered in the shack.
It wasn’t until a throat cleared next to him that he managed to pull back. Take stock. Wyatt stood off to his right, arms crossed, frowning. The fact he was already soaked probably didn’t help.
He shook his head, offered his hand, then helped her up. “Callie. Nice to see you, again. Glad you’re still in one piece.” He glanced at the pile of twisted metal, then back to Booker. “At least you didn’t have to ditch her in the water.”
Booker laughed. “One of life’s small mercies. Not that I’m complaining, but how the hell are you standing here, right now?”
Wyatt thumbed toward the hanger in the distance. “Charlie. He called when you missed your check-in. Said something about how I needed to get my ass out of Kirby’s bed and down to San Juan. That you were in DEFCON one level shit.” Another glance at the wreckage. “Looks like he wasn’t exaggerating.”
“Great. Now I owe Charlie for sending in the calvary.” He looked up when a chopper whizzed overhead. “Shit. I’d forgotten about Keith. We should—”
“Xavier and the crew took care of it. Guess that other pilot isn’t quite as savvy as you are. Barely put up a fight once Gunnar and Hunter opened fire — Xavier said something about hitting the tail rotor. Punching some holes in it. That the guy didn’t have any other choice but to land. Gunnar’s got them hogtied in the back of the chopper, seeing as Xavier managed to keep his in one piece.”
“Everyone’s a critic.”
