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Crack and Merc led the way through the small village, heading back the way they’d come—not by the road leading in from north to south. They headed west toward the hill, on the other side of which the Black Hawk waited for the signal to fly in and extract the team and their target.
The quiet village was now a cacophony of gunfire and shouts.
Where they had met little resistance coming in, now, people stumbled out of homes, armed and ready to fight.
If they held a gun, Merc and Crack took them out before they could fire on them first.
Griff ran with a lumbering gait, weighed down by the man draped over his shoulder. Somewhere between bumping into walls and bouncing against what Griff suspected were broken ribs, Joe had passed out.
Ahead, between two mud and stick structures, Griff caught a glimpse of the open field beyond and the Black Hawk rising above the ridge.
All he had to do was get his burden to the middle of that field and onto the chopper. His goal clear, and his focus lasered in on the helicopter, Griff pushed himself harder, picking up speed.
He burst out into the open, still running, careful not to stumble over brush or rocks. If he went down, he wasn’t sure the man he carried could take the fall. Hell, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get back up himself, much less collect Joe and get moving again. He’d do his best to stay on his feet and keep his forward momentum.
Merc and Crack fell back and covered for him as he charged toward the Black Hawk swooping toward him into the field.
Gunfire erupted behind him.
Griff didn’t look back. When he got Joe on board, he’d turn and help the others. Until then, he had one job, and he’d damn well better get it right.
As the Black Hawk hovered above the field, the gunner hanging out the side door opened fire with his fifty-caliber machine gun.
Fuck. That meant the guys behind Griff were in trouble.
Griff kept moving, closing the gap to where the chopper was descending.
Finally, the bird was down. Ten yards. Just ten yards.
His shoulder, back and legs screaming from the weight, Griff rushed forward. The medic inside the craft grabbed Joe as Griff flipped him off his shoulder. Together they lowered him to the metal floor of the chopper.
As soon as Joe was down, Griff spun, swung his machinegun around and ran back toward the others.
Merc and Crack were only steps away. All three turned and covered for Willy, JJ, Badger, Marty and Fridge as they emerged from the shadows of the village.
Not far behind, men in black poured from between the huts like so many ants streaming from a hive.
With the help of the helicopter’s gunner, Griff, Merc and Crack fired on the ISIS rebels, forcing them back to the cover of the buildings.
Willy, JJ and Badger raced past Griff and leaped onto the chopper.
Marty and Fridge were the last to approach.
Marty went down less than five yards from Griff.
Fridge scooped him up, flung him over his shoulder and kept coming.
As soon as they passed him, Griff shouted to Merc and Crack. “Go! I’ll cover.”
The men backed toward the helicopter, continuing to fire as they did.
“Griff, get in!” Fridge yelled into Griff’s headset. “This bird’s gotta fly.”
Griff turned and ran for the chopper, already lifting off the ground.
He dove for the door.
Hands reached out for him. He grabbed hold of Fridge and Merc’s hands. Together, they pulled him up as the chopper rose into the air.
