Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer
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“Yeah, I guess.”
Then he went and chose a career in it. He glanced at Sam, knowing this would cost him what he held dear. His Marine enlistment. But he couldn’t let the one man who treated him like a friend instead of his superior die in the frigid Serbian forests.
“I saw the jet go down.”
His gaze briefly slid to hers.
“He was doing some amazing flying before the missile hit. I’ve been behind you for a day.”
“So you’re the reason the patrol didn’t catch up to us?”
Bless her, that blank expression didn’t change a fraction.
“Thank you for our lives.” He clipped the thread. “I’m Riley.” He held out his hand. She bit off her glove and shook it. Her skin was warm, her palm smooth and dry.
“Safia,” was all she offered with her disarming smile.
He wondered why someone so young was in the field alone. She helped him work the inflatable air cast over Sam’s upper thigh, then wrapped him in rags and curtains Riley’d found to keep him warm. Sam’s fever would spike and he had to get him some antibiotics. He’d used his last just now.
The woman unwound from the floor, strapped her belt back on, then dug in her pack like a purse and blindly reloaded her magazines. He recognized C4 packs and some gadgets he didn’t. She was a little fire team all by herself, he thought, smiling. Armed, she went to each opening. He reached for his gun when she disappeared out a gap in the wall. He waited, chambering a bullet and aiming.
Tell me I can’t be that much of a sucker. Icy wind spun through the building. Seconds ticked by. She reappeared and stopped short, then cocked her head. She smiled almost appreciatively, and he lowered his weapon. She moved to him with an elegance that defied her crude surroundings and the two pistols in her belt. Her exotic features and tanned skin puzzled him. Without head scarves, she looked completely out of place.
Then the radio hooked on her belt buzzed and she brought it to her ear, listening. The language sounded Albanian. She didn’t make contact, only listened, then said, “We need to go. I’ll help you to the border.”
Riley opened his mouth to say he didn’t need her to risk her life again.
“Don’t argue. The Serbian patrol after you have already murdered seventy women and children along their way. Brutally.” Her accented voice snapped with anger as she wrapped her scarves. “Those soldiers don’t care about life or freedom. They wanted him.” Her voice softened a notch. “To display for the press…preferably dead and bloodied.”
He agreed. The reports out of this region were an abomination to humanity, and while nobody was happy about not going after one of their own because of some negotiations going on, Riley just couldn’t live with it. But a one-man rescue wasn’t the smartest move he’d ever made.
Sam stirred, moaning, and Riley grabbed the preloaded syringe.
“No. No more drugs. We need him mobile. It’s now or never.” Waving him to hurry, she crossed to the opening, weapon at her shoulder. She aimed up the street and sighted, then suddenly said, “Get him up, now!” then vaulted over debris to get to him. “They found us!”
Riley tried. “Come on, cowboy, time to run.”
She helped him get two hundred pounds of man off the ground, and he shouldered Sam, then drew his weapon. Out the rear of their haven, she led them to the alley behind.
Sam focused on her, then gave him a sluggish smile. “Trust you to find the only woman within miles, Donovan.”
“It’s the accent.” Riley grinned and winked at Safia. “Gives them all sorts of wily thoughts.”
She rolled her eyes, a smile coasting her lips. “Everyone has an accent. We go that way.” She nodded left and advanced. “And stay in the alleys—”
A blast struck the building across the street, fiery debris rocketing into their hideout and knocking out remaining windows. The supports gone, the building listed as they hurried away. Another rocket finished it off and before the wave of smoke and fire reached them, Riley dragged Sam out of the path. Shielded by a building, dust and debris shot past them and he turned his face away.
“That’s mortar fire,” he said. “They’re trying to get a lock on this location.”
Her gaze jerked to his, suspicious.
“I’m clean, and the beacon is in the ejected seat fifty miles north.”
She eyed him a second, then turned away. “Then it’s thermal and someone’s close enough to give them coordinates.”
“Well shit,” Sam said.
“That’s what we’ll be if we stay.” She agilely stepped over rubbish, and they kept up, but it was costing Sam. His breathing was fast and hard through gritted teeth. Safia slowed in the alley littered with debris and ahead, she stopped briefly, her shoulders sagging before she continued. When he passed, he saw the pair of legs, thin and small, the rest covered in trash and broken windows. Aw hell. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen children discarded as collateral damage, but as he left the alley, the image haunted. Three blocks and two turns from the last hit, Riley stopped her.
“This isn’t working. We need a ride.” He moved up behind her, and Sam fell against the wall, exhausted and shaky. He looked a little gray.
“I don’t think a cab will come to this neighborhood.”
Riley passed her, pistol drawn, then edged the building. “There’s a truck about two blocks up.”
She shifted to see, then shook her head. “It’ll never run or it’d be gone.”
“So negative,” he chided, studying the terrain. “We don’t have another option. He can’t walk to the border, and we need to get the hell out of here.”
Riley took off, keeping low and reached the truck. Mortar rounds hit, each impact coming closer. They were hunting for them by destroying anything in their path. He didn’t get it. All for one pilot?
At the truck, Riley threw open the door, ducked under the steering column and pulled wires, striking them. The engine caught and sputtered, smoke billowing from the exhaust. He climbed behind the wheel and drove to them.
He jumped out to help Sam. “You drive.”
“I planned to,” she said climbing in and putting it in gear.
Sam in, she accelerated before he closed the door. Their speed increased and he leaned out the window, watching their back. “Faster woman.”
“It won’t go any faster!” Smoke was filling the cab.
He drew inside to add, “It better, because ugly has brothers.”
“Don’t they always,” she muttered, shifting gears.
He saw the truck cornering the street, the gun mount swinging into position. Oh, crap. Law rockets. “Turn! Turn left! Now!” he shouted and she did, the truck fish tailing, throwing Sam against the cab. The mortar hit the crossroad they’d just left.
“What do you have, a sixth sense?” she said checking the mirrors, never letting her guard down.
“I saw the ignition flash before it launched.”
“Good.” She pointed in front of his face. “Now shoot them please.”
His eyes flared when a stripped down Land Rover barreled toward his side. The gunner behind a fifty caliber machine gun fired, a line of rounds chewing the ground and taking out the tire.
“Riley, shoot!”
He leaned out the window and fired, unloading seven rounds in the tires, engine, and driver. The driver fell back, hitting the gun barrel and tumbling out of