Prologue #2
"Two down at the rear. One mover, west alley," Driscoll said. "The extraction must be done now, or we'll miss our chance."
"Copy. Nelson—"
Pop! Pop!
Sterling ducked and dodged to the left as bullets tore from above. He glanced up and let out a tiny sigh of relief.
The angle was wrong. The shooter on the roof couldn't actually hit them. The stairwell was too tight and the angle too steep.
"Eyes up," Sterling said. " Marlow, can you cover us and take him?"
"Give me a second," Marlow said. "Go. Go. Go."
Sterling and Nelson bolted toward Restrepo's landing. Nick stayed right where he was, holding the middle floor.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Bang! Bang!
Wood splintered like popcorn.
Sterling flattened himself against the wall. Nelson had lowered himself in front of the door.
Gunfire continued to erupt from all sides.
The door to Restrepo's apartment was a hollow-core piece of cheap pine with a brass deadbolt that looked older than dirt. Nelson drove the breaching tool into the door an inch above the lock and the door folded inward like it had been waiting to give up.
Sterling raised his weapon and inched inside.
Restrepo had crawled under the kitchen table with his knees pulled to his chest. His eyes were wide with terror. "Is this part of the plan?" he asked in broken English.
"No," Sterling said. "We have to go."
Restrepo shook his head. "They kill me."
"If you stay here, they sure will." Sterling dropped to the floor, reached under the table, and curled his fingers around Restrepo's ankle. "The only chance you've got at staying alive is to come with me now."
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this."
"Maybe not, but this doesn't hurt how the story plays out." Sterling yanked.
"Mi hermana." Restrepo twisted and scurried out from under the table. "Where is she?"
"She's safe, and if we go now, you'll see her soon."
"Two sets of boots above us that weren't supposed to be there," Snow said over comms. "You better get your ass out of there."
Sterling craned his ear and lifted his gaze toward the ceiling.
The fourth floor was supposed to be a Colombian family of four on the west side and an empty unit on the east. No one wore boots to bed.
"Marlow, you got eyes on that roof shooter?" Sterling asked.
The radio crackled and for a moment, there was no gunfire, only the sound of boots above them.
"Marlow, you copy?" Sterling asked again.
"Hit," Marlow whispered. "Second shooter. Northeast roofline." He coughed, but it sounded wet. "Caught me in the side under my shooting arm above my fucking vest."
"How bad?" Driscoll asked.
"Bad enough."
Fuck. "Can you hold the angle on the northeast roof?"
"Five minutes," Marlow said. "Maybe."
"Take him the second he shows." Sterling cracked his neck. "We'll come for you as soon as we can."
"Copy that," Marlow said.
Sterling looked at Snow. "You and me on the stairs. I lead with Restrepo and you bring up the rear."
"On it," Snow said.
"Nick, talk to me." Sterling jerked his chin toward the door.
Restrepo took a tentative step and Sterling gave him a good nudge. They didn't have time to be cautious. They needed to put distance between them and the boots above.
"Moving to the ground floor," Nick said. "Doyle's behind the entry pillar. Bleeding, but doesn't look too bad."
"Right, because you're a medic," Doyle said with the same tone of sarcasm he always had, injured or not. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
"We might need cover on the landing," Sterling said.
"Got you," Nick said.
Sterling steered Restrepo onto the landing, keeping his body between Restrepo and the open stairwell.
Sterling pivoted on the half-landing and brought his rifle up.
The shooter cleared the corner with a stubby suppressed carbine, muzzle flashing in the half-dark.
Sterling squeezed the trigger.
Pop!
His first round punched through the gap above the plate where the man's left arm came up to brace the carbine. The soft hollow under the armpit. The shooter's arm dropped dead, and the carbine fell with it.
Sterling squinted.
Bang.
Right in the neck.
"Take that, you fucker."
The man hit the railing, folded over it, and landed on the ground with a final thud.
A boot scraped the upper flight.
Sterling moved his rifle up six inches and held.
The second man rounded the corner with his weapon high.
Sterling didn't hesitate. One round, just above the bridge of the nose, where the helmet stopped and his face began. The man dropped where he stood and slid two steps before he caught on the lip of a tile.
"Keep moving." Sterling waved his rifle and Restrepo stumbled down the stairs like he'd never seen violence before.
Three flights. Two flights. The metallic taste of cordite sat at the back of his throat. Finally, he hit the ground floor.
Nick held at the front entrance, weapon up, and aimed through the broken door. Doyle wedged himself behind the entry pillar, his pant leg dark from mid-thigh down, and braced his rifle one-handed against the pillar's edge. His face had become the color of sun-aged paper.
"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.
"Cover me." Sterling held his breath as he lunged toward the van.