Chapter 1 #3
“Extraction point.” Crusher caught up to her before she reached the door and went out first. Once out of the lab, he made a sharp right and headed for the rear exit, pushing through the door as a shout sounded from somewhere up front.
“Can you run?” he asked.
“If it means staying alive, hell yeah,” she said and raced after him.
A brief warmth of admiration for the doctor spread through Crusher as he rounded the corner of the building, heading for the two trucks he’d spotted parked there on his quick recon. He dove into the lead vehicle.
Dr. Hale pulled herself up into the passenger seat while Crusher searched for the key that would start the engine. When he found it, he twisted it in the ignition. The engine growled and died.
Come on! Crusher turned the key again, holding his breath.
Again, the engine growled, started to die but then rumbled to life.
He shifted into gear and slammed his foot onto the accelerator, shooting past the front of the building where four armed men bearing rifles stood over the dead guards.
As soon as the truck raced past, they aimed their weapons and fired.
“Get down!” Crusher yelled, leaning low over the steering wheel as bullets blasted through the back window and pierced the front windshield.
Dr. Hale ducked below the dash, hanging onto the armrest as the truck bounced down the rutted dirt road, taking a curve faster than the tires could grip. The truck bed fishtailed, almost sending them into a spin.
Crusher fought the steering wheel, bringing it back in line as he increased the speed, heading for the EZ just past the ridge.
As he cleared the pass through the hills, the landing zone came into view, the helicopter hovering above the tree line.
He brought the truck to a sliding stop. “Get out and run!” he yelled and flung himself out of the truck. Once his feet hit the ground, he rounded the front of the truck, grabbed the doctor’s hand and raced for the helicopter as it lowered to the ground.
When they reached the chopper, Crusher shoved Dr. Hale in and jumped in behind her. “Go! Go! Go!” he yelled.
The pilot was already on his way straight up before the last “go” left Crusher’s mouth. He looked down in time to see the other truck stop beside the one they’d abandoned. The four armed men leaped out and aimed their weapons skyward, firing at the departing aircraft.
Crusher flung his body over Dr. Hale’s, where she lay sprawled across the floor of the fuselage, praying the bullets wouldn’t penetrate the aircraft from below.
Once they were out of range of the rifle fire, Crusher sat up, helped the woman onto the bench and strapped her into a harness. Her hair had come loose from the ponytail, and auburn curls spilled out around her face, making her look softer and more vulnerable.
He buckled his harness and took a moment to study the asset’s face, noting the bruises, not only on her chin, but one on her cheek and another on her forehead.
The dark circles beneath her eyes and the tired lines at the corners spoke of long days and weeks of captivity, where they hadn’t treated her well.
“You okay?” he asked, yelling to be heard over the roar of the engine and rotors.
She nodded, rubbing a wrist where the cuff had been. “Much better than I was back there, as long as I’m not being taken to another lab where I’ll be held hostage yet again.”
Crusher shook his head. “I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Excuse me if I have trust issues. I don’t know you from those people who’ve held me prisoner for the past six weeks.”
He held out his hand. “Jack Bailey. Most folks call me Crusher.”
Her lips twisted, but she took his hand. “Call me Marta.” Her grip was firm, unflinching and strong despite having been held captive for six weeks.
He liked that in a woman. Hell, he liked that in any human.
Her brow furrowed. “I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“It’s about what they made me build,” she said.
Crusher glanced out the open side of the helicopter at a truck racing along a dirt road below them. A man braced himself in the bed of the truck, balancing a rocket launcher on his shoulder. “Tell me when we’re safe,” he shouted.
“That’s just it,” Marta said. “We may never be safe.”
Crusher’s gaze swung from the man with the rocket launcher to Marta’s concerned gaze.
“Hold on!” he shouted and flung his body over hers.
A loud bang sounded. The helicopter shuddered violently. The engine chugged to a stop.
“We’ve been hit!” the pilot shouted. “Brace for landing!”
Marta reached for Crusher’s hand, her eyes wild with fear as the rotors slowed but didn’t stop completely as they plummeted toward the ground.
Crusher’s gaze shifted from the swiftly approaching ground to the pilot holding one hand to his chest while gripping the collective.
Holy shit.
The pilot had been hit. They were falling to the earth with an injured pilot, a dead engine and the enemy racing to intercept.
Crusher pulled Marta into his arms, closed his eyes, and, for the first time in years, prayed.