Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dakota
Tuesday
The window had been short. Iniquus logistics oversight, apprised of the possible threat out of Syria, had been monitoring the situation using satellite images that had just come back online.
Oversight counted seven pickup trucks using a military formation moving from the direction of the border and five klicks out.
Ares reached out to the breakoff team that Dakota had attached to as they worked to extract McLeod from the bathroom, where he’d thrown himself into the bathtub. The ceramic sides kept the ceiling slab from crushing him.
With the comms open, the team formed a plan.
At the collapsed hotel, the team was so close to getting the hole through the wall large enough to reach that last pocket of students.
The pilot was preparing for flight.
With no visible big guns mounted onto the trucks, oversight would make the call for the flight crew. As soon as the insurgents pulled within shooting range, the plane doors would be closed, and the plane would take off with the people on board.
They would fly out of range and land on the highway at a safe distance.
Meanwhile, it was unlikely that the insurgents would want anything from the crushed village. Bravo team members on the ground would hide in the wreckage, wait for the men to take what they wanted and leave, then finish their work and get to the plane once it landed.
While Ares called George - with Team Quebec - to warn them of the dangers and to get their people and rescue supplies hidden, Dakota was desperately calling Rylee.
She had to get on that plane.
“Ares,” came over the radio. “We’re through! We have a solid headcount. We’re going to need to carry several of the students. I need one man.”
“I’ve got it,” Dakota said, standing and moving before anyone could counter him. He needed to see that Rylee and Tank had gotten on the plane safely. “I’ll be back to help with McLeod,” he called over his shoulder.
McLeod was his mission. But in this case, his heart came first. No oath or training would keep Dakota from Rylee when she was endangered.
As he raced, toward the hotel, he thanked the Fates he’d thought to leave Tank with Rylee.
He trusted his dog.
“Dakota, here!” Ares shouted over to him. “Can you take him?”
The student stood on one foot, clutching at a friend, steadying him.
“Is she okay to run?” Dakota asked of the friend.
“Good to go,” Ares said and slid back into the ruin.
Dakota turned to the kid. “This isn’t the most comfortable ride you’ve had, but at least you’ll be out of here.
” He ducked his shoulder to align with the kid’s hips and put one arm between his legs.
Then, pulling an arm, he had the student across his shoulders, partially held in place by Dakota’s pack.
“Grab my wrist,” he told the woman. “I want you looking down at the ground where my headlamp is shining. We’re moving fast. Don’t trip.”
The woman was asking questions about how far away the gunmen were as they jogged. And Dakota had to tell her to save her breath and focus on speed.
Dakota was gritting his teeth against the pain that shot through his back, radiating from the surgical site of his fusion.
It was bad. Each step sparked Dakota’s nerves.
Over the comms, Dakota heard. “The trucks are at the airport. The insurgents have dismounted.”
“Ares here. Push on with the students. Go. Go. Go. Team McLeod, hunker down now. Out.”
“Faster,” Dakota called. “You can do it. It’s a sprint, and then you’re on board.”
The woman gripped harder, leaned forward, and, just as Tank dragged Dakota through the K9 charitable mud race, he pulled the woman at a pace she probably didn’t know she could run.
Bravo loaded the students onto the plane with Mace and Bear to provide first-aid stabilization. They left their K9s on the plane.
No Rylee. No Tank.
Dakota tumbled back to the ground with the other Bravo team members. They turned to race back to McLeod as the steps were pulled up.
The door slammed shut, the plane already taxiing.
With a roar, the jet took off almost vertically.
Dakota had never seen a passenger jet being flown tactically before, but the pilot got the airport and tower between it and the insurgents, then kept the plane low while it moved over the horizon.
Dakota raced toward the tower.
There, his breath stopped as he found Rylee on a knee with Tank at her side.
Somehow, she’d pried a rifle loose from the insurgents and had them in her sights as the men leapt onto the back of a pickup, pounded the cab roof, and the truck took off.
The light from his headlamp caught on a pool of blood around Rylee’s knee, and Dakota’s heart left his body.
“Rylee, it’s Dakota,” he called.
She was in combat mode, hard-focused on the task at hand.
He didn’t want to startle her when she had her finger on the trigger.
His hands were out, and his muscle memory had him sink into a low profile.
“Rylee, it’s Dakota,” he raised his voice.
Her eyes didn’t waver from her target until the truck was out of range, then she looked down at Tank, over to the puddle, and up to him.
Dakota wanted to race forward and scoop her into his arms. He wanted to check every square inch of her to figure out why there was so much blood.
He held steady. “Rylee, you have your finger on the trigger of a rifle. Put the rifle down.”
She looked down at the rifle and seemed to unwind from the intensity of whatever had taken place.
Laying the rifle down, she tried to stand and fell to the side, shooting a hand out to catch her weight.
Dakota was beside her in a flash.
He stretched her out and was patting over her, looking for the source of the blood.
“No, no,” Rylee protested, “not my blood.”
A young woman was on the ground sobbing an elderly woman had her hands on the woman’s shoulder.
Dakota saw no blood in that direction.
He’d heard no shots fired.
“Tank took down one of the comrades. That’s his gun. This is his blood. Tank’s tooth must have severed an artery in his arm.”
“Okay, but what?” Something was obviously wrong.
“My legs went numb. I can’t feel my feet.”
Dakota scooped Rylee up in his arms and carried her toward the ruins. He hadn’t had an update about the others in the area. Though the direction of the motors told him the insurgents had taken what they wanted.
His steps were shortened as his back spasmed from the exertion of digging for days.
Rylee had her arms around his neck and rolled toward his chest, keeping her weight tight, which made things easier.
It would be easiest if she were over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, but the hell he was going to do that. This is where he wanted her, pressed against his heart.
As they reached the village edge, Bravo was gathering along with a few WorldCares responders. Dakota recognized their leader, George.
From up the road, McLeod, the shithead, covered in plaster dust, stumbled forward.
“McLeod,” Dakota told Rylee. “That’s the last of the Bravo protectees.”
“They’re protecting him?”
“As far as the U.S. airport, they are. The Secret Service will be waiting for him. For now, Rylee, he’s just an American citizen. He’s not a criminal. He has nothing to do with counterfeiting.”
“Got it. We don’t need him running.”
George stepped forward, “Rylee, are you okay?”
“Fine. Little problem with my leg, that’s all.” She patted Dakota’s chest. “So I hitched a ride. Is our team okay?”
“Just another day on the job. We’ll keep working on getting that child out. When it’s daylight, we’ll assess the camp.”
“Can you reach into my pack and take out the cash?” she asked. “You may need to wheel and deal to get a ride out to the train and get hold of fresh supplies.”
Dakota let Rylee’s legs hang long as he held her to his chest, and George accessed the backpack.
That she was considering practical next steps was a testament to her sang froid.
Once the pack was zipped again, Dakota scooped Rylee back into his arms and turned to Ares. “Do we have a plan?”