A Man Alone

Gasping, his heart feeling like it was going to explode in his chest, Thane kept up the hard, pounding pace. He heard Valerie sobbing. He knew she wasn’t used to this kind of demanding exercise. No one was at this damnable altitude!

Thane saw the end of the canyon bleeding out into a flatter area, a stark moonscape free of rocks, scrub and trees. That must be the landing zone! The punctuating rotors of the rescue helos lifted his hope. Behind, he heard shouts in Spanish. They were coming closer.

Damn!

Turning, Thane saw ten drug runners hightailing it in their direction, less than half a mile away. The drug runners began firing. Turning on his heel, Thane sped toward Valerie. Arms flailing weakly, she continued to run, all the while slipping and stumbling on the rocky ground. He saw the helicopters approaching. Both were black. And both were coming in fast from high above, zeroing in like two attacking hawks on the landing zone below.

Jerking a canister from his web belt, he positioned himself directly behind Valerie. Bullets were whining all around them now, and ricocheting off the rock walls. Ducking as one screamed by his head, Thane kept himself between the girl and the drug runners. Under no circumstances could Valerie be hurt! They’d have to go through him and his Kevlar, bulletproof vest first.

Reaching the end of the canyon, he pulled Valerie against the rock wall.

“Stop,” he rasped. Flipping off the handle to the smoke grenade, he lobbed it expertly toward the landing area two hundred feet in front of them.

The canister sailed through the air and plunked on the flat, yellow earth, which had hardened into a drumlike surface from lack of rainfall over the years. A puff of dust rose briefly as the canister bounced and came to a standstill. And then bright red smoke began to belch from it, forming thin, pinkish colored clouds. That was the signal for the choppers to land.

Turning, his nostrils flared, he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and sighted on the drug runners.

“Valerie, move to the right, but stay along the wall,” he ordered.

The girl nodded jerkily, her eyes huge. She quickly moved away from him and crouched down, her back to the wall for protection.

The drug runners were going to catch up with them just as the helos landed, Thane realized. He squeezed off several shots to slow them, and it worked. Gripping the radio, he jammed the button down.

“Black Jaguar One. Black Jaguar One. This is Checkerboard One. Over.” His breath came in gasps. His chest burned from overexertion. Sweat trickled into his narrowed eyes. He waited impatiently for a response from the big, black Apache that was thundering in toward the landing area.

“Come on!” he snarled. “Answer me!”

“This is Black Jaguar One, Checkerboard One,” came a woman’s low, steady voice. “What’s your status? Over.”

“A hot LZ,” he warned. “I’ve got the package. And I’ve got ten bad guys, less than half a mile from us, comin’ out of that canyon in front of you. I need some firepower. You got it? Over.”

“Roger, we have them in our sights. Suggest you move back.”

Stunned momentarily, Thane realized he’d been talking to a woman. A woman! Not a man, as he’d expected. And then, feeling stupid, he remembered that there were women Apache helo pilots in the U.S. Army. But behind the lines on spook-initiated missions? CIA? That, he’d never heard of. But now was not the time to ask questions or ponder the subject. “Read you loud and clear, Black Jaguar One. Thanks. You’re a sight for sore eyes. Out.”

Relief shuddered through Thane. He gave a tight, vengeful grin. Once that Apache released a deadly Hellfire missile into that bloodthirsty pack of cutthroats who wanted him and the girl dead, it would be all over. He silently thanked Boeing for making the battle-ready Apache. This aircraft, above all others, often made the difference between his team living or dying in behind-the-lines missions like this.

He saw the unmarked Apache “A” model helicopter suddenly lift upward and hover, preparing to take a shot at the drug runners. The second one, the old Cobra gunship, was coming in low and fast. Within thirty seconds, it would land. Glancing to his right, Thane saw Valerie crouched down into a ball of fright, her back to the wall, her arms tight around her drawn-up knees. Good, she was out of the way and protected.

His concern was the drug runners, who were moving at full speed toward him. Again, Thane snapped off five or six well-aimed shots. Two of the drug runners fell.

Then he spotted something that made his heart stop. NO!

Thane’s green eyes widened enormously. Ahead of him, he saw that one of the drug runners had a LAW—a hand-held rocket launcher! And the bastard was aiming it directly at the hovering Apache, which was poised to fire.

Damn!

Thane leaped out from behind the wall, the thunder of the Apache deafening him as he exposed himself to his assailants’ direct fire. He had to bring the drug runner down before he could launch that deadly rocket at the Apache! Kneeling down, Thane steadied his rifle. Bullets careened around him. He wore a protective bulletproof jacket, but that wouldn’t stop a projectile from hitting him in the head. Counting on the drug runners’ lack of marksmanship, Thane coolly aimed his rifle at the man who knelt with the rocket launcher pointed upward. No way was that bastard going to take down that helo! Squeezing the trigger, Thane felt the rifle buck solidly against his shoulder.

Before he could take a breath, he saw the bullet hit home, striking the man just as he launched the rocket. The man tumbled forward as the rocket launcher fired—directly at Thane!

Seconds slowed to a painful crawl. Thane gasped and thrust upward to his full height. Escape! He had to—No! No! I’m going to die! His last thought as he twisted to the left and dove for the safety of the rock wall was that he was a dead man.

Everything blacked out. The last thing he felt was a hot, burning pain in his right leg. The last thing he heard was Valerie’s hysterical scream. And that was all.

“Oh, hell!” Captain Maya Stevenson yelled into the microphone against her lips. She instantly gripped the controls of the Cobra helicopter. “Dove, Angel, brace yourselves!” she warned her crew. Her emerald eyes narrowed as she saw the man in the canyon fire the rocket toward them.

And that Marine Recon was right in the way! Maya sucked in a breath, jammed her booted feet on the yaw-control pedals. She held the cyclic and collective in a choking grip. The wildly shot rocket exploded violently against the wall of the canyon. They were less than a quarter of a mile from it. In the danger zone.

The Marine Recon had to be dead!

The Cobra shook violently as the blast from the explosion hit them. They were barely fifty feet above the ground with nowhere to go. Maya tensed. Dove, her copilot, sucked air between her clenched teeth. Angel, their gunner, whooped as the rocket exploded. Off to the left, Maya spotted their pickup, the senator’s daughter. She appeared safe from the explosion. The Cobra skidded sideways from the concussion. Automatically, Maya worked to halt the awkward movement of the helicopter.

Above them, she heard the roar of two Hellfire missiles being released from the Apache’s arsenal. In seconds, the entire canyon was filled with fire, dust and rocks flying in all directions.

“The bad guys are down, Major,” Angel sang out with gleeful satisfaction.

“Yeah, but what about that marine?” Maya muttered. She landed the Cobra on the hard-packed desert floor. Dust whipped up in all directions around them. She shouted to Angel Paredes, “Go get the girl, Sergeant! We shouldn’t receive any more resistance from the druggies. Stay alert!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Paredes leaped out of the helicopter. Short and stocky, she hustled around the nose of the Cobra and headed for the girl.

“Take over, Dove,” Maya told her copilot. “And keep your eyes peeled.”

“Where are you going?” Dove demanded, wrapping her long fingers around the controls.

Jerking at the snaps of her harness, Maya growled, “To look for that poor Recon bastard. He just saved Dallas and Cam from getting blown out of the sky. The least we can do is find his body and bring him home with us.” She yanked out the cord that connected her with the communications system within the aircraft. Twisting around, Maya quickly made her way between the seats to the small cargo bay, past the fifty-caliber machine gun, and leaped off the lip of the shuddering helicopter. Dust was blowing in all directions, a small sandstorm around the aircraft. Maya drew her pistol, just in case she ran into one of the druggies in all the chaos. She made a sharp gesture with her hand toward her sergeant, who now had the girl beneath her arm.

“Get her on board!” Maya shouted above the noise.

Paredes raised her black-gloved hand to acknowledge the order before she hurried the girl toward the aircraft.

Turning, the captain ran toward the rock and rubble that had been left by the rocket’s explosion. Although she had on her black helmet, with its protective black shield across the upper half of her face, the dust kicked up by the helo’s blades whipped into her eyes. Rubbing them as she ran, holding her pistol high with her other hand, Maya tried to locate the marine among the piles of stone and dirt.

There! She saw the man lying on his back, his arms thrown outward from his unmoving body. Slowing, Maya looked ahead. Where the druggies had once been, rubble now covered half the width of the canyon. The bad guys were down and out. Good. Instant burial. No formality.

Kneeling down, Maya saw that the Marine’s right leg, from below the knee, looked like ground, bleeding hamburger. She winced and clenched her teeth. Jerking off her black glove, she placed two fingers against the sweat-covered column of his throat. He was young and strong, but there was no way he could have survived this.

“I’ll be damned,” she breathed. She felt a faint pulse beneath her fingertips. It wasn’t much of one—but it was there! Hurriedly, she assessed him for more wounds. The only place he seemed to be injured was his right leg. Holstering her pistol, she jerked off all his heavy gear and tossed it aside. She’d have to carry him to the helicopter. Judging from the amount of blood spurting from a cut artery in his calf, he was going to bleed to death—and soon.

Grunting, Maya turned him over and then rolled the weight of his body against her shoulder.

“You would have to be tall,” she growled. Well, she was, too. Maya was thankful for her large-boned, six-foot frame because she’d never be able to hoist the marine into a fireman’s carry position across her shoulders otherwise.

Just as she labored to get her feet under her, she saw Sergeant Paredes running full tilt toward her.

“Angel!” Maya yelled. “Get back to the helo! He’s bleeding to death! Get an IV set up! I’m gonna need your help! Pronto!”

The sergeant skidded to a halt, nodded and sprinted back to the Cobra.