Vince Flynn - Order to Kill

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Rapp swung his rifle around the machine he’d taken cover behind and scanned through the dissipating smoke. No one had appeared in the open door. Maybe they’d finally realized they didn’t have masks and were waiting for reinforcements. If they were smart-and that was a big if-they’d put men on the surrounding buildings and position teams behind barricades to cover the exits. At that point, they could lob in some more gas or, better yet, just wait him out. With no water and temps pushing a hundred ten, he wouldn’t last much longer than twenty-four hours. And Coleman probably wouldn’t make it another twenty-four minutes.

“We’re in our descent,” came Maslick’s voice over his earpiece.

Rapp’s jaw clenched and he looked down at Coleman. The pistol had slipped from his fingers and he wasn’t moving. His head wound probably looked worse than it was, but the knife sticking out of his side was likely exactly as bad as it looked. Then there was the blood flowing from his shoulder and leg.

“Scott.”

No reaction to his voice at all. It was possible that he was dead but it didn’t matter at this point anyway. They were going out together or not at all.

He switched Maslick’s rifle to full auto and emptied the magazine into a steel pillar near the door. The metal made an impressive racket and would be enough to delay anyone who might have built up the courage to launch an offensive. He tossed the rifle and pulled Coleman onto his shoulder again. Scooping up the pistol that had fallen from his hand, Rapp started for the back of the building at a full run. He was about halfway there when the deafening whine of a chain gun started up outside. Hopefully, it was Maslick shooting and not an incoming Pakistani aircraft.

He came out into the bright sunlight just as Maslick let loose another burst. He was firing into the air over the top of the surrounding buildings, but it was enough. If there had been any soldiers in the alley before his arrival, they’d taken the hint and run like hell.

Despite Coleman’s dead weight, Rapp managed to grab the rope dangling from the chopper and attached it to his harness. He slid Coleman off his shoulder and wrapped his arms around the injured man. Maslick was leaning out the open door and when he saw that Rapp was ready, he motioned for the pilot to start climbing.

They were only about ten feet off the ground when someone started shooting from an alley to the north. Rapp’s pistol was in his waistband and there was no way to get to it. Coleman was slippery with blood and his weight was being multiplied by the chopper’s climb. It was all Rapp could do to not drop him.

“Mas! Get that son of a-”

But the former Delta operator was already ahead of him. The door gun opened up again and the alley entrance disappeared in a cloud of shattered concrete.

They finally cleared the tops of the buildings and started streaking east. Above, Maslick was rigging the winch to pull them up and Rapp tightened his grip on Coleman despite the fact that the muscles in his forearms felt like they were on fire. The SEAL slipped and Rapp barely managed to loop a leg around him in time to keep him from dropping four hundred feet to the street below.

By the time they made it to the chopper door, Rapp had been forced to grab Coleman’s shirt in his teeth to make up for the fatigue in his arms. The metallic taste of blood was yet another reminder of his friend’s condition.

“I’ve got him!”

Maslick’s powerful arms appeared and dragged Coleman’s limp body upward. When he was safe, Rapp grabbed the skids and pulled himself inside, rolling across the floor as the aircraft’s nose tilted forward and Fred Mason pushed the chopper to its limit.

CIA AIRFIELD

CENTRAL PAKISTAN

RAPP leaned over the chopper pilot’s shoulder and pointed at a C-17 Globemaster transport plane below. It was parked at the end of a line of buildings containing the Reaper drones the CIA used against terrorist cells operating in the region. “Put us down there!”

The skids touched down about twenty yards from the Globemaster’s open rear cargo door. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the lights inside the plane silhouetted a group of soldiers pushing a gurney in their direction. Inside the plane, Rapp could see rows of bunks and walls lined with state-of-the-art medical equipment. For all intents and purposes, the plane was a flying hospital-manned by multiple medical teams and equipped to handle everything from basic triage to severe burns.

With so many unknowns relating to the Pakistan operation, Kennedy had kept the Globemaster close in case things went south. Rapp didn’t like to plan for failure, but Kennedy was obsessed with covering every angle. In this case-as in so many before-she’d made the right call. Coleman could be stabilized on their way to the U.S. military hospital in Germany.

Rapp jumped out of the open door as Joe Maslick and the copilot began sliding the stretcher containing Scott Coleman toward him.

They’d managed to stop the visible bleeding, but there was no question that he had internal injuries beyond their ability to deal with. The former SEAL’s skin had gone pale, creating a stark contrast to the blood spattered all over it. He’d still been alive when they’d checked ten minutes ago, but it was impossible to tell just by looking at him if that was still the case.

He didn’t move at all as Rapp took one end of the stretcher and started siding it out of the aircraft. Shouts became audible from behind and a moment later he was enveloped by one of the C-17’s medical teams. A moment later they had Coleman on a two-wheeled gurney and were rushing him back to the plane. A nurse in desert camo was straddling him, pulling off his bandages and checking for a carotid pulse. Another was running alongside, cutting through Coleman’s pants leg with a pair of scissors.

One of the corpsmen lagged and Rapp grabbed him by the back of the collar, jerking him to a stop.

“We need one more gurney.”

“Sir?” the kid said, eyes widening. “We were told one injured man.”

He had the look of a new recruit. Smart and well trained, but not yet certain of his role in this shit storm.

“Just get me the gurney,” Rapp said.

“We have another team. I’ll-”

“Stop talking and listen to me. Don’t get another team. Don’t ask for help or tell anyone what you’re doing. Just get me the fucking gurney. Is that clear?”

The man was understandably scared and confused, but nodded.

“You have one minute.”

When he started to run, Rapp pushed himself back into the chopper and pointed to the nuke. “Let’s get it out of here.”

It took some wrestling, but they managed to drag the warhead to the doors just as the corpsman reappeared. He took a hesitant step backward when he saw his new patient and then another when they rolled it into a position where the radiation hazard symbol was visible.

“Sir? We’re authorized to pick up three men. One injured. No one told me anything about…” His voice faded for a moment. “About anything else.”

“I’m telling you about it now,” Rapp said, pushing the gurney to the edge of the chopper’s door. Maslick and the copilot put their shoulders to the warhead and gave it one last shove. The gurney’s tires bulged when the weapon landed, but everything held together. Rapp threw a blanket over it before pointing at Maslick and then to the Globemaster. The former Delta operator jumped out and helped the corpsman push the warhead toward the open cargo hold.

Rapp slapped an open palm loudly against the side of the chopper and leaned inside. “Get out of here, Fred. And like always, forget any of this ever happened.”