James Rollins - The 6th Extinction

Kendall saw a call had already been placed. The caller ID simply read UNKNOWN.

He lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he asked, hating how sheepish he sounded.

“Ah, Dr. Hess, it’s high time we talked again.”

Kendall felt his blood sink.

It cannot be…

Still, he recognized the voice. The rich tenor and the British accent were unmistakable. Kendall had no doubt the man on the other end of the line was the one who had orchestrated the attack.

He swallowed hard, knowing that matters were a thousandfold worse than he had ever suspected. Despite the impossibility of it, he could not dismiss the truth.

I’ve been kidnapped by a dead man .

At the center of a growing firestorm, Jenna crouched behind the counter of the general store. Holes riddled the walls. Wood dust filled the deafening space. The escalating blasts threatened to deafen her. All that kept her safe was the thick-planked bulk of the counter. But even that refuge could not last much longer under such a barrage.

Then a new noise intruded.

A heavy thump-thumping.

She pictured the assault team’s helicopter returning, intending to extract the men here. But a moment later, a loud explosion burst from the location of the heaviest gunfire. She felt the concussion like a fist to the chest.

Then another blast to her right.

Dazed, she rose back up. The hail of rounds through the storefront had suddenly stopped, but not the gunfire. In fact the firefight grew more intense out there — but it was no longer aimed at her position.

Confused, she stood, keeping her rifle raised.

What was—

A dark shape leaped up directly in front of her. A hand grabbed the barrel of the rifle and yanked the weapon out of her surprised grip. It was the man whom she had Tasered earlier. Plainly he had been only unconscious, not dead. In her desperation, she had failed to check his status.

He lunged at her with a dagger.

She twisted away at the last second, but the sharp blade cut a line of fire across her collarbone. The momentum of the thrust carried the man’s torso halfway over the counter. She snatched the X3 from its holster, jammed it against his eye, and pulled the trigger. The explosion of the weapon’s last cartridge blew the man’s head back.

He collapsed limply, sprawled across the counter.

Fueled by adrenaline, she rolled across the top and retrieved the rifle. Gasping, she stumbled toward the doorway. Already the gunplay outside had died down to sporadic bursts, and by the time she reached the doorway, even that had ended.

All that remained was the bell-beat of a helicopter’s rotors.

She searched the smoky skies.

Shapes fell out of the night.

Parachutists.

They dropped toward the fires below. Night-vision gear obscured their faces; assault rifles were held in their hands. She watched a paratrooper fire into the ghost town, followed by a cry from below. Farther out, a military helicopter hovered into view and lowered toward the meadow.

Jenna could guess the origin of this rescue force. The U.S Marine Corps maintained their Mountain Warfare Training Center only thirty miles from Mono Lake. They must have been mobilized as soon as the mayday had been sent out from the base. Those last chilling words would have drawn a swift response.

Kill us… kill us all .

But how had the Marines found her so quickly? Was it the fires?

Then she guessed the more likely reason. She pictured her abandoned truck, the deflated airbag. The crash would have triggered an automatic GPS alert. Bill Howard must have picked it up after her last attempt to communicate with him was cut off. Knowing him, he would have sent out an immediate SOS with her last known location.

Relief swept through her, but she also remembered the convulsing figure of one of the assailants. The paratroopers were dropping right toward that rising tide of toxin. She had to warn them of the danger.

Regardless if there were any remaining enemy on the ground, she abandoned her shelter and ran out into the open. She waved an arm toward the closest parachutist. She cringed as his weapon swung toward her.

“I’m with the park rangers!” she shouted up at him.

The weapon remained fixed on her until the paratrooper landed. With one hand, he unhooked his chute and let it billow away. Others struck the ground all around the hilltop and out in the ghost town, preparing to mop up.

“Jenna Beck?” the Marine called to her, reaching her side. With his night-vision gear still in place, he cast a menacing figure.

She shivered, but not from fear of him. “It’s not safe here.”

“We know.” He grabbed her forearm. “We’re to escort you to the helicopter, get you to safety. But we need to move fast. The wash of the blades will only keep the gas at bay a little longer.”

“But—”

Another Marine joined them and grabbed her other arm, squeezing painfully the bullet graze on that side. They manhandled her swiftly toward the waiting helicopter. The other paratroopers swept to either side.

“Wait,” she said, struggling to free her arms.

She was ignored.

A shout rose to her left. One of the enemy rose out of hiding, a pistol in hand. She recognized him as the man whose leg she had shattered earlier. Rifles pointed, but they refrained from immediately shooting. One of the Marines rushed toward the man’s blind side, clearly intending to take him as prisoner.

But the man put the pistol to his own head and pulled the trigger.

Jenna glanced away, sickened.

Clearly the assault team was under orders not to be captured or interrogated. Again she was struck by their unwavering sense of duty. Whoever they were, they were deadly earnest in their purpose.

Reaching the open meadow, the two Marines hauled her between them. Her toes barely touched the dirt. They reached the large transport helicopter, the powerful rotor wash half blinding her with blown dust and dirt.

No .

She tried to dig in her heels. Failing that, she kicked the paratrooper on her left. She struck him a glancing blow to his knee. Caught by surprise, he stumbled to the side, releasing her.

She swung around to the ghost town, raised her freed arm, and planted two fingers in her mouth. She whistled loudly and sharply, a piercing summons.

“We don’t have any more time,” the Marine clutching her said.

His companion returned and together they herded her toward the open passenger cabin. The other eight Marines came pounding up to join them. She struggled at the doorway.

“No! Wait! Just a few seconds more.”

“We don’t have those seconds.”

She was lifted and shoved inside. The rest of the rescue team piled in after her. Amid the chaos, she kept a firm hold on a handgrip near the open doorway, searching the smoky meadow, the edges of the ghost town.

C’mon, Nikko .

She didn’t have a clear view of the tractor where she had left her partner. Was he still alive? She remembered the thunderous blasts that had heralded the arrival of the Marines. They must have fired rocket-propelled grenades to soften the enemy. One of the curling ribbons of smoke was near where the rusted tractor was located.

In her attempt to save Nikko, had she gotten him killed instead?

With everyone on board, the helicopter’s engines roared louder. The wheels lifted free of the grass.

Then she spotted movement, a shape racing through the scrub brush from the edge of the ghost town.

Nikko.

She whistled again for him. He sprinted even faster toward the rising helicopter, but the craft was already yards above the ground. Refusing to abandon him, she leaped out the open cabin door and landed in a hard crouch in the sandy dirt.