Justin Richards - Sharp Shot

“And when will that be?”

“The planes aren’t turning,” Halford reported, joining them. “I reckon the Foxbat wasn’t sure he’d seen anything, and they were just making sure, maybe trying to flush us out if we were here. They fired at anything showing up on the infra red and just got lucky.”“And we didn’t,” said Chance. “They might send in ground forces to check. Let’s make sure there’s nothing left of the Jeep, and we bury anything that we don’t take with us. We need to travel light. With luck we can call in an extraction, but if not then it’s still another hundred and fifty kilometres to the border. So the only thing we’re taking with us apart from water and weapons and the first aid kit is Mark, got it?”

“What about this?” McCain asked, kicking Darrow’s heavy rucksack containing his souvenir statue.

“You check on the Jeep,” Chance told him. “Dex, you do what you can to help Mark. See if you can stop the bleeding.” He picked up the rucksack—it really was very heavy, and there was no way they could take it with them and carry Darrow. Speed was vital now. “I’ll bury this with the rest of the gear,” he said.

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