“Shit!” Hunter paled. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t do that again.”
The pilot looked down at her. “I’ll try to hold it here. Be quick.”
Rossiter checked his straps again, then picked up a coil of rope and draped it over one shoulder. “Just lower me down. I’ll stay with her and listen in on my earpiece. When you move in, I’ll be in position to enter through one of the upstairs windows or perhaps the patio.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be a team of one.”
“I can handle that.”
Hunter gave him a slap on the shoulder. “Okay, rock jock, we’ll do it your way. Just keep her safe. She’s your number one priority.”
“Got it.”
Then Hunter and Rossiter frowned, sharing an ominous glance, both pressing a finger to their earpieces.
Hunter explained. “SWAT reached the vehicle with the flat tire. They opened the trunk and found lots of blood, but they haven’t found Darcangelo. They say it looks like he pushed the backseats down and climbed out on his own.”
Then the pilot called back to them. “It’s now or never.”
Hunter helped Rossiter open the door, wind and rain spilling in.
Having almost forgotten that he was supposed to be taking photos, Joaquin shifted position, adjusted his settings, and started clicking off shots, as the winch slowly lowered Rossiter through the air toward Natalie. But Rossiter had gone only about a dozen feet when the helo lurched, making the rope swing like a pendulum, out over the street, then back over the roof.
The pilot struggled to regain control, holding the cyclic in a death grip, his knuckles white. “I can’t hold this. I’ve got to get us out of here!”
Hunter spoke into his mouthpiece. “Rossiter, the pilot says we have to go. We’re winching you up. We’ll have to try another—”
“What the fuck is he doing?” one of the other SWAT guys asked.
Joaquin lowered the camera, missing the shot of the century as Rossiter unbuckled his harness and let himself fall, backpack and all, to the roof. He landed more or less on his feet, then pitched forward onto his abdomen and started crawling toward Natalie, rope still over his shoulder, the heavy, rubberized soles of his SWAT boots apparently offering enough traction to keep him from slipping.
“Son of a bitch!” Hunter stared. “I fuckinghateit when he does shit like that. That man has a supernatural relationship with gravity.”
“Yeah.” That was all Joaquin could manage, his mouth dry, his stomach somewhere down on the street below.
“That fucker’s crazy!” The pilot’s face was white as a sheet.
“It’s the bionic leg,” Hunter muttered. “Just stabilize this bird and help me find a way to get us onto that rooftop patio.”
“You’re crazy, too,” the pilot mumbled.
Then the chopper moved forward, gaining altitude and speed, heading into the wind, leaving Rossiter and Natalie behind.
HEART STILL POUNDING, Natalie watched over her shoulder, barely able to breathe as Gabe moved toward her, slowed down by the periodic gust. It probably took him less than a minute to reach her, but it felt like an eternity. “Y-you’re n-nuts!”
“You’re welcome.” He grinned, covering her body with his, his weight pinning her to the rooftop, offering some warmth and stopping the backward slide she’d been fighting for what felt like hours now. Then he drew off his pack and pulled out what looked like a climbing harness. “Now, listen up. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
CHAPTER 32
“WHAT WAS THAT?”
Through a haze of pain, Zach listened to the muted thrum of the helo’s rotors as it disappeared in the distance, hoping to God that Natalie was safely aboard that bird.
Every man in the room looked up.
“They’re on the roof.” Wulfe motioned to two of his men. “Get rid of them.”
Two men ran out onto the patio, squinting against the rain, heads craning to get a good look at the roof, assault rifles in hand.