A heavy whop whop whop vibrated the interior, the Raven’s Watch helicopter cresting the trees then dropping down, paralleling them fifty feet above. The doors slid open, the basket swinging onto the arm as two men clipped onto the line.
The hoist started moving, that basket getting closer, Foster holding the bird rock steady despite the crosswind, the steady patter of rain against the windshield.
Sloane cleared away any remaining pieces of glass, readied herself to slip out when Nick grabbed her hand. He arched a brow, motioning to the flatbed.
She leaned in close, half-wanting to kiss him, just in case. “Can’t be as bad as that window washing rig in Prague.”
He snorted. “Wanna bet?”
She winked, then slid out, holding the frame as Buck and Kash Sinclair inched closer, Kash landing in the flatbed, first.
He held the rig steady as Buck dropped the last few feet, landing like a damn cat, rifle immediately notched at his shoulder. He took a couple shots, blew out two of the semi’s tires, but the damn thing just kept coming, the weight and momentum carrying it forward.
Kash sighed, nodded at her. “Hey, Sloane. Nice to finally put a face to a name.”
Sloane shook her head. Did any of the guys take these kinds of situations seriously? “Not trying to do a transfer on a moving truck would have been nicer for a first introduction.”
“Beggars and all that.” He leaned in, tsked. “Jesus, Nick, you don’t do anything half-assed. Can you move, or am I doing all the heavy lifting?”
Nick flipped him off, shuffled his way out of the truck, holding onto Kash until his knuckles blanched white. Kash helped him into the basket, then waved her inside, all with Tierney holding the truck steady, the helicopter cruising overhead as the semi bore down on them.
Shots boomed overhead, Raven’s resident sniper, Zain Everett, clipping the semi’s mirror before punching one through the windshield. The truck veered, then recovered, slower than before but still a threat.
Sloane climbed over the edge, crouching over Nick, the downwash a chaotic vortex of dust and debris, as Kash jumped onboard, twirled his finger. The longline started moving, then stopped, the rope snapping in the gusting wind. Kash tilted his head as someone obviously talked in his ear, nodding a few times before blowing out a rough breath.
He grimaced, looked over the top of the pickup, then focused on them. “So, we’re out of open air for about a hundred meters. Everyone just hold tight.”
Sloane froze, focus snapping to the road. A thicket of evergreens lined the track, branches blocking out the sky. “Kash…”
He jumped out, grabbed one end of the basket as Buck snagged the other. “It’s fine. Foster’s got this.”
She looked up, wondering if Foster knew he supposedly had it or if Kash was talking out of his ass, when they hit the canopy. The line shook — made an eerie twanging sound — rattling the basket as Foster wove the damn thing through the branches, somehow shooting out the other side still whole.
Kash nodded at Buck, then climbed back in, the rig slowly inching upwards. Buck and Zain laid down more cover fire, keeping the semi fifty feet back as they crested the edge of the chopper, slipped inside. Zain closed the doors, tapped Foster’s shoulder, before the helicopter banked hard to the right, skimming over the trees. It gained altitude, the rush of the wind finally fading into the background.
Sloane scrambled out of the basket, grabbed Kash and leaned in close. “What about Buck and Tierney? We can’t just leave them.”
Kash grinned. “You’re so like Nick, it’s scary. And Buck’s got a surprise. We had a minute to spare, so he rigged a bridge a mile up. As soon as they pass over, he’ll blow it. Leave Nick’s fan club stranded on the other side.”
Sloane stared at him, wondering if he was speaking English when a concussive thump shook through the aircraft, a thick plume of smoke rising from the forest.
Kash tapped his ear, nodded. “Buck says they’re clear — are headed for Tierney’s truck. They’ll meet up at the office later. Assuming Nick’s still breathing.”
Nick.
Christ.
Sloane spun, stared as Chase Remington and Rowan Scott dragged Nick out of the basket, started IVs and monitors. Sixty seconds flat, and they had a unit of blood dripping into his veins, his pant leg sheared open.
Chase leaned over the shrapnel peppered up his thigh. “Jesus, Colter, we can’t leave you alone for five minutes before you’re redecorating with your own blood.”
Nick grunted, jaw clenched, skin a deathly shade of white. “It’s a new look. Not nearly as cool as it sounded.”
“Change rarely is.” Chase checked the tourniquet. “How long, buddy?”
“Not long. Thirty minutes, maybe.”
“Which’ll make it less than an hour by the time we get you to Providence.”