Fight Fire With Fire. Amy J. Fetzer
A three-story building lay about forty yards south. The lower outer walls were scarred by fire, marked with soot and shattered windows. The upper-floor windows were blown out, the interior a blackened skeleton.
That’s the target.
He searched each floor, moving right to see the south side. Gunshots peppered around him, keeping him pinned, but he peered just enough to focus his binoculars. From the top floor of the building just beyond it, he spotted a rifle barrel before it slid out of sight. A second later, a hand appeared, held up two fingers, then a fist, then pointed. Riley felt a chill at the familiar military signals.
The disembodied hand repeated the gesture. Wait two minutes, then go.
If this wasn’t a fine one, he thought, aware he risked a trap. Yet the sniper had several chances to kill them already, and didn’t. But there were other shooters out there.
A mortar round hit fifty yards away, the impact throwing cars, street benches and toppling a statue. “Shoulda worn the smart shirt, Donovan,” he muttered as he quickly knelt beside Wyatt, checking his wounds before he worked off his Kevlar vest and strapped it on the pilot. He hoisted him on his back and prayed his legs were strong enough to make the distance. Testing the field, he raised his hand and nearly got it shot off.
Instantly, the sniper returned automatic fire to the north, covering him as he rushed out into the open, crossing the street like a hunchback, then moving alongside walls shattered by bombs. Sidestepping rubble challenged each step. The building loomed. The sniper laid down constant cover fire, and he glimpsed a shooter drop from a window, another from a balcony. Riley pushed on, the burden of Sam’s weight pounding his hips. Safety loomed in the shell of steel and concrete.
Bullets chewed the ground at his heels, and he felt a muscle pull in his thigh as he rounded the charred edge. He stumbled into the safety of darkness, Wyatt’s weight slamming him to his knees. He rolled Wyatt off his back, then crawled to his head, gripped his flight suit at the shoulders and dragged him from the opening. He returned to aim out the doorway blown wider by missiles. Smoke twisted on the air. The tat-tat of gun fire spun closer.
Where was the sniper?
His gaze ripped over the streets once more before he turned to Wyatt, taking him deeper into the remnants of a restaurant, a yawning hole in the ceiling exposing three floors above. At least it was defensible. He dragged the six-foot-tall man onto a fallen piece of drywall, then inspected his wounds. Blood saturated his pant leg, and although the wood splint held, the fractured bones threatened to cut an artery.
Wyatt’s head lolled on his neck and his eyes opened. “Donovan.”
“Sir?”
“You’re a brave man to do this.” Sam reached to offer his hand and flinched. Riley had tied his arm to his waist. His ribs were broken.
“I bet the C.O. has a different opinion.”
Wyatt tried to laugh, but only coughed. “I’ll put in a good word.” He breathed in short gasps.
“After you just crashed one of his jets? Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re on his shit list too.” It didn’t matter. A court-martial was in his future, he knew.
“Call me Sam, will you?”
“Certainly.” Riley grinned. “But command’s going to call us both dead if we don’t get out of here.”
Riley offered him water, then made him comfortable in the rear of the building. From his position, he could see anything coming, and had solid wall at his back, but he knew time was ticking by before the patrol found them. Armed, he scoured for anything useful, stuffing it in the bag he’d stolen from the medic’s supply. He used the painkillers sparingly. Whatever was left in the kit had to do. He hoped it was enough.
Then he focused on Sam’s wounds. Resetting the fracture was going to hurt like hell. He broke open the morphine capsule and injected Sam’s thigh, then inspected the break. He felt the jagged crack of bone under Sam’s skin and formed a plan to reset it. They couldn’t travel another four miles with it tearing inside his body.
“You don’t have time for that.”
Instantly Riley scooped up the pistol and spun on his knees, aiming.
A figure stood near the blown out entrance. Shit. He hadn’t heard a thing.
Still as glass, the man’s head and shoulders were wrapped in dark scarves over a green military jacket, now a dull gray like the weather. The only skin exposed was his eyes. Around his waist, a utility belt sagged, and the sniper rifle was slung on his shoulder, the weapon held across his body, ready to sight and fire. Yet he stood casually, without threat.
“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have wasted bullets to see you two safe and alive.”
The sniper, Riley realized with a wee shock, was a woman.
She advanced with easy grace, stepping over piles of rubble to hop down at his level. Her rifle looked all too familiar.
“Yes, it’s American,” she said, noticing his attention. He lowered his weapon. She stood a couple feet away, staring down at Sam. “He doesn’t look good.” She unwound her head scarf and a braided rope of shiny dark hair spilled down one shoulder. She met his gaze. Beneath arched brows, whiskey colored eyes stared back at him.
“Sweet mother a’ Jaasus .” She was younger than him.
“I get that a lot.” She gestured at Sam. “What do you need to do?”
“Set his leg again and get a tighter splint on it.”
She nodded as her gaze bounced around the interior. “Let’s get busy. I don’t know how much time we have.”
Though the pop of gunfire was lazier now, Riley wasn’t ignoring the help, or the danger of staying put too long. He instructed, glad Sam was unconscious or he’d be screaming to the heavens. After unbuckling her utility belt, she got behind Sam, her legs and arms wrapping his torso and hips as Riley grasped his calf and ankle. On a count, he pulled. Even drugged, Sam arched with silent agony. Riley ripped the flight suit more and pushed the bone down, forcing it to align closely. Blood oozed from the gash. He met her gaze and nodded.
“It’s set. Well…better than it was.”
She eased from Sam and unclipped her canteen, offering it.
He cleaned his hands and the wound, then Riley worked against the cold. With the needle poised over Sam’s flesh, he shook too much to stitch. “For the love of Mike.” He dropped the needle, sanding his hands, blowing on them. She quickly grasped them both, wrapping her scarf around them, then brought his fists to her lips. She breathed hotly against the fabric, and Riley felt the warmth sting his icy skin. She rubbed and breathed, her gaze flashing up. He felt struck, her soulful eyes hiding so much.
“Better?”
He nodded, unwound the scarf. “The rest of me is a bit chilly still.”
It took a second for that to sink in and she made a face. He chuckled, then said, “Get yourself on the other side, woman, and let’s make some quick work here.”
She snickered to herself, yet obeyed, holding Sam’s skin closed as he stitched. She still wore gloves and though she was dressed warmly, he noticed everything was cinched down, nothing to catch, and her rifle would collapse. It was a weapon he’d seen in spec, a prototype of the MP5. Not in production, yet she had one. And if the bodies outside indicated, she knew how to use it. It was at her right, by her knee with a bullet chambered.
“You’re Company.” CIA. Probably attached to NATO.
He had to give her credit, she didn’t look up or make even a single nuance. If she was any good, she wouldn’t give anything away.
“Tell me how an Irishman got to be in the Marines.”
Okay, he could go that direction. “I was a runner for the IRA and my older sister caught me. Dragged me