by Zoe Dawson
Once they were all ready, they started toward the forest. It was dense and dripped with moisture, the ground cover just as wet, clinging to his boots. The trees towered above them with heavy branches.
Iceman took point like he was used to it and Aella fell into step behind him, with Saint behind her, then Striker, with Preacher bringing up the rear and watching their six.
He checked their bearing on his watch. Slow and dangerous they moved like wraiths through the cold, wet air.
“We’ve got movement,” Striker said, his deep voice gone to a rumble through the mic.
Aella adjusted her night vision lens. Saint took position beside her. She searched for the movement, then nodded, pointing off to her right. They crouched.
“Guards,” Iceman said. “No patter, grouped up.”
“Ice, take them out…quietly.”
“Gotcha,” Iceman said and disappeared into the deep brush.
Saint looked at the sky. Timing was crucial with the advancing storm. The winds were pushing it faster. If they missed their window, they would be hoofing it out of here through some dangerous territory.
“Job’s done,” Iceman said through the comms.
The five of them advanced but encountered very little resistance. A couple of guards.
“This looks like a skeleton crew,” Preacher said.
“Copy that,” Striker said.
They moved silently past the logging camp that was now completely deserted. Looked like Darko had shut everything down.
The house stood out like an anomaly in the dense forest surrounding it. The mansion looked like it belonged in Hollywood. There were no lights on, but there was a guard posted at a door that looked like it led to a basement.
Without hesitation, Saint took him out with one suppressed shot. They approached the door. Iceman grabbed the keys off the dead man and passed them over to Striker.
“Ice and Preach, security.”
They broke off and melted into the night. Striker went down the stairs and opened the door. He brought up his weapon and stepped inside, sweeping left and right. Saint and Aella followed. They moved swiftly down a hallway and soon discovered a locked door.
Striker also unlocked this one and they were through. Saint could see a row of cells. “This looks like the place,” he murmured.
They moved forward, then stopped as a slim figure stirred on a bunk. He turned to look at them, and Aella said, her voice laced with anger, “It’s just a boy.”
“Who are you?” he whispered, pushing back into the corner. Saint could see the mottled bruises on his face, his cut lip and black eye. There were rope burns on his wrists and ankles. What the heck had this kid done to deserve such treatment?
“We’re not here to hurt you,” Saint said, dropping his automatic. He stepped to the bars. “We’re US Navy SEALs—”
“Are you friends of 2-Stroke…Neo?”
“Yes. We’re looking for him and a woman.”
The kid sat up straighter, hope on his face. “Chry!”
“Do you know where they are?”
He launched off the bunk and came to the bars. “Yes, I helped them escape.”
“What is your name?”
“Aleksandar Custovic. I’m Darko Stjepanić’s nephew.”
“Where is everyone?”
“They’ve gone after them. Neo and Chry escaped two days ago. My uncle and Zasha have choppers and many men. Unless you have transportation, there’s no way to reach them in time.”
Saint turned to Striker. “I saw some horses in a corral as we came in. Will those do?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
“Take me with you, please. My uncle is going to kill me for helping them escape. I can help you look for them. They’ve gone to Banja Luka. I speak the language and know my way around.”
Striker was already unlocking the door.
Aella clasped her hand around one of his and smiled. “There was no way we were leaving you here, sweetie. Let’s get you some warm clothes and get out of here.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were all astride the horses, Alek and Aella riding together since there had only been five animals.
They pounded toward the river, and Saint prayed they would make it in time. “Hold on, guys. We’re coming.”
“We’ve got to ditch the horses,” 2-Stroke yelled as he pulled up at the edge of the forest, the river in front of them and Banja Luka’s lights shining across the rushing waters. “Too easy for them to see from the air, and they might make a good distraction as we make a break for the river.” He reached for the saddlebags and started to pull out a flashlight, several power bars and the two handguns. He tucked everything into the backpack and slung the straps across his back. “Only take what you need.”
When Chry was ready, he hit the horses on the rumps and yelled out. They bolted across the field as the sound of the helicopter buzzed above them.
He reached his hand out to Chry and they started for the river. An instant later he heard the decisive thunk of suppressor gunfire to his left as the shot whizzed past, leaving its stroke across his hair before it struck a tree.
He hit the ground with Chry, spinning and firing his automatic into the forest. Darko’s forces returned fire. A trail of fire arched toward them, chunking wet dirt and water, and he backpedaled until they were tucked in the underbrush. He sheltered her with his body, feeling her flinch with each crack and report.
She muttered into his chest, “I don’t think they like us much.”
“Their loss,” he said dryly, and cracked off four more rounds. “Let’s skedaddle. We know when we’re not wanted.” He was channeling his teammate. Saint had a fondness for the word. It made him feel closer to them somehow.
He saw movement to his far left deeper in the forest. Trying to end-run around them. Not this SEAL, 2-Stroke thought and ended that dream with a rapid burst. Men cried out and the movement ceased. He pulled Chry with him, physically pushing her where he wanted her to go, and they dug into the drape of leaves, climbing the hill. Chry moved like a crab ahead of him.
Muddy earth spread between his fingers as he dug for a hold, and clinging brush pulled at his clothes and boots. They crested the ridge and burst onto flatter land. They paused long enough to get their bearings, then ran for a half mile without stopping, dashing through the forest, crossing a dirt road, then angling toward the river.
Their boots thumped on the mud-soaked road, and he made no move to disguise it. They didn’t have time. He could still hear gunfire, though it was fading off. All that meant was that it was time to regroup to hit again.
Just then the skies opened up and rain fell through the stand of trees, drenching them.
He took her slick hand and they pelted toward the water just as the sound of a helicopter closed in. The beam of its powerful searchlight swung away from them.
He loaded bullets in the magazine. “They’re following the horses. Good. That gives us some time.” He shot the magazine home and chambered a bullet. He crowded her and they started to move again. He pushed her toward the river. It was their only hope.
They didn’t slow down as the rain came down hard, making each muddy step a challenge. 2-Stroke could smell the river and pushed on. He could see a clearing in the distance and headed for it, then stopped suddenly, his gaze moving around the woods. He grabbed her close bringing up his rifle.
The hair on the back of his neck rose. He looked down at her. “I think they found us.”
Men emerged from the trees all around them. They were all heavily armed. One man spoke into a radio, and the chopper banked and to head back their way.
Darko and Zasha.
There was no way he was going back into captivity, even if they decided they were going to keep them alive. He would rather die here fighting for his freedom.
Outnumbered, he realized he wasn’t going to make it. But Chry had a chance.
2-Stroke gripped the rifle. “I’m going to take them out. You run for the river. Do
n’t stop running,” he whispered. She gave him an agonized look and gripped his arm. “Chry, don’t stop.”
“All right,” she murmured, her voice strained. “Neo.” His name was like a plea, but he couldn’t worry about what would happen to him.
“Run!” he shouted and opened fire, ducking toward some brush. He kept firing, ripping up the forest, crouching low as he backed up. From somewhere behind the men, he heard gunfire, confused as bodies started to fall. He didn’t know who they were, but he wasn’t going to hang around and find out.
He turned and saw Chry running full out, almost to the water. Then the sound of the chopper broke his concentration. His head whipped toward the vehicle and he saw an RPG nose out the open door.
“Chry!” he shouted. But she couldn’t hear him with the rushing river and the roar of the helo. With her back to the chopper, she would never see it coming.
The RPG fired, streaking an arc toward the water. 2-Stroke heard the sharp whine, shock and horror coursing through him as it hit, throwing her like a rag doll into the river.
“No!” His scream was nothing short of primal. Rage exploded, coming from deep inside him, a well of it that engulfed him until he was mindless with it. Like a conflagration it rushed through his blood, crackled in his bones, and twisted his gut into a raging hellstorm. He twisted back to the chopper and opened fire, emptying the magazine, every round into the fuselage. The engine whined and black smoke poured out of the damaged helo. It started to spin and then headed for the ground.
Unappeased, swearing retribution, he tossed the rifle and turned toward the river, running like a man who had lost his mind, the rage still churning through him. He wanted to follow that broken bird and beat Darko to death with his bare hands.
Without hesitation, he dove off the bank into the raging river, praying with all his might that Chry was alive.
Chry jerked awake immersed in water and immediately started to struggle. The impact of the RPG had sent a percussion through the water, stunning her. Her limbs felt like liquid. She was being dragged downriver, the rolling rapids making it impossible for her to keep her head above the surface. She barely felt the cold of the forty-seven-degree water, her struggle to live all-encompassing.
Her side hurt like hell, a burning, excruciating pain that wouldn’t go away. Numerous other cuts and gashes stung and throbbed, but that pain was breathtaking. Chry didn’t know which end was up. The river carried her swiftly, the speed turning her upside down. Her waterlogged clothes and pack dragged her down. But she couldn’t do anything about it. Air was more important.
She worked at controlling her tumbling, focused on the surface and headed for the night sky. She broke through, getting her head enough above the water to catch her breath just before the current smacked her into a rock, then twisted her under again. She couldn’t grab anything, felt weightless. She really didn’t want to die today. Not after all she’d endured. After finding Neo again.
Her lungs screaming for air, she kicked hard and shot to the surface, spitting water and sucking in air as she struggled toward the rocks. Her fingers grazed a boulder and slipped. But the force of the water took her away before she could try again. The swirling water pushed her under again and she was starting to feel the fatigue, then the cold. Her fingers were numb, but that unrelenting pain in her side refused to abate.
She was failing, and even as she realized that, she started to kick harder, stronger. She had to reach the bank, or she was going to die. With everything she had in her, she focused on how Neo had looked this morning, sexy and enticing. She kept his face firmly in her mind as she kicked furiously.
Her flailing hand hit rock, sending a reverberation up through her fingertips to her wrist. With a desperate lunge, she grabbed onto a rocky fissure and pulled as hard as she could. Her body propelled by the swirling waves landed her partially onto the shore. Gasping for breath, her heart hammering, she crawled, clawing for purchase in the wet mud, shoving herself up onto drier land. The rain hadn’t stopped. It poured down.
Chry was feeling weaker, more so than a struggle in the river would account for. She started to shiver as the rain pelted her. She reached down to touch her side, and when she brought her hand back up, it was red with her blood.
Falling into a dazed, stunned state, she closed her eyes.
She was bleeding.
She’d been shot.
Saint watched 2-Stroke go into the river after Chry. The five of them had left the horses and run toward the gunfire, coming at Darko’s thugs from behind. They watched as the RPG knocked Chry into the water and 2-Stroke went berserk. Saint couldn’t even imagine what his brother had already gone through. He looked like he’d broken, simply let go of his humanity and gone to a basic primal level.
The whine and metallic crash had them all turning toward the helicopter as the pilot wrestled the controls to keep it level. The skids hit the ground, the rotors pushing it over, and it crashed with a grating roar.
Saint went to move forward, but gunfire erupted. There was no way they could get to the river as a second chopper buzzed in and landed next to the downed one. Men boiled out of it.
“Time to go,” Striker said, his voice rough with frustration and anger. “They’re heading for Banja Luka. We need to find a place to hole up and try to rendezvous with them.” They retreated from the river and ran toward the dense forest to lose themselves inside.
The five of them had gotten there in the nick of time. If 2-Stroke had opened up on those guys without their backup, he would have died.
Saint didn’t want to have to explain to his LT how they had failed his brother in arms. Determined that wasn’t a conversation he was ever going to have with Fast Lane, they slipped away, gathered Alek from his hiding spot and headed for Banja Luka.
2-Stroke swam hard as the current dragged him down the river. He heard nothing but the rush of the water all around him and the sound of his own labored breathing. The water held him in a tight grip, but he was a SEAL, and he knew how to deal with water. When his head bobbed to the surface, he took a huge gulp of air. The churning, twisting current pulled him under again, jerking him around like socks in a washing machine.
Frigid water wasn’t anything he hadn’t endured and beat before, and he ignored the numbing cold. His feverish brain could only hold two thoughts. Stay alive. Find Chry.
With strong strokes he boosted himself closer and closer to the bank. When he got close enough, he dug his fingers into the earth, pulling himself out of the water, then looked for Chry. He shouted her name, but the rush of the river drowned him out. Unaccustomed panic plowed through him as he climbed to his feet and rushed the bank, searching for her body. She was nowhere in sight.
Please no, he thought. She’s strong. She’d have made it. Yet his search gave him nothing. He kept looking. He still had his pack and the handgun strapped to his thigh. He called out as he watched the current but kept moving downriver, searching, his heart breaking little by little when he didn’t find a trace of her.
He refused to give up or lose hope. He continued to move downriver, calling out. Finally, he thought he heard his name. He took off at a run and skidded to a stop when he saw her body.
“Chry!” he shouted, and she turned her head, and the dark weight that had been crushing the life out of him lifted. Relief washed through him with such power, his knees almost buckled.
He rushed toward her, a huge smile on his face, but it faded as he neared. He knelt down, touched her face, her skin cold and clammy. He pushed her wet matted hair aside, and with his thumb rubbed at her cheekbone. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She looked down, moved her hand from her side, and blood trickled out. He swore softly and immediately pulled off his jacket, the sopping flannel shirt, then the thermal top. He wadded up the thermal and pressed it against her side.
“Hold that there.” He checked her pulse, and it was rapid. Her lips were bloodless, and she was showing signs of blood loss. “Hang on, babe,” he whisp
ered. He dressed again in the flannel and his coat.
He slipped his arms under her, cradling her body against his. She curled her arm around his neck and whispered, “My hero.” Turning toward the lights of the city, he broke into a run, his legs pumping, his blood running hot.
9
The pounding rain eased off to a constant drizzle, and his boots squished in the mud as he headed closer to the lights. Chry had slipped into unconsciousness. He had to find the safe house and get her medical attention ASAP. He could see the outskirts of the town. It wasn’t small or quaint but filled with color and movement, settled on the banks of the river. The next rolling hill, the next rise beyond the river, and the mountains rose to white peaks. They were too far away for anyone to notice their bedraggled state.
2-Stroke had an innate sense of direction as he took them through a winding path, and he glanced to the mountains. Still at the same altitude.
He carried her around the circumference of the city. They passed behind homes and shops, and between the buildings, past signs for river raft rides. Their path curved before the land widened under the cover of trees, the ground grassless and muddy from the rain. His gaze swept their surroundings, the path, the vehicles, and their occupants.
He stepped into an alley and out onto a busy street. It was clear there was a lively nightlife here.
Banja Luka was made up of mostly Serbs, who had driven Bosniaks, Croats, Roma, and others out of the city.
He stopped a passerby and asked for directions to the safe house. The man smiled at Chry in his arms, and 2-Stroke made a joke about too much libation. The man laughed and continued on. His stomach growled at the smell of meat grilling, coffee thick in the air as he passed numerous coffeehouses.
He started toward the area where the man had pointed. He walked the block, turned right, then left and found himself on the street he was looking for. He stopped in front of the house.
He looked for a good place to set Chry down and found a secluded garden area, hiding her under bushes. He dug in her pack for the key and approached the house slowly. It was dark, no lights shone in the windows, but it was clear someone was doing landscaping and maintenance. He walked up the sturdy back steps and fitted the key in the lock. The door opened easily, and the house smelled clean, like someone had just scrubbed the place.
