As they ran, Flix attempted to raise the helo on his emergency comm band. He tripped and fell into a shallow puddle. His left knee struck something sharp, and when he rose and carried on, it was with a distinct limp. He felt a hot trickle run down his shin, pool inside his left boot, but he did his best to ignore his loss of blood. They would be at the exit point soon; he’d worry about the wound then. At last, he raised the helo, gave the pilot their current SITREP.

“Hang tight,” the pilot said in his earwig. “Coming to getcha.”

An eighth of a mile to go, by Whitman’s GPS reckoning. They were making good time, despite the worsening weather and his burden, which seemed to become heavier with each step.

He thought he could hear the helo’s rotors chopping through the rain, and he glanced up. At that moment, shots were fired, and Flix went down.

The two outriders they had bypassed on their inward trek. Whitman cursed himself; in the flurry of the snafu he had forgotten all about them.

Taking shelter behind a boulder, he lay down Sandofur’s corpse and crawled out to where Flix half-lay, one hand clutching his right shoulder. The enemy fire started up again. Grabbing the back of Flix’s collar, he dragged him backward toward the protection of the boulder. The ground around them burst apart, sending a buckshot of dirt into their chests and faces. Turning his head away, Whitman redoubled his efforts and, with Flix helping him, scrambled back to the boulder.

“How bad is it?” he asked his comms man.

“Never mind me. How’s Jonas?”

“He’s not.” Whitman took up his AR-15. “Stay here.”

“You can’t do this on your own, Whit.”

“Hear that?” He pointed upward. “The helo’s almost on top of us.”

“Then let the gunner handle the motherfuckers.”

“Do you know what they’re armed with besides the AKs, Flix? ’Cause I don’t. I’m not gonna give them the chance to bring down our ride home.”

Without another word, he raced out from behind the boulder. No fire ensued. They couldn’t see him, but he could see one of them, and he prepared to hunt both down.

The air began to dance, then turn into a whirlwind as the helo descended. Rain was flung into his face like shrapnel. He caught the first jihadist in the side. He’d aimed for the kidney, to cause maximum pain, and his aim was true. The jihadist screamed, as Whitman had wanted him to. The second one, drawn out of hiding, began to fire wildly, spraying bullets every which way. Whitman, flat on his stomach, took aim, squeezed the trigger, and a line of bullets flayed the target to shreds.

Then he was up and running in a semi-crouch back to the boulder. The helo appeared like an apparition from the underside of the clouds. A rope ladder was unfurled.

“Come on!” Whitman called.

He hoisted Sandofur onto his shoulder, pulled Flix to his feet with his free hand, then sprinted for the ladder, which rippled and spun in the helo’s draft like a spectacular child’s toy. Around and around its end circled. The gunner was halfway down its length, staring at them. He leaned down, his right arm extended as if in friendship.