Young brought up his weapon and peered through the scope. Four men. Running full tilt, one in jeans and a T-shirt, the others wearing dress pants and white shirts. They were followed by half a dozen men in dark suits. Definitely not survivalists.
“Two o’clock,” Young barked. “The runners.”
The pilot obediently veered off into the indicated direction and the rest of their small armada followed suit. Young could tell that someone—
probably the leader of the survivalist outfit down below—was hailing them on an open channel, but Young had no intention to negotiate with whatever redneck crackpot was on that line. He was interested in the alien and its human host, in that order. If he could manage, he’d love to take out the fuckers who’d rolled his men at the diner, but they weren’t a priority right now. Under different circumstances, he’d have shot the lot of them from the air before he dealt with the alien, but this was home ground, not a foreign war zone. There were certain rules to observe.
“Loudspeaker’s on, sir,” the copilot offered, handing over the mike.
Young snatched it up. “This is the United States Army,” he barked, mostly so nobody could claim they hadn’t properly identified themselves.
“Put down your weapons and—”
One of the runners turned around and started shooting. The rounds pinged harmlessly off the reinforced belly of the Black Hawk, but they got the message across loud and clear: these were excellent marksmen down there, and no, they weren’t going to surrender and hand over the alien like good citizens. Young hadn’t expected them to, which was why he’d brought enough firepower to level the whole damn canyon. He handed back the mike with a thin smile.
“I’d say that’s a go.”
FORTY-ONE
IT WASN’T even a proper warning.
It was a jolt of alarm that hit every nerve of Riley’s body at the same time like a kick to the cerebellum.
“Scatter!”
He yelled the order as he dove at Misha and tackled him to the ground, trying to cover every inch of the man’s body with his own, because he knew, he just knew the goddamn idiot wasn’t going to leave his side, not even for better cover.
The closest two helicopters opened fire a second later.
Eh, he wouldn’t have made it to better cover anyway, McClane noted philosophically. He flexed like a muscle, licked across Riley’s skin hot and cold at once. Riley scowled, ducked his head down instinctively and clung to Misha with all his might, needing him to be safe. Bullets kicked up dust and stone shards around them, and a weird prickling sensation pebbled all over Riley’s body. Misha cursed and struggled under him.
“Hold the fuck still!” Riley snarled, stressed out and totally willing to take it out on Misha, because he’d rather not distract McClane right then.