And their dogs. What the fuck?

“Goddamn it,” Riley breathed.

McClane wasn’t fazed. Bringing down a chopper, he suggested, might buy us some time.

Bringing down a helicopter would kill the crew. Riley glanced at his companions. Thought of bullets barely felt. They’d shielded Misha just fine.

Can’t protect them all, McClane told him bluntly. Right now, it’s kill or be killed. I vote kill.

Riley took in the trail of destruction the helicopter-mounted machine guns had left. The bullet-riddled corpses of the Russian mobsters who’d tried to protect Misha, blood and pieces of them smeared all over the rocky ground. If Misha lost Andrej or Kolya to this, it’d break him.

Do it, Riley thought, but in the end they did it together, smooth as if they’d practiced the move a million times. Riley had his father’s gun drawn and aimed before anybody realized what he was up to. His world dipped into cool blue, narrowed and zoomed in on his target until all he could see was the face of the pilot. Mid-thirties, smooth features, cool eyes that seemed to meet Riley’s gaze across the distance. He looked close enough to touch and very intent on his own target, which was Riley. And Misha.

Riley’s arm had never been steadier.

Now, McClane whispered in his mind and they pulled the trigger as one. There was absolutely no recoil. They adjusted their aim minutely and put a second round through the co-pilot’s head. He was dead before the pilot had sagged down onto the controls and the helicopter dropped like a stone, nose first. The other helicopters veered off sharply when one of the pilots realized what had happened and warned the others.

Yes, McClane confirmed Riley’s half-formed question, I’m patched into their frequency. Run.

Riley turned back to Misha, who was staring at him with something like awe, something like shock, and knew he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Fuck ethics. Anybody who tried to kill Misha was fair game.

Noted, McClane hummed. RUN.

They ran.

FORTY-TWO

“WHAT the fuck just happened?” Young bellowed, trying to make sense of why the helicopter next to his would suddenly, for no discernible reason, take a nosedive and kamikaze into the ground. He grabbed the edge of the open hatch to steady himself as the Black Hawk dipped sharply under him.

“Stinger Five is down, sir,” the pilot informed him, voice tight with tension and more than a hint of disbelief. “Break.” There was a pause as he conferred with the other pilots then he clarified, “Tango shot both pilots, over.”

Which was, had been, an impossible shot. Two impossible shots. No way had one of the killer yuppies been the shooter. Something else had pulled that trigger and while it confirmed that they were chasing the right target, it turned Young’s stomach to ice, the realization of what this creature was capable of with nothing but a handgun. Its apparent ability to pick up a weapon and use it, better than any human could, effectively axed any illusions of a viable “safety radius.” Forget about being jumped. That alien fucker was learning how to take them out long distance.