The man departed without a word. When he was out of sight, Avery unslung the backpack and drew out a round mirror with a long handle. She extended it into the hatchway just far enough to survey the scene outside.

Whatever she saw, she didn’t like.

She pulled the mirror back and drew three grenades and two oblong objects from her pack.

“The helo’s sitting on a pad at ten o’clock. It’s well guarded. They’re loading the tender and lifeboats on the other side of the ship.” She paused, then looked at Desmond. “This is going to get messy. I’m going to need your help.”

Desmond knew what she was asking of him. When he spoke, his voice sounded more confident than he felt. “I understand.”

She tossed two of the grenades out, then the two oblong objects. Explosions vibrated through the deck and sent a wave of heat through the cracked hatch.

“Let’s go,” Avery said, rushing out into the cloud of smoke. Peyton and Hannah followed close behind her, and Desmond brought up the rear.

A firefight erupted instantly. Desmond could hear Avery firing, but he could see only her back, not her targets. The wind was whipping the smoke around, like a twister on the prairie, unsure which way to go.

A bullet whizzed past Desmond’s head. He tried to follow the sound but failed. It was chaos around him. Through breaks in the smoke, he saw throngs of people screaming, running to the tender and lifeboats, most wearing life vests.

The wind swept the smoke aside for a moment, like a curtain being drawn, and Desmond saw the helicopter dead ahead. Avery had pulled away from Hannah and Peyton, who were moving as fast as they could. The last two guards beside the chopper fell as Avery fired. She climbed into the cockpit, and a few seconds later Peyton hopped in and helped Hannah up.

Desmond spun around, his back to the helicopter, covering them while the engines started. After what felt like an eternity, the rotors spun to life, their wind whipping at his back, dispersing the smoke, revealing carnage: wounded and dead soldiers.

Desmond swallowed, knowing what might come next. The rifle’s stock rested against his shoulder, his finger around the trigger.

He desperately wanted Avery to yell for him to get on.

A figure burst through the hatchway from the stairwell. Desmond had a half second to scan him. Black body armor. Rifle held at the ready. The man was blinded momentarily by the sunlight.

Desmond squeezed the trigger.

His first shot went wide. His second caught the man in the shoulder. His third killed him.

Desmond waited, wondering, expecting a feeling that never came. He felt only cold focus as he held the weapon.

Over the roar of the rotors, he heard Avery’s call for him.

The moment his foot hit the helicopter’s rail, it lifted off.