J.T. tucked into the narrow stairwell behind Spike, down into the belly of the craft, popped the side hatch. Critical seconds ticked away. His heartbeat ticked faster, louder. His boots pounded down the metal steps. Still no sign of anybody.
One after the other, four pairs of boots landed on hard-packed desert, already sprinting, each man taking only what he carried in the survival vest. A knife. A pistol. Piss-poor protection against the elements and the enemy.
Fear pounded through him as hard as his heart and running steps. Only an idiot wouldn't be scared. And only a bigger idiot would let it immobilize him.
Sun baked his back, his head, his brain. Rays reflected off sand, even February hot as hell during the day here. If they could only buy enough time for a U.S. rescue chopper to locate them…
Grounding in training, he reviewed the facts on his ISOPREP card—isolated personnel report on file. The ISOPREP gave answers to questions a rescue crew would ask over the radio to positively ID them, to confirm the chopper wasn't being led into a trap.
Questions.
The street from his childhood home.
His mother's maiden name.
Rena's first car. A sleek silver blue BMW, where they'd made out. Made a baby.
Damn it. He spit curses out with sand. He couldn't think about her. About being with her.
Run. Harder. Focus on the three most important elements of survival.
Maintain life.
Maintain honor.
Return.
His feet drummed a steady beat across the desert floor in time with everyone's huffing breaths exhaling more grit-filled curses. Each man's favorite cussword chanted, powered feet faster. His own favorite of the moment spilled free—just like when baby Chris had parroted it back at him from his high chair, Rena behind their son, her hand clamped over her mouth to subdue laughter.
Her face, her smile, even her voice so incredible, exotic, different from the monochromatic world he'd grown up in.
Eyes sparkling, she'd brought more of that light of hers to their tiny apartment filled with babies and plants. She'd subdued her smile then into a parental reprimand and skirted around to the front of the high chair to tell their son, "Truck. Your daddy said tr-uck."
Well, he sure as hell was truck, truck, truck on his way as far as he could get across this desert.
God, how long had they been running? Years? Minutes? He didn't dare spare the energy for a look over the shoulder.
Spike slowed as they neared a clump of brush, a slight swell of dune. Damn pathetic coverage. The OSI agent stopped, braced his hands on his knees while the others drew up, halted as well. "Don't think," Spike said between panting exhales, "it's going to get any better than this, guys."
Scorch, as senior-ranking crew member, could disagree. But Spike's counterintelligence experience, his days deeply undercover during his CIA stint prior to joining the Air Force as a civilian employee of the OSI, offered weight to his opinion.
And the set of his face told them well this seasoned agent thought their odds sucked no matter where they hid their asses. But that wouldn't stop them from trying to buy time for the good guys to get as close as possible.
J.T. dropped to his knees on the desert floor along with the others, scooping out sand, fashioning a trench behind brush. He dropped flat on his belly beside his crewmates. Sweat soaked his flight suit, caking sand to his skin.
Silence.
His heart tried to slow to a regular beat, exertion complete. Adrenaline kept him revved. How long would they wait?
"Damn," Spike whispered. "I'd kill for a ghillie suit right now." Camouflage made of strips of either desert-colored fabric or jungle hues, the ghillie suit was nearly undetectable to the eye.
Instead, they lay with only the scant cammo of desert tan flight suits, better than their regular green, at least. The Rubistan government, American troops and local warlords would all have picked up their landing. Who would arrive first?
The answer came quickly, rumbling from the hazy horizon. Clouds of sand puffed a toxic premonition before the vehicles cleared into sight.
Vehicles. Not an aircraft. Not Americans.
He swallowed more gritty air. Okay. Rubistan's military? Police? Or local warlord rebels?