heard a flurry of shots being exchanged. Sam rolled onto his stomach and low-crawled to the end of the log. Sliding his weapon, he eased into position. Traced the wash of illuminated terrain for the targets.
A head peeked out.
Sam took his time lining up the sights. “Target sighted,” he spoke quietly against the mic.
“Take the shot,” the colonel said.
Sam fired. The man pitched backward. “Target down.”
“Tango at your eleven, Squid,” came the near twang of the big guy, Boone.
“Copy,” Sam said, spotting the shooter. He wasn’t a sniper, but the men chasing Ashland were reckless. It was like picking cans off a line at a fair. “Target acquired.” He pulled the trigger back and, “Target down.”
Patiently, he waited, eyeing the terrain. Watching for more unfriendlies.
“Clear. Let’s move,” the colonel said.
They picked their way with stealth and deliberation toward the rocky cleft where they’d spotted the person. He’d worked contract gigs in the jungles of South America and the Middle East, but there was something about being part of a team. Having an objective you believed in. A purpose you’d die for.
He’d die for Ashland every day of the year.
Twenty minutes later, Sam grew wary. They’d gone too far. Should’ve come across the person by now.
Unless the person is evading. . .
How would Ashland know they were friendly?
He nodded, sorting the thought. He reached for his mic to ask the colonel when a whistle sailed through the air. “Col—”
A weight slammed into Sam’s back. Pain detonated across the back of his head.
“Augh!” He pitched forward but had enough presence of mind to know if he went down, he was probably dead. He went to a knee to break his fall, coiled to strike. He swung out his arm.
Something flew at him.
Slammed him backward. He struggled against the person, wrestling with them. He swung a hard right. It barely glanced off the person’s jaw, but their legs were locked against his chest, squeezing.
Beams of light bobbed around them.
Blinding. Confusing.
Only in that chaos, Sam saw the glint of a gold curl.
“Stand down, stand down!” Heart thudding, Sam rammed out a hand against the chest of his attacker, holding them back so he could see the face.
Hands raised over their head, a large rock braced between their fingers, the person looked down at him. Blue eyes registered wild rage.
Then shock.
“
Sam?
!”
Francesca
Alexandria, Virginia
2 June – 1815 Hours EST
Having her job back, having her access returned, Frankie hesitantly made her way through the first few days. If she retrieved the wrong file or made the wrong call, everything could come crashing down on her. Again. The bitter taste of that defeat hung fresh in her mind, a strong warning. Tomorrow, she would go back to work and throw herself into the job. Prove to her father and her boss that she could play by the rules.
Oh, she wasn’t quitting. That wasn’t in her genes.
She just had to be more careful. Play by their rules—and not get caught. She’d grown up with three brothers who treated her like their father’s fourth son. She could play with the big boys and not get hurt.
Tucking her legs up under her, she sat down on her sofa. After a quick glance around the living room she’d spent too much time fixing back up, she tugged her laptop over the cushion. She thumbed through the file from the accident and searched for the report from the EMT. Scanning, she dropped her gaze to the bottom. The signature was about as legible as a doctor’s. “Okay, so not much help yet.”
Frankie went to the laptop. Typed in
Luckett’s Volunteer Fire Department
. She found a handful of results and images but no EMTs. At least, not the one she was looking for.
Wait. . .wait. . . She forced herself to recall the lettering on the side of the ambulance.
Loudoun County
. She typed that in along with
EMT
.
“And voilà!” Frankie smiled down at the image of the EMT with a group of
A head peeked out.
Sam took his time lining up the sights. “Target sighted,” he spoke quietly against the mic.
“Take the shot,” the colonel said.
Sam fired. The man pitched backward. “Target down.”
“Tango at your eleven, Squid,” came the near twang of the big guy, Boone.
“Copy,” Sam said, spotting the shooter. He wasn’t a sniper, but the men chasing Ashland were reckless. It was like picking cans off a line at a fair. “Target acquired.” He pulled the trigger back and, “Target down.”
Patiently, he waited, eyeing the terrain. Watching for more unfriendlies.
“Clear. Let’s move,” the colonel said.
They picked their way with stealth and deliberation toward the rocky cleft where they’d spotted the person. He’d worked contract gigs in the jungles of South America and the Middle East, but there was something about being part of a team. Having an objective you believed in. A purpose you’d die for.
He’d die for Ashland every day of the year.
Twenty minutes later, Sam grew wary. They’d gone too far. Should’ve come across the person by now.
Unless the person is evading. . .
How would Ashland know they were friendly?
He nodded, sorting the thought. He reached for his mic to ask the colonel when a whistle sailed through the air. “Col—”
A weight slammed into Sam’s back. Pain detonated across the back of his head.
“Augh!” He pitched forward but had enough presence of mind to know if he went down, he was probably dead. He went to a knee to break his fall, coiled to strike. He swung out his arm.
Something flew at him.
Slammed him backward. He struggled against the person, wrestling with them. He swung a hard right. It barely glanced off the person’s jaw, but their legs were locked against his chest, squeezing.
Beams of light bobbed around them.
Blinding. Confusing.
Only in that chaos, Sam saw the glint of a gold curl.
“Stand down, stand down!” Heart thudding, Sam rammed out a hand against the chest of his attacker, holding them back so he could see the face.
Hands raised over their head, a large rock braced between their fingers, the person looked down at him. Blue eyes registered wild rage.
Then shock.
“
Sam?
!”
Francesca
Alexandria, Virginia
2 June – 1815 Hours EST
Having her job back, having her access returned, Frankie hesitantly made her way through the first few days. If she retrieved the wrong file or made the wrong call, everything could come crashing down on her. Again. The bitter taste of that defeat hung fresh in her mind, a strong warning. Tomorrow, she would go back to work and throw herself into the job. Prove to her father and her boss that she could play by the rules.
Oh, she wasn’t quitting. That wasn’t in her genes.
She just had to be more careful. Play by their rules—and not get caught. She’d grown up with three brothers who treated her like their father’s fourth son. She could play with the big boys and not get hurt.
Tucking her legs up under her, she sat down on her sofa. After a quick glance around the living room she’d spent too much time fixing back up, she tugged her laptop over the cushion. She thumbed through the file from the accident and searched for the report from the EMT. Scanning, she dropped her gaze to the bottom. The signature was about as legible as a doctor’s. “Okay, so not much help yet.”
Frankie went to the laptop. Typed in
Luckett’s Volunteer Fire Department
. She found a handful of results and images but no EMTs. At least, not the one she was looking for.
Wait. . .wait. . . She forced herself to recall the lettering on the side of the ambulance.
Loudoun County
. She typed that in along with
EMT
.
“And voilà!” Frankie smiled down at the image of the EMT with a group of
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