In another second, the bird settled lower over the LZ and she had her answer. Three men carrying assault rifles and a grenade launcher knelt and started firing up at them. The pings of bullets ricocheting off the Black Hawk were followed by another round of communication from both birds.

Verify your targets. We’ve got friendlies down there.

Those aren’t friendlies lobbing RPGs at us.

I hear you. Visually verify—rules of engagement.

They weren’t to fire unless fired upon, but that seemed to be a foregone conclusion now. Beside her, Ollie fired out the side window and rounds kicked up dirt like deadly raindrops racing across the sand.

Ollie, Burns, stand by on the ropes, Fox said. We’re going in hot.

Roger, Ollie said and Burns echoed him.

Cover fire, Romeo Two Four, Fox requested of the second Black Hawk that hovered above them.

Roger, Swampfox One.

Both crew chiefs fired the machine guns nonstop, round after round strafing the border between jungle and the clearing to force the insurgents back into the jungle and away from the LZ. Oil-scented steam rose from their weapons. Coils of three-inch-thick nylon ropes lay by their feet ready to be tossed out for a rapid descent. They would drop down and clear the immediate area so Max and Grif could deploy and find Rachel Winslow.

Max pushed the image of Winslow from her mind and sighted her weapon on the figures milling about on the ground. She had no idea who they were, and if they weren’t firing directly at the birds, she wasn’t about to fire on them. Some of them could be the Red Cross people they’d come here to protect. Clouds of sand whipped up by the rotors caked her nose and mouth. She tried not to breathe too deeply.

When they were fifty feet above the ground, a man and a woman carrying a litter made of two poles with sagging canvas strung between them erupted out of one of the large tents and ran awkwardly across the open ground toward them. She keyed her mic. “We’ve got wounded approaching. Get us down.”

Roger that, Fox grunted. Ollie, Burns. Go! Go!

The crew chiefs tossed the ropes, pulled off their headphones, and jumped. Max fired toward the jungle, trying to keep her rounds above head height to deter anyone from shooting back, and hoping not to hit a friendly. Ollie and Burns slid down to the ground and crouched in the swirling red-brown dirt, firing at rebels who appeared and disappeared like wisps of smoke.

Grif crouched beside Max in the portal, waiting for the skids to touch ground. He squeezed her shoulder.

“Keep your head down, Deuce.”

“Planning on it,” Max yelled. She had jumped out of birds into hot zones plenty of times before, and she didn’t worry about what might happen. She couldn’t stop a bullet if it had her name on it. “You get those medics with the litter on board. That must be the hospital tent up ahead. I’ll check it.”

“Roger, Deuce.”

Closer now, Max could make out the features of the woman at the front end of the litter. She wore plain tan hospital scrubs and field boots. Her thick blond hair escaped from a twist at her nape and thick curls flew about her face in the wind. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open, and she appeared to be panting in panic or exertion. Not Rachel Winslow.

Max brushed aside an unexpected twinge of disappointment and jumped the last five feet, landing next to Ollie. Automatic weapons chattered all around her. Another man and woman broke from the jungle twenty yards away and ran toward her, shouting, “We’re Red Cross. Help us!”

“Get into the helicopter,” Max shouted, waving them toward Ollie and Burns, and raced toward the people carrying the litter. A wizened old man, or possibly a very malnourished young one, lay on the litter, his eyes glazed. “Are you the doctor? How many more patients are back there?”

“Yes, I am Maribel Fleur,” the woman said with a hint of a French accent. She gulped for breath. “We have another non-ambulatory and two children.”

“We’ll get them. You two get on board,” Max said.

“You will need help. I will go back—”

“No! I’m a doctor. I’ll handle it.” Max waved for Grif to grab the litter, signaling him to get both the old man and the two French medics into the bird. “They’ll need you to look after them inside. Go. Go.”

She didn’t wait to see that the woman followed her instructions. Grif would take over. She held her rifle close to her chest and sprinted for the hospital tent. Just as she reached it, another woman and man pushed through the opening bearing a second litter with a thin, white-haired woman on it. The woman carrying the litter was young and dark-haired with a smooth caramel complexion. The man with her was white, in his mid-forties with a day’s worth of reddish beard and terror in his eyes.

“The children,” the young woman gasped. “Two of them inside.”

“I’ll get them,” Max said. “Where is Rachel Winslow?”

The woman shook her head. “I don’t know. She went to the headquarters tent.”

“Headquarters. Which one is that? The other big one?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“When?”

“Ten minutes ago? Then there was shouting and more shooting. I was afraid to go after her.” The woman’s face contorted with fear and guilt. “I shouldn’t have let her go alone.”

Max pointed to the Black Hawk. “It’s all right. I’ll find her. Go to the helicopter. Hurry.”

The man shouted something in French that was lost in the wind, and the two of them rushed toward the Black Hawk with the litter bobbing precariously with every step. Max shoved inside the tent, swept the room quickly with her weapon ready, and spied the two toddlers, a boy and a girl of about three, standing in a common crib. Their faces were smeared with tears and splotched with blisters, and both were wailing.

“All right you two, you’re all right.” Max slung her rifle onto her back and scooped up one under each arm. They grabbed onto her with surprising strength, their legs settling on either side of her hips. “We’re gonna run for it. You’ll be fine.”

A boom sounded from somewhere close by. Big caliber rocket or shoulder-launched mortar shells. If one of those took out vital parts of the Black Hawks, none of them would be getting into the air again. They didn’t have much time. Maybe none at all.

“Hold on! We’ll be okay!” The kids wouldn’t be able to understand her, but they’d know she wasn’t afraid. She only hoped Ollie, Burns, and the gunners on the second Black Hawk had cleared the LZ because she couldn’t fire her weapon and carry the kids too. Looking neither right nor left, she fixed on the belly of the bird and raced across the open ground, the air thick with dust and smelling of hot metal and death. The kids clung to her like limpets. Neither of them cried. The French doctor, hair flying and face set, jumped from the bird and rushed to meet them. She held out her arms. “Give them to me.”

Max handed over the children. “Stay in the helicopter this time!”

The blonde pointed in the direction of headquarters where two bodies lay in front of the tent. “What about them? There are injured—the rest of our team is out there somewhere!”

Max’s chest tightened. Was one of those bodies Rachel Winslow? Maybe all this was for nothing. No, not nothing. Two old people, the French medics, a couple of civilians, and two kids were safe. Almost safe, anyhow. If the Black Hawks got up into the air and out of there soon, they would be. “I’ll see to them. You’re out of this now.”

The blonde looked like she might argue. She clearly was not afraid. Or not afraid enough. The little boy started crying again. The blonde hugged him and the girl to her chest, nodded curtly, and scurried back to the Black Hawk.

Fox’s voice came over her radio. Ground fire is getting heavy. They’re firing RPGs. We need to get airborne.

Max ducked behind a tent. The flimsy barrier would at least keep her from being a visible target. She touched her mic. “Five minutes. I can’t find Winslow, and there may be more wounded.”

We didn’t plan on this, Fox said. Burns took a round to the shoulder. We need to get him and these civilians out of here. It’s too hot to land the other bird. I’ll give you as long as I can.

Grif skated around the corner of the tent with a collapsible litter balanced on his shoulder. His smile gleamed through a layer of camouflage paint and dirt. “Good day for a jog.”

Max snorted and pointed toward the bodies in front of the big tent. “Rachel Winslow might be over there. Let’s go.”

Heads down, they ran across the clearing, skirting the smoldering fire pits.

Two men in plain khakis lay on the hard-packed earth. One was still breathing, and they rolled him onto the litter. Blood bubbled from a wound in his chest. Max knelt next to the other one. A large chunk of his neck was missing—probably torn away by a rocket grenade fragment. His eyes were fixed and staring, and he was beyond any help she could provide. She needed to get inside the big tent to search for Rachel Winslow. She called back to Grif, “Get him stabilized and give me one minute to check inside. If she’s not here, we’ll get him back to the bird.”

“Go ahead. I’m good,” Grif said, opening his IFAK with practiced efficiency and withdrawing bandage packs and an IV.

Bounding up, Max ran for the tent, shouldered her rifle, and burst inside, fanning the room with her weapon, half expecting to find the rebels pointing weapons back at her. A woman in a torn, grimy white shirt and black cargo pants spun around, her eyes wide with adrenaline and shock. She stared at Max’s rifle.

“Rachel Winslow?” Max rasped. Her throat burned from the smoke and dust and her voice came out a low growl.

Rachel couldn’t answer, her father’s warning resounding in her memory. If you are kidnapped…kidnapped…kidnapped. The intruder’s face was indiscernible beneath the layer of grease and grime that covered every exposed inch. The rifle pointed at her was quite recognizable, though. Rachel glanced past the soldier toward the opening in the tent. Could she get out? She would never make it across the camp, even if she did somehow elude this soldier. She searched the dirt-caked uniform for some kind of insignia. Rebels wore uniforms too. She couldn’t make out a patch, a name, a flag—no, wait—a glint of gold at the collar. Rachel stared at the twin snakes encircling the staff. A caduceus. A medic. She drew in a breath, felt as if she had just surfaced after having been held underwater for hours. “Yes. I’m Rachel Winslow.”