“Cassidy, keep moving,” he yells, breathless.

I move out of my crouch and run with him, away from the ditch. The telltale sound of bullets whizzing through the air make thwacking noises against the dirt and shrubbery.

This is all too familiar. Here we are again. On the run.

It seems to take an eternity to reach Jeff’s vehicles. They are huddled into a tight circle, reminiscent of the rings pioneers would form with their wagon trains to withstand Indian attacks. Chris and I slip inside the ring, literally sliding into the open end of a Humvee. Bullets ping off the armor.

Chris and I are both covered in blood. We must look horrible.

“Rivera, we need backup,” he yells into the radio.

I hear a strange sound, like pressure rising in a glass bottle. A loud pop hits the inside of my brain and I can suddenly hear again. “Whoa,” I mutter. “Weird.”

“Rivera, do you copy? Over.”

“Alpha One this is Rivera, over,” the radio crackles. “I can’t send backup in there, get yourself out. You’re in a hole.”

“We need backup now,” Chris growls. “My men are dying.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s a negative.”

My heart drops to my stomach. Why wouldn’t Rivera back up the militia? Getting out of here is going to be a lot harder without…I grab the radio on my belt.

“Sundog, this is Yankee, over,” I say.

The vehicle suddenly lurches forward and the convoy starts moving, retreating from the area. The mortars and gunfire are going wild outside. I clutch at the door handle for support as the Humvee crashes over a bump, heading downhill.

“Yankee, this is Sundog,” Manny replies. “What seems to be the problem?”

“We’re boxed in. We need your help.”

“Of course you need my help. Rivera’s not good for anything, now is he?”

“Just do something!”

Two minutes pass. Two long, painful minutes. It’s impossible to hear anything over the roar of engines and the constant smattering of detonations, but I know the exact instant when Manny arrives. The peppering of bullets on the left hand side of the Humvee suddenly drops off. I press my face against the window and tilt my head up, straining at the sky. Manny’s biplane is ridiculously low, sweeping over the hillside, too close and too fast for anybody to really react. His little biplane is outfitted with modern weaponry and I can almost see Manny’s flight cap blowing back in the wind as he takes another dive.

He’s brave.

Or crazy. One of the two.

Probably just crazy.

“He’s just in time,” I say.

“He’s insane,” Chris replies. “Thank God.”

No kidding.

What the hell is Rivera’s problem? Denying us backup? Whose side is he on?

As the convoy continues to move, my body is still buzzing with adrenaline and shock. It’s keeping my senses sharp, keeping any pain from seeping into my body. Something has gouged out a bloody gash in my shoulder. Shrapnel, maybe? Whatever it is, I can’t feel it yet. But I will. Later. If I’m still alive.

“Hey, what the hell happened?”

Jeff swings his head around from his spot on the front seat. I hadn’t even realized that he was inside the vehicle until now.

“Omega sent guerrilla mercenary forces out ahead of their ground troops,” Chris replies. “That’s what happened. How come none of our scouts or our cameras picked this up?”

“Maybe somebody hacked our system,” Jeff suggests. “Maybe—”

Bam.

Something explodes right in front of our Humvee. I scream as the vehicle jerks upward and flips sideways, slamming down on its roof. My head smacks against metal as flames ignite around the car. I am unable to move for a few beats, dazed and shocked from the brunt of the impact. I move slowly to orient myself, crawling on hands and knees as my head spins. The scene around me melts like hot wax, fading, fading…

Stay conscious! I scream at myself. Don’t do that!

I force myself to remain awake, a physical effort that my body fights. I look up, head throbbing. Gasoline, oil…something must be leaking. We have to get out of this vehicle. Now.

“Cassie, come on, do what I do,” Chris instructs, flipping himself over. The driver is kicking frantically at his door while Jeff’s head lolls to the side. He’s out cold. Great.

“You get Jeff!” I yell. “I’ll get the door open!”

Chris moves towards his unconscious brother while I pull on the door handle. No dice. It’s jammed into the dirt, stuck. I kick and kick at the glass, but the windows are too small to climb through, anyway.

“Chris…” I say. “There’s no way out!”

Chris drags Jeff’s body from the front seat, resting his boots against the side door. He crawls into the rear of the vehicle, pulling a crowbar out of the equipment area. He uses it to pry the door open, his strong arms doing the work that I couldn’t.

“You first,” he says. “Get out and find cover. Do not stop moving.”

I don’t hesitate. I crawl on my hands and knees across the upside down cab, pulling myself through the door, slicing my hands on the shards of glass. I stay low to the ground and turn around, taking Jeff’s shoes, helping yank him through the opening. Chris bears the brunt of his brother’s weight as we drag him outside. The driver follows us out the window, and for the first time today I realize that I know this man. Uriah. He was the sentry guard at Camp Freedom.

“Uriah?” I say, dazed.

He doesn’t respond. I follow his line of sight. The Humvee in front of us has been totaled, a twisted mass of metal and flames. To the right is a slope covered in thick brush and trees. We slide down the dirt embankment, taking Jeff with us. We stay on our stomachs beneath the foliage as I frantically attempt to wake Jeff up. He’s slowing us down. Wake up, wake up!

I feel the panic begin to creep in.

Keep it together. Stay calm. Come on, panic is what gets people killed.

Rivulets of sweat slide down my forehead, slipping behind the collar of my jacket. I’m soaked in the stuff, sticky with blood, dizzy with fear. As I raise my head just enough to see over the bushes, I can only watch in horrified fascination as white streaks of smoke cut through the air. RPGs and mortar rain down on the mountainside, plastering the hills in flames and dramatic sprays of dirt. It all seems to happen in slow motion, like a camera hovering over a scene in a movie.

And then I see them. Four tiny black dots in the air, coming steadily closer. Silently. Like hawks. Manny’s biplane takes a twist and turns in front of us, diving down the side of the biggest hill, heading towards base with a rumbling screech.

“Smoke!” Chris yells. Uriah flips onto his back and grabs an air support marker off his belt. It looks like a grenade and works the same way. Pop the key ring, throw the canister and look out. Uriah does exactly that and bright yellow smoke begins spewing from the marker. At that moment Jeff stirs, jerking out of unconsciousness with a start.

“Easy, easy,” I soothe. “We’re out of the vehicle. Are you injured anywhere I can’t see?”

“No, I’m okay…” he mumbles. “I just hit my head.”

“I noticed that. Stay down.”

The black dots head in our direction, no doubt locking onto the yellow smoke. Chris slaps his hand on the back of my neck and shoves my head down, my cheek pressing against the earth. The black dots are no longer dots, but full-on fighter jets. Allies. Hello, Air Force.

Did Colonel Rivera order them out here? I thought he had denied us backup.

The jets streak past so quickly that I can barely track their progress through the air, their engines screaming loud enough to rupture my eardrums all over again. Chris keeps his hand on my head, making it impossible for me to lift myself up and see everything that’s happening — a good thing; otherwise I’d probably end up getting fried by a stray piece of shrapnel.