Twice now Cam had seen him protecting others.
Beyond the jeep, Newcombe stood on the trailer where he’d been riding in a narrow slot among the computers, pistol out, and the invaluable hardware around him might have been the best protection. Maybe no one was shooting at Newcombe. Sawyer had likely also come through the crash okay, his chair wedged into the rear and facing backward, but Iantuano was missing from his perch. Either the snipers had nailed him in that opening volley or he’d been thrown onto the street.
“We gotta move! Move now, move south, let’s get behind that white building!” Young rallied them with well-trained authority, but spoke as if organizing people scattered over a vast distance instead of a few yards. “Where are the scientists? Newcombe, can you reach—” He stopped.
Cam held a Glock 9mm in one hand, even as he tugged the gun belt away from Jennings.
Young stared at him. Young was reloading, vulnerable.
“Captain? Hey, shit.” Newcombe obviously thought Young was wounded or dead, and assumed command after no more than an instant’s panic. “Shit, uh, we’re running for the white house!”
“They’re still in the jeep,” Cam said, answering Young, and Young was talking again even before Cam had finished.
“Make sure they have the nanotech,” Young told him. “Newcombe, can you reach the extra belts? Grab ’em all. We’re gonna have to hike it out.”
Abandoning the lab equipment was a good sacrifice, and should hold many of the paratroopers here. But how close were they to the freeway? Had they even reached Thirty-fifth Street?
“Science team, listen up!” Young was fiercely methodical. “I want you over the driver side of the jeep, that’s away from me. We’re gonna run south to that white building on the closest side of the street and I need you to bring all of your gear, the laptop, the samples, all of it!”
Cam tried to think through the math. Christ. They were at least seven blocks from the plane, two down and five over.
Young continued. “Iantuano, you still with me?”
“ ’Round back of the trailer, yeah. I think I busted my arm.”
“I need you to carry Sawyer. Can you slide your sixteen down to Newcombe? We go on my mark.”
Seven blocks unless they were cut off.
* * * *
Cam belly-crawled after Young between the trailer and jeep as Todd scrambled down onto the asphalt, then Ruth. Looking from side to side for D.J., Cam saw Iantuano punch Sawyer in the gut three times to stop him from fighting, swinging awkwardly with his left because his other arm was broken.
“Where’s the other one, the other scientist?” Young shouted at Ruth even as D.J. yelled, “Give up! We have to give up!”
He was still in the jeep. Cam might have left him. There was no time. But Ruth and Young both argued with D.J. even though they couldn’t see him, crouching together alongside the vehicle. “Goddammit it’s not that far,” Young said, and Ruth yelled, “We can make it!”
“It doesn’t matter if we don’t have the laser—”
“The software is the most important thing!” Ruth shouted. “The software and the samples! We can make it!”
Iantuano inched toward them, parallel to the trailer, with Sawyer over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Meanwhile the rifle fire came in short, controlled bursts, picking over the minivan. Only Newcombe was shooting back and Cam could sense the Leadville troops shifting closer—
Young turned and fired point-blank into the jeep, five quick rounds. D.J. cried, “No, no, wait!” But every shot went into the front wheel well, destroying the tire and striking the engine. Crippling the jeep would make it harder for their enemy to move the lab gear, which might keep at least some of the paratroopers from chasing them. These shots also sounded like return fire from their position, and solved the problem of
D.J. as effectively as Iantuano had controlled Sawyer. “No, wait,” D.J. pleaded. “I’m stuck! I can’t!”
“Help me grab him.” Young glanced into Cam’s eyes before he rose, and Cam couldn’t leave him up there alone.
Standing over the jeep felt like leaning into the path of a train, expecting a bullet, and Cam tore a ligament in his shoulder as they hauled D.J. out of the backseat and put him on the street with rough adrenaline strength.
“Green green, we are inbound on foot!” Young hollered, and clearly their pilots had been waiting, listening.
“I am holding position. I am holding position.” The Air Force man spoke with cool precision, then added, “Get your ass back. We’re not going anywhere without you.”
* * * *
They were lucky— It was a crazy thought— Cam realized they were lucky their radio channels hadn’t been jammed. Their headsets were basically just walkie-talkies, and Colorado was a long goddamned ways off to affect local communications, but the paratroopers surely had the same equipment as they did.
A transmitter on the enemy C-130 could have flooded their headsets with music or white noise.
But maybe the paratroopers were listening too.
* * * *
“Now.” Young led them into the open, his Glock popping. At the same time, Newcombe ducked around the minivan and swept the road with their only M16.
Ruth and Todd went next, together, like two kids on a dare — but first they wasted a precious moment jittering, hesitating, glancing back and forth from Young to each other’s pale faces. They still seemed to be looking at each other when they took their first steps.
Iantuano lunged after them, hampered by Sawyer’s weight. Cam moved with the Special Forces man, his pistol shots too high as recoil pushed his arm up. Newcombe followed with the rifle.
D.J. was the last to emerge, although he’d been told to stick with Todd and Ruth, and possibly he would have stayed behind if they hadn’t left him alone with his fear. Something propelled him after everyone else.
“Wait! Wait!” he shouted.
It was ten feet from the minivan to the sidewalk, twenty more to get behind the boxy white fourplex. The bulldozer and several stalls provided obstacles between them and the Leadville troops, and a sagging fence would also partially conceal them once they hit the yard — but a squad of five paratroopers had advanced much, much closer than anyone had guessed.
Rifle fire pounded over them in a deafening tide.
Just as quickly, the noise turned away. Sprawled behind the ’dozer, Olson was still conscious, his ruptured suit bloodied at the abdomen and one foot. Olson had grabbed Trotter’s M16 and squeezed off the full magazine in a wild, chattering upswing.
He wounded three of the nearest troopers. Then the others shot him dead, point-blank.
The paratroopers wore olive green containment suits with combat helmets of the same color, on top of hoods with long insectoid eyes rather than faceplates. They were thick-bodied, encumbered by flak jackets and a third air cylinder.
Cam wouldn’t have hit those dark, scrambling shapes at thirty-five feet even if he had been standing still. Charging sideways, twisted over to make himself small, he kept shooting anyway and nearly killed Newcombe when the man dodged in front of him. Cam yanked his pistol back and lost his balance.
Young, Ruth, and Todd had already run past the corner of the building and Newcombe made it as Cam stumbled, his knee folding. Six feet, three— Cam flopped onto the weeds and soft dirt and squirmed to get his gun around—
The majority of the paratroopers, whether maintaining their positions up the street or also advancing, were restricted in their field of fire by the squad that Olson had surprised. A few shots ripped across the front of the building overhead but for the most part the rifles had quit.