multiple other engines roar in the distance, smaller, thinner sounds, dirt bikes probably. Thresh was still trying to fire with one hand, and making a horrible mess of it, bracing the gun against the edge of the door, reaching for it with his bloody left hand, cupping the grip just long enough to pop off a shot or two before the kick sent what had to be excruciating agony through his injured arm.
The Wrangler didn’t manage the jump over the crest very well, going airborne, slamming down, and then tipping forward, taking its weight on the front left wheel, bottoming that corner out against the ground. Pitching forward. I heard Nick’s voice and then heard a thin, high, female shriek.
And then the Wrangler rolled. I saw it happen in slow motion, the way it just sort of…toppled forward and to one side, wheels still spinning.
Duke was out from behind cover, firing while running toward the Wrangler; Puck not far behind him.
It looked from what I could see that Nick was pinned under the Wrangler, the vehicle tipped onto its side, driver’s side down, the open cab facing us; I couldn’t see the little girl, but I heard her voice, crying hysterically.
Thresh was trying to reload.
He looked pained, not physically so much as emotionally wrecked by the knowledge that he was hurt and unable to help fast enough. I watched through the door, feeling helpless, as Puck hid behind the rolled-over Wrangler and laid down covering fire over the top while Duke tried to wrestle Nick free, tried to lift the Wrangler enough to free whatever was caught.
“THRESH!” Duke shouted, “I NEED YOU!”
I thought, stupidly, of that scene in The Princess Bride where Inigo is trying to get through the locked door so he could follow the Six-Fingered Man, and Fezzik comes lumbering up to smash it down with one kick— FEZZIK, I NEED YOU!
Thresh shouldered his M-4 and left cover, running faster than any man his size had a right to run. Crouched beside Duke, he placed both hands—the idiot, both hands—on the frame of the Wrangler at the bottom, between the vehicle and the sand. Then he shouted, a guttural, rage-filled roar.
And…
He lifted . The Wrangler left the ground, and Duke’s hands flashed, slicing something, and then he was hauling Nick free. Or trying to. Puck was firing nonstop, reloading.
And I was just sitting there.
Doing nothing.
Watching.
And then I spotted the little girl. Strapped in a five-point harness into the front passenger seat. Tiny, so small your eyes skipped right over her. Trapped by the seatbelt, suspended. Puck was shooting. Thresh was holding the Wrangler off the ground as Duke tried to extricate Nick from whatever was trapping him.
No one had the girl.
Fuck it.
I didn’t think, I just acted. I ran, hauling my big ass across the dirt, slamming bodily into the Jeep, rocking it. I ignored Nick, who was shouting at me.
Ignored Puck, who was also shouting at me.
Ignored Thresh, who was doing something utterly superhuman, and also shouting at me.
Duke was the only one not shouting at me.
Bullets were still snapping overhead.
The motorcycles were somewhere close by. There was one, off to the left, the rider skidding over the crest of the hill, submachine gun dangling from a strap. I didn’t think again—my hand yanked my Beretta out of the holster, and I drew a bead on a T-shirt covered torso, and then the pistol bucked in my hand, and the rider slumped, and the bike tipped, hit sand, and skidded.
I holstered my weapon and returned my attention to the little girl. “Cleo? Hi, sweetie.” I tried to keep my voice soft, despite the circumstances. “I’m gonna unbuckle you now, okay? You’re gonna have to grab on to me real quick, and we’re gonna get out of here, okay?”
Cleo just howled.
I took that as an okay. I jabbed at the red button that released the five buckles with one hand and grabbed the girl around the middle with the other. I caught her weight as the buckles
The Wrangler didn’t manage the jump over the crest very well, going airborne, slamming down, and then tipping forward, taking its weight on the front left wheel, bottoming that corner out against the ground. Pitching forward. I heard Nick’s voice and then heard a thin, high, female shriek.
And then the Wrangler rolled. I saw it happen in slow motion, the way it just sort of…toppled forward and to one side, wheels still spinning.
Duke was out from behind cover, firing while running toward the Wrangler; Puck not far behind him.
It looked from what I could see that Nick was pinned under the Wrangler, the vehicle tipped onto its side, driver’s side down, the open cab facing us; I couldn’t see the little girl, but I heard her voice, crying hysterically.
Thresh was trying to reload.
He looked pained, not physically so much as emotionally wrecked by the knowledge that he was hurt and unable to help fast enough. I watched through the door, feeling helpless, as Puck hid behind the rolled-over Wrangler and laid down covering fire over the top while Duke tried to wrestle Nick free, tried to lift the Wrangler enough to free whatever was caught.
“THRESH!” Duke shouted, “I NEED YOU!”
I thought, stupidly, of that scene in The Princess Bride where Inigo is trying to get through the locked door so he could follow the Six-Fingered Man, and Fezzik comes lumbering up to smash it down with one kick— FEZZIK, I NEED YOU!
Thresh shouldered his M-4 and left cover, running faster than any man his size had a right to run. Crouched beside Duke, he placed both hands—the idiot, both hands—on the frame of the Wrangler at the bottom, between the vehicle and the sand. Then he shouted, a guttural, rage-filled roar.
And…
He lifted . The Wrangler left the ground, and Duke’s hands flashed, slicing something, and then he was hauling Nick free. Or trying to. Puck was firing nonstop, reloading.
And I was just sitting there.
Doing nothing.
Watching.
And then I spotted the little girl. Strapped in a five-point harness into the front passenger seat. Tiny, so small your eyes skipped right over her. Trapped by the seatbelt, suspended. Puck was shooting. Thresh was holding the Wrangler off the ground as Duke tried to extricate Nick from whatever was trapping him.
No one had the girl.
Fuck it.
I didn’t think, I just acted. I ran, hauling my big ass across the dirt, slamming bodily into the Jeep, rocking it. I ignored Nick, who was shouting at me.
Ignored Puck, who was also shouting at me.
Ignored Thresh, who was doing something utterly superhuman, and also shouting at me.
Duke was the only one not shouting at me.
Bullets were still snapping overhead.
The motorcycles were somewhere close by. There was one, off to the left, the rider skidding over the crest of the hill, submachine gun dangling from a strap. I didn’t think again—my hand yanked my Beretta out of the holster, and I drew a bead on a T-shirt covered torso, and then the pistol bucked in my hand, and the rider slumped, and the bike tipped, hit sand, and skidded.
I holstered my weapon and returned my attention to the little girl. “Cleo? Hi, sweetie.” I tried to keep my voice soft, despite the circumstances. “I’m gonna unbuckle you now, okay? You’re gonna have to grab on to me real quick, and we’re gonna get out of here, okay?”
Cleo just howled.
I took that as an okay. I jabbed at the red button that released the five buckles with one hand and grabbed the girl around the middle with the other. I caught her weight as the buckles
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