Mockingjay (The Final Book of The Hunger Games) by Suzanne Collins

find myself looking directly into Gale's eyes. For an instant the world recedes and there is just his flushed face, his pulse visible at his temple, his lips slightly parted as he tries to catch his breath.
“You all right?” he asks, his words nearly drowned out by an explosion.
“Yeah. I don't think they've seen me,” I answer. “I mean, they're not following us.”
“No, they've targeted something else,” says Gale.
“I know, but there's nothing back there but--” The realization hits us at the same time.
“The hospital.” Instantly, Gale's up and shouting to the others. “They're targeting the hospital!”
“Not your problem,” says Plutarch firmly. “Get to the bunker.”
“But there's nothing there but the wounded!” I say.
“Katniss.” I hear the warning note in Haymitch's voice and know what's coming. “Don't you even think about--!” I yank the earpiece free and let it hang from its wire. With that distraction gone, I hear another sound. Machine gun fire coming from the roof of the dirt brown warehouse across the alley. Someone is returning fire. Before anyone can stop me, I make a dash for an access ladder and begin to scale it. Climbing. One of the things I do best.
“Don't stop!” I hear Gale say behind me. Then there's the sound of his boot on someone's face. If it belongs to Boggs, Gale's going to pay for it dearly later on. I make the roof and drag myself onto the tar. I stop long enough to pull Gale up beside me, and then we take off for the row of machine gun nests on the street side of the warehouse. Each looks to be manned by a few rebels. We skid into a nest with a pair of soldiers, hunching down behind the barrier.
“Boggs know you're up here?” To my left I see Paylor behind one of the guns, looking at us quizzically.
I try to be evasive without flat-out lying. “He knows where we are, all right.”
Paylor laughs. “I bet he does. You been trained in these?” She slaps the stock of her gun.
“I have. In Thirteen,” says Gale. “But I'd rather use my own weapons.”
“Yes, we've got our bows.” I hold mine up, then realize how decorative it must seem. “It's more deadly than it looks.”
“It would have to be,” says Paylor. “All right. We expect at least three more waves. They have to drop their sight shields before they release the bombs. That's our chance. Stay low!” I position myself to shoot from one knee.
“Better start with fire,” says Gale.
I nod and pull an arrow from my right sheath. If we miss our targets, these arrows will land somewhere--probably the warehouses across the street. A fire can be put out, but the damage an explosive can do may be irreparable.
Suddenly, they appear in the sky, two blocks down, maybe a hundred yards above us. Seven small bombers in a V formation. “Geese!” I yell at Gale. He'll know exactly what I mean. During migration season, when we hunt fowl, we've developed a system of dividing the birds so we don't both target the same ones. I get the far side of the V, Gale takes the near, and we alternate shots at the front bird. There's no time for further discussion. I estimate the lead time on the hoverplanes and let my arrow fly. I catch the inside wing of one, causing it to burst into flames. Gale just misses the point plane. A fire blooms on an empty warehouse roof across from us. He swears under his breath.
The hoverplane I hit swerves out of formation, but still releases its bombs. It doesn't disappear, though. Neither does one other I assume was hit by gunfire. The damage must prevent the sight shield from reactivating.
“Good shot,” says Gale.
“I wasn't even aiming for that one,” I mutter. I'd set my sights on the plane in front of it. “They're faster than we think.”
“Positions!” Paylor shouts. The next wave of hoverplanes is appearing already.
“Fire's no good,” Gale says. I nod and we both load explosive-tipped arrows. Those warehouses across the way look deserted anyway.
As the planes sweep