Page 19 of Deadly Strain

They thought it was funny.

She was going to show them funny.

She was going to ram funny right down their throats.

She put the crate down with suddenly steady hands and searched for something she could use to school those giggling idiots. Next to the medical supplies was a small rack of backup weapons, three Beretta M9s. She pulled one out, grabbed a fifteen-bullet magazine and slowly, carefully loaded the weapon.

Gunfire echoed around her. They’d moved away, probably to the other side of the aircraft.

She crept out of the hidey-hole she’d been in and listened carefully to the voices, judging direction and distance. There was still enough smoke to make visual contact somewhat hit-or-miss, so she kept low and moved slowly toward them.

Movement had her ducking down. Two men in typical Afghan clothing, chattering at each other in what she was sure now was Dari, walked quickly away from the wreckage. She couldn’t see where they were going, but they started to run, so it must have been something important.

She peeked over a piece of bulkhead and stopped breathing when she saw what they were after.

A soldier in a bio-suit lay at the end of a trail of debris as if he’d been spit out of the helicopter like a mouthful of something that tasted awful.

The two Afghans were only steps away from him, their weapons raised.

Grace lunged out of the aircraft and sprinted toward them. She yelled, “Hey!” dropped to one knee and fired two shots in rapid succession as they turned to see who’d called out.

They both fell. She leaped to her feet, running toward them, her gun up and ready to fire again if those first shots hadn’t done their job.

But they had. Both Afghans were dead.

She turned and looked at the American.

He blinked up at her like he’d just awoken from an unwelcome sleep. “Doc?”

“Sharp?” Grace nearly wept in relief.He was alive.“Can you stand? Are you injured? Your suit is torn.” She looked around, watching for more bad guys. “Did those men shoot you? There might be more of them.”

“I’m mobile and don’t need medical attention at the moment,” he said, his tone slow and even. “How about I handle the shooting, and you handle the first aid.” He held out his hand.

“Yeah.” She handed him the pistol, and he palmed it with the ease of long familiarity. “I need to check for more wounded.”

He accepted her hand up, and they walked toward the helicopter.

She noted his limp, but it would have to wait until their immediate problems were addressed.

“What did I miss?” he asked.

“We crashed.”

“I got that.”

She told him what she remembered of the crash and what happened after.

He glanced back at the two Afghani bodies lying on the ground. “How many bullets did it take to lay them out?”

“One each.”

“Damn, Doc, that’s fine work.”

She stared at him blankly. Too tired, too heart-sore to respond.

He studied her face for a moment. “Are you injured?” he asked.

“No.” She looked down at herself. Splatters of blood covered her uniform, but none of it seemed to belong to her.