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A rapid thumping, signaling the approach of a helicopter, increased as did the gunfire.

A Blackhawk appeared low above the treeline and, indeed, it was coming in “hard and fast.” Thankfully, most of the guests had run for their lives by this point so the grassy expanse between the burning mansion and the jungle was basically clear for the pilot to land.

A few stragglers quickly got out of the way, unsure if this was a new attack.

Hollywood and Sawyer were both now firing their weapons at targets as several bullets hit the dirt not far from the ragtag group.

All around the six-acre property, Delta, Trident, and Deimos team members were engaging the enemy that seemed to grow in numbers.

It was unclear how many of them were actually just the hired security for the event, who had no idea who the good guys were and weren’t, and were shooting at anyone with a weapon.

Unlucky for them, there was no way to tell the difference between the tangos and the armed innocents, either.

Frisco knew they were out of time and options.

Ignoring the pain and fear etched on the injured woman’s face and her repeated pleas for him to leave her, he got to his feet, gestured for the geek to move out of the way, and grasped her right ankle.

The maneuver he was about to do was called a Ranger Roll and one he’d practiced many times with his teammates.

It was the fastest way to pick up an unconscious or incapacitated person while under fire.

Dropping his right shoulder, he did a quick somersault over her left hip, bringing her lower body with him.

When he rolled back onto his knees, he had her in a fireman’s carry as she hung limply across his shoulders .

Sawyer reached down and grabbed the redhead by the collar of his tuxedo jacket, dragging him to his feet. “Get up and on the fucking chopper, Reardon! Move!”

Not waiting to see if the others were following, Frisco stood and ran toward the Blackhawk as it touched down less than twenty yards away, ducking low to avoid the rapidly moving rotor blades.

The rear door was open, and a man, dressed in black, wearing a balaclava, covered Frisco and the others with a mounted M-60 machine gun, as they hightailed it across the lawn.

As they neared, Sawyer ran past everyone and vaulted through the open door, before turning around and holding out his hand to Frisco.

The two men grasped each other’s forearms, and Sawyer yanked him and the woman into the rear bay.

Hollywood practically threw Reardon into the chopper before jumping in himself.

“Go, Babs! Go!” Sawyer yelled to his female pilot.

As Frisco lowered the injured operative to the floor as gently as he could, the Blackhawk lifted off the ground.

Just as fast as it had landed, it was back up in the air, banking toward the treeline again.

The Trident team leader yelled again, this time into the comm’s microphone, “Alpha, Omega, Delta, principals secure. Ghost, Devil Dog’s taking my lead down there.

We’ve got Hollywood and whatever Taint-waffle’s name is again. We’re medevacing to our standby.”

Kneeling next to the woman, Frisco realized she was no longer responsive.

Her eyes were shut, and her head was rolled to the side.

His heart leaped into his throat until he realized she was still breathing.

She’d either passed out from blood loss or the pain—it didn’t matter which, but it was probably better that she was out.

The man who’d already been on the chopper ripped off his face mask and dragged a large medical duffel out from under the row of jump seats.

He and Sawyer worked together to cut the woman’s dress so they could assess her injuries.

Frisco spotted a trauma blanket tucked in the duffel among the medical equipment and snatched it.

Tearing open the package, he spread it out and covered her nearly naked body after they saw there was no exit wound on her chest, abdomen, or flanks.

The bullet was still inside her somewhere—that could either be a good or bad thing, but one they couldn’t rectify in the airborne tin can.

Rolling her as one unit, the three trained operatives located the wound on her lower back.

It’d matched up with the hole in her now discarded dress, right near her spine .

“Just get her stabilized, Skipper,” Sawyer ordered the man who’d been posted on the helicopter, before addressing the others. “We’re heading for Kearsarge.”

Frisco had figured that was their initial destination.

The Navy’s third Wasp-class amphibious assault ship USS Kearsarge, was currently located in the Arabian Sea.

The crew had been ordered to take position in international waters, offshore from Mumbai, in case Delta needed them.

Apparently, it’d been arranged for Sawyer’s team and Deimos to use the ship, with its advanced medical services, as well.

At least someone had known there’d be more than one military branch or government agency working this mission from hell.

The doctors onboard would be able to perform surgery and stabilize Haven.

From there, they’d fly her out on an Osprey to an airbase where she’d be transferred onto a plane en route to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, the US military hospital in Germany—if she survived until then. Frisco’s heart clenched at the thought.

Hollywood poured Quikclot powder onto the wound, slowing the blood flow, then placed a trauma dressing over it, before they rolled her onto her back again.

Skipper started an IV in her left arm. There was nothing else any of them could do until they reached the ship except remove as many slivers of glass as they could from her feet and arms and clean the wounds.

Reardon sat on the edge of one of the jump seats, unashamed tears rolling down his face as he held the unconscious woman’s hand as she lay at his feet.

The worry in his voice was clear as he yelled to her over the sounds of the rotors slicing through the air.

“Haven, you’re gonna be okay. You hear me, Haven? You’re gonna be okay.”

Unwilling to sever the connection he’d begun to feel toward her the moment he’d looked into her eyes, Frisco held her other hand the entire trip—and prayed.