Free Callsign: Bishop - Book 1 (An Erik Somers - Chess Team Novella) by Jeremy Robinson, David McAfee Page A

shoulder pumped blood freely through his shirt. Massai was impressed. Most men would have grabbed the wound and tried to staunch the bleeding, but Devan kept enough presence of mind to keep flying despite the pain. Of course, by the look on the Iraqi’s face, it could be simple shock.
    “Devan,” Massai shouted, “You have to land. Now.”
    “Land? Here? Are you crazy? Did you see what that man just did? I’m getting out of here as fast as I can go.” The aircraft pitched to the side as Devan made a hasty u-turn.
    “You are losing too much blood, Devan,” Massai said.
    “Those men have already shot me once,” Devan said. “I will not give them a chance to do it again.”
    If either of them had known how to fly a helicopter, Massai would have yanked Devan from the pilot’s seat and taken control, but as it was, they had to watch their pilot as the shock and adrenaline started to wear off. Massai tried his best to staunch the flow of blood, but the angle was bad and Devan squirmed and writhed in the seat. At least he flew low over the ground, though that would not matter much at 220 kp/h.
    Less than three minutes after the first shot was fired, Devan’s eyes began to droop. Thirty seconds after, he lost consciousness altogether. Massai and Ahmad watched helplessly as the desert floor rose up to meet them.
     

 
     
     
    9.
     
    Bishop watched the helicopter fly west, toward Qom, until it simply fell out of the sky. He did not see the chopper crash, but from the last few erratic moments of its flight, he was sure it had. There was no explosion—those usually only happened in Hollywood, but a few seconds later he heard a distant sound that was most likely the helicopter hitting the sand. Bishop guessed the crash site to be no more than two or three kilometers distant.
    CJ poked his head from behind the concrete, then seeing that the coast was clear, he came running up to Bishop. The sleeve just above his right elbow was red with blood, but he looked otherwise unhurt.
    “Everything functional?” Bishop asked.
    “That was, ahh, that was some really crazy shit there, B.”
    Bishop grinned. “Yes. It was. Now are you okay?”
    CJ nodded, flexing his arm to show he was fine. “Bastards shot my backpack, though. Blew a hole right through my canteen and bent the blade of my KA-BAR.”
    “The DVDs?”
    CJ shook his head. “K.I.A.”
    Damn . Those DVDs were important.
    “Should we investigate the chopper?” CJ asked.
    Bishop shook his head, no. “Check on Ilias.”
    Ilias was dead, killed by a single shot through the chest. The wound looked to be the work of a large caliber rifle. Probably a .50 cal with a scope, judging by the size of the exit wound and the single loud shot that had come from the helicopter. They wouldn’t know unless they searched for the bullet, but something told Bishop they didn’t have time.
    “Did you get a look at any of them?” CJ asked.
    Bishop shook his head. He’d seen the rifleman as he flew through the air, but it was just a glimpse, and he was more focused on not being sliced into bits, shot or bludgeoned by the helicopter at the time.
    “You?”
    “Just the pilot.”
    “He look familiar?”
    “Unfortunately, yes,” CJ replied. “He works for your father’s group.”
    “My father? This is his doing?”
    “Looks that way.”
    Bishop looked out at the cylinder and imagined the two men dead within. Then he looked over at Ilias, whose blood continued to soak into the dry desert soil. He shouldn’t be surprised. CJ had told him Dawoud Abbasi was a terrorist, after all, but still. It bothered him to think he could be related to such a man.
    It would explain why Ilias had been the first to shoot, too. Ordinarily, operatives were not supposed to engage an unidentified party unless the party engaged them first. But if Ilias had recognized the men as terrorists, that would be different. In such cases, shooting first was widely accepted as a proper course of action.
    “We