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

should get out of here,” CJ said. “If those guys knew we were here, more are probably on their way.” He looked at the Big Wheel. The front end was crumpled in where it had struck the rock. It might run, but Bishop didn’t want to rely on the beaten machine. “I’ll take Ilias’s ride. You take the other.”
    Bishop looked at the dead man’s body. There wasn’t time to bury the man or even take his body with them. Fresh anger welled within him. Somehow, someone was going to pay for the old man’s death. It felt good to let the anger in. Like inviting an old friend to dinner. He and it had a lot of catching up to do, and they could start on the ride back to Hassi.
    “Let’s go,” CJ said. He slid Ilias off the ATV, wiped off as much blood as he could and started the engine.
    Bishop followed suit, swinging his leg over the Big Wheel. He said a mental goodbye to Ilias and started the bike, then he and CJ rode away from the Manifold facility, headed for Hassi. From there, they would take CJ’s plane to Shiraz, where Bishop would finally meet his father.
    He thought of the Sig in his waistband and realized the meeting would not be the friendly one he’d first imagined.
     
    ***
     
    Just before the impact, Massai grabbed the stick from Devan’s limp hand and pulled it back. It was the only thing he could think to do. The craft tilted upward and slowed, and for a moment he thought it would be like flying a small plane, but then the stick jerked to the right and the whole craft pitched sideways. The stick bucked and jerked like a living thing, and soon ripped itself free of his grip. The Bell spun and rolled its way to the desert floor while he tried to get into his seat. Just before he could buckle himself in, they hit the ground with an ear splitting metallic screech. Then the whole world turned into a bright white light.
    The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back. He looked up to see the cockpit of the Bell above him. Devan hung upside down from his seat, his broken body still strapped into the pilot’s seat. Blood dripped from the wound in his shoulder to patter onto the vinyl of the seat next to Massai. By the angle of Devan’s head, there was no way the pilot could still be alive. Massai checked for a pulse anyway, just be sure, and found none.
    He glanced at the radio. It looked fine. At least there was that.
    “Ahmad,” he called. “Are you there?”
    “I am here,” Ahmad said from somewhere outside the wreckage. “Are you hurt?”
    “Not badly,” Massai replied. His head ached, and he felt a warm trickle from his right temple to his jaw that could only be blood. His left wrist stung, leading him to believe he’d sprained it, and two of his ribs felt like they might be broken. But it could have been much worse. Both his legs worked, and that was the main thing. It meant he could walk. “How about you?”
    “I am fine. A few scratches, nothing more.” Massai couldn’t believe it. He pulled himself out of the wreckage to find Ahmad kneeling in the sand about five feet away and praying. He didn’t have his mat with him, but he didn’t seem to mind putting his knees in the dirt and prostrating himself on the desert floor. After a few minutes of prayer, he stood up, brushed the sand off his knees, and smiled.
    “The radio looks all right,” Massai offered.
    Ahmad’s smile grew. “I told you Allah would protect us,” he said cheerfully.
    Massai would have preferred Allah be a bit more proactive in his protection, but he kept that thought to himself. “Devan is dead.”
    Ahmad didn’t flinch. Death was nothing new to either of them.
    Massai noted several tracks around the helicopter, including a set that went away from the crash and then returned. “How long was I unconscious?”
    “Twenty minutes. I used that time to look around.”
    “Do you know where we are?”
    “A few kilometers west of the research facility.”
    “You saw it?”
    Ahmad produced a pair of binoculars from