Free The Second Shooter by Chuck Hustmyre Page A

Chris's pistol. "Run!"
    Jake grabbed Stacy's arm and hauled her toward the van just as Favreau started popping rounds at the helicopter.

Chapter 16

    Inside the helicopter, Blackstone knelt in the open doorway of the troop compartment and clung one-handed to a strap on the bulkhead as the aircraft banked away from the ground fire. In his other hand he held an M-4 carbine, the cutdown version of the M-16. The bolt was locked back on an empty chamber, and even with the rotor wash blasting through the open doors he could smell the burned gunpowder. One of the incoming bullets had struck the doorframe just a few inches from his face, and, by God, it had made him feel alive.
    He turned to look at Donahue. The FBI man sat on the deck of the troop compartment, back pressed against the rear bulkhead, legs splayed for balance, and a look of terror on his face. "First time under fire?" Blackstone asked, but he got no answer, something that left him with a feeling of utter contempt for the FBI bureaucrat.
    Blackstone glanced toward the cockpit. A warning light was flashing on the instrument panel, but the helicopter was still flying so whatever the problem was it couldn't be too serious. "Take us back around," he told the pilot through the intercom microphone attached to his helmet.
    "We've been hit," the pilot said. "I've got to land immediately."
    "Negative," Blackstone ordered. "Take us back around and make it lower this time."

    ***

    Jake shoved Stacy into the van through the side door and piled in behind her. He could hear the helicopter beating the air nearby.
    Favreau pulled open the driver's door and reached under the seat for the Beretta.
    "No more shooting," Jake said.
    "They're coming back," the Frenchman said as he turned to look at Jake. "And they're definitely going to be shooting at us."
    Jake hesitated for just a second and then nodded. With pistol in hand, Favreau stepped around the open driver's door and stood in front of the van. Then the helicopter was on top of them again, its gazillion-candlepower spotlight turning a sixty-foot circle of night around the van into high noon. Gunfire ripped from the open side door.
    Jake pushed Stacy to the floor and lay on top of her as bullet fragments and shards of blacktop peppered the van. Through the windshield he caught a glimpse of Favreau firing the Beretta up into the belly of the beast. Then the big spotlight burst into a single brilliant flash and went dark as glass rained down on top of the van.
    The helicopter spun away from Favreau's shots and the line of automatic fire pouring from it raked across the Honda. The gas tank exploded and the concussion from the blast knocked Favreau off his feet, but even on his back he kept firing at the helicopter until the Beretta ran out of bullets.
    Then Jake remembered his roommate. "Chris," he shouted as he leapt out of the van scrambled toward the burning car, but Favreau was already there, on his hands and knees, dragging Chris away from the flames. Jake grabbed one of Chris's arms and helped pull him toward a tree. Chris was conscious but still punch drunk. He shouted at them but his words were so slurred Jake couldn't make them out.
    The helicopter circled back and hovered over the Honda, but without the big spotlight the only illumination was from the fire, and Favreau and Jake had pulled Chris out of its circle of light. So for the moment, at least, the darkness hid them.

    ***

    Blackstone was kneeling in the open doorway of the helicopter, peering through the four-power ACOG sight on his M-4 and trying to find a target on the ground when Donahue grabbed him from behind and threw him down onto the steel deck. The fall surprised Blackstone, and he barely kept his grip on the carbine. As it was, he felt a stab of pain when one of the metal tie-down rings gouged his back.
    The FBI agent stood over him, legs spread wide, fighting to control his balance in the pitching aircraft. He held a Glock pistol in his hand. "What the fuck