One hundred and fifty yards.
It swung its nose toward the high school, preparing to blast the building.
Liam exhaled, aimed, and fired.
The 66mm twenty-inch-long rocket erupted from the launcher at 475 feet per second.
The missile screamed through the air and struck the Black Hawk’s tail. Shrapnel tore into the spinning rotors. The helo lurched as smoke boiled out from the engine.
Panicked, the pilot cranked the throttle and the powerful bird jolted skyward.
Too late.
The great machine careened sideways, unleashing a terrible metallic screeching. It churned into a violent spin. The rotors thundered as it whirled crazily, then plummeted from the sky.
Liam’s heart stopped. It nearly crashed into the Fall Creek Inn. The old and infirm were huddled within the inner rooms, too weak to make it to the bomb shelters.
Instead, the Black Hawk slammed into the Inn’s parking lot abutting the river. The rotors tore up asphalt as the bird came a sudden jarring halt ten yards from the brick building.
The two fuel tanks ruptured on impact. The helicopter ignited in a fireball. Flames surged forty feet high as black smoke poured from the wreckage.
Liam dropped the spent launcher tube, breathing hard. “What do you see?”
Bishop reached for his binoculars. “No movement.”
“Cover me.” Liam grabbed his carbine and started down the hill, dodging from tree to tree. The M4 pressed to his shoulder, his eyes on the burning wreckage of the helo.
He approached with caution. Smoke stung his nostrils. The stench of melting plastic choked his throat. The heat of the blaze slapped his face as the flames snapped and crackled.
No movement inside the fiery inferno. No survivors.
Liam felt little relief—and zero pleasure. He didn’t relish killing soldiers, but they’d fired on his people. For that, they’d signed their own death warrants.
General Sinclair had forced his hand. Liam hated him for it.
Still, he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.
“Alpha One, this is Delta Two,” Reynoso said over the radio. “What the hell happened?”
Liam raised the radio to his lips. “Black Hawk down.”
43
Hannah
Day One Hundred and Thirteen
Distant booms trembled the ceiling. Every time another salvo hit, gasps and screams echoed in the confined underground shelter.
Fortunately, the firepower wasn’t aimed directly at the school. The Black Hawk seemed to be focused elsewhere. For now.
Hannah resisted a shudder.
Dank musty air invaded her nostrils. The concrete walls pressed in, the latticework of pipes snaked along the ceiling ugly and utilitarian.
Two hundred and fifty people crowded into the shelter beneath the high school. Their faces were worn, hollowed out. Soft weeping, murmurs, and the shifting of bodies echoed dully.
Cots, camping chairs, and sleeping bags crammed the room. Metal shelves of supplies—food, water, and blankets—lined one wall.
A dozen makeshift toilet buckets had been designated to one corner where Lee had strung several curtains for privacy. The stench of human excrement permeated the air.
Memories of her underground prison flooded Hannah’s mind, but she fought them down. Once, the claustrophobic underground shelter would have prompted a spiral of panic and terror.
Not this time. There was too much work to do. Too many people who needed her.
Worry for Liam threatened to consume her. He was still out there with Bishop, Reynoso, Perez, and the other warriors defending Fall Creek.
Last she’d heard, he and Bishop had gone after the Black Hawk. David against Goliath.
There was nothing she could do but pray, so she sent up a prayer for Liam’s safety as she walked among the stunned, terrified townspeople, offering blankets and water.
Evelyn and Lee tended to the injured. Several people had been nearly trampled in the mad onrush. A few had sustained ricochet and shrapnel wounds. Those hit with the 70mm rockets hadn’t made it to the shelter.
With a pang, she thought of Molly. Grief crouched at the fringe of her consciousness, but she couldn’t let it in. The sorrow would come later. Right now, she was needed.
Hannah searched for Quinn. The girl huddled in the far corner, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She stared numbly at her hands in her lap, head down, forlorn and grief-stricken.
Jonas had retrieved her rifle for her; it lay at her feet, filmed in dirt and dust. The boy sat on the next cot over, close but not too close, his hands knotted in his lap. He hadn’t let Quinn out of his sight since they’d arrived.
Hannah strode to Quinn and knelt on the hard concrete floor in front of her. Quinn barely registered her presence.