Overhead, the old SuperCobra banked hard left, evading fire from the Apache’s minigun, and the grizzled Army pilot’s annoyance carried over the radio.
“Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Four-Charlie; he’s a slick sumbitch.”
“Ahh-ffirmative, Aerial,” answered the Staff Sergeant, as he steered squealing out into traffic, weaving through cars on both sides of the avenue. David, still on the floor of the vehicle, felt Agent Diaz rolling off him in the tight turn and instinctively wrapped an arm around her waist. Suddenly realizing, he started to let go, but Rebecca caught his hand. Continue reading