Hunt the Jackal Read Online Free Page A

and applied pressure to the femoral artery with the other.
    He looked up at Akil and said, “We’ve got to get him out of here, in case the helo catches fire.”
    Akil nodded, but he still didn’t seem focused.
    Crocker made sure the blowout patch and the plastic he had taped over the wound were secure, then rolled Cal toward him until he was on his side, positioned his top leg so that his hip and knee were at right angles, tipped his head back to keep the airway open, and with Akil’s help slid him clear of the helo engine. They carried him by holding him under the legs, hips, shoulders, and head to a relatively flat spot about two hundred meters away, and laid him down.
    “He’ll be okay if we get help fast, his vitals remain stable, and he doesn’t go into shock,” Crocker whispered.
    Akil removed his helmet and shook his head. “How the fuck did this happen?” he asked.
    “What?”
    “To the helo. Was it hit by enemy fire?”
    “I’m not an air crash forensics expert,” Crocker answered. “Put your helmet back on. Make the call.”
    “What call?”
    “I told you to call Davis. We need medevac. We need to remove the bodies and destroy the helo.”
    “Check.”
    “Do it now!”
    Crocker’s right hand shaking, he climbed into the helo and held on to the bar along the ceiling, using the red lens flashlight on his belt. He found no bullet holes or evidence of enemy fire. But that wasn’t what he was looking for.
    Past twisted seats, under a couple of rolled-up blankets, he saw Ritchie’s backpack, which he recognized by the Shooter Jennings patch on top. The badass country singer’s version of “Walk of Life” had been one of Ritchie’s favorite songs. In his head Crocker heard Ritchie singing it in the shower at the base east of Tel Aviv like a drunken cowboy.
    “He got the action, he got the motion…”
    Hanging from the bar with one arm, Crocker hooked his boot under one of the straps and pulled it high enough to rest it on the side of the crushed seat. Then he reached down and grabbed it with his right hand.
    The singing continued: “Oh, yeah, the boy can play…”
    Outside on the ground, he checked to make sure that the C-4 and detonators were intact. They were. Seeing a smiling photo of Rich and Monica taped to the inside flap, Crocker bit his tongue.
    Some things never get started. Some people die before they should. A cavalcade of images passed through his head—his high school girlfriend, Molly, who was killed in a car accident, his cousin Willie…
    The taste of blood in his mouth, he climbed back inside to get the blankets and a tarp, which he used to cover the dead bodies.
    Part of him wanted to hide under a blanket himself. War sucked. Life made no goddamn sense. You worked hard, struggled, did the best you could, then died.
    As they dragged Ritchie in two pieces away from the helicopter, Akil threw up over his hands.
    Next thing Crocker remembered was reaching into the cockpit and slinging the pilot over his shoulder and feeling his dead weight, and warm blood dripping down his back.
    Akil knelt next to the bodies, then lowered his head to the ground. When Crocker gently slapped the side of his helmet, he looked up with red-rimmed eyes and growled, “I’m praying, goddammit!”
    All Crocker could say was “Finish.”
    Akil bowed again, stayed with his forehead to the dirt for twenty seconds, then mumbled some kind of salutation to God and got up.
    “Okay.”
    Crocker asked, “You feel better?”
    “Not really.”
    “Either way, I need you to stay alert,” Crocker said.
    “I’m trying!” Akil spat the words at him, raw and angry.
    “What did Davis say?”
    “Davis?”
    Crocker said, “I asked you to call him, remember?”
    “He said the Israelis have dispatched two helicopters. They’re coming, okay? They’re coming! Leave me the fuck alone.”
    Crocker grabbed the front of Akil’s uniform. “We’re both upset,” he growled. “But this mission isn’t over, and