My mind raced. It wasn't the nuclear codes. It was data. The President was carrying a digital drive, and Vance was willing to shoot down Air Force One to get it. It had to be evidence. Proof of the massive, black-budget conspiracy Vance was running. Proof of whatever had gotten my father killed fifteen years ago.
“Bravo team, move in and breach the aft fuselage,” the commander’s voice ordered.
I looked down at the gorge. Three men were breaking from the tree line, sprinting toward a massive tear in the side of the downed plane. If they got inside, the Secret Service detail would be slaughtered in the confined space.
I raised the stolen rifle, settled the illuminated crosshairs on the chest of the lead runner, and squeezed the trigger.
The suppressed rifle coughed in my hands. The heavy round struck the lead mercenary square in the center of his body armor. The kinetic impact threw him violently backward into the dirt, knocking the wind out of him and breaking their momentum.
“Sniper! We have a shooter on the western ridge!” someone screamed over the earpiece.
The remaining two men of Bravo team dove for cover behind the massive landing gear of the plane. The entire formation of mercenaries suddenly shifted their focus toward the ridge where I was hiding.
I had their attention, but I couldn't stay here. I had given the Secret Service a few seconds of breathing room, and I needed to use it.
I abandoned my position, sprinting down the steep, rocky slope toward the tail of the plane. Bullets tore through the trees around me, sending showers of splintered wood and bark raining down on my shoulders. I slid the last twenty feet, diving behind a massive, detached section of the plane’s engine casing.
I was at the base of the wreckage. Directly above me, the emergency exit door over the wing had been blown open.
I scrambled up the jagged, torn metal of the wing root, ignoring the sharp edges tearing through my flight suit. I reached the open door and hurled myself inside the dark fuselage.
I landed hard on the slanted floor of the cabin. The interior of Air Force One was a nightmare of destruction. Oxygen masks dangled uselessly from the ceiling. The elegant leather seats were torn from their tracks, piled in a chaotic jumble of debris. Emergency lighting cast an eerie, sickly glow over the destruction.
“Drop the weapon! Hands where I can see them!” a voice roared from the darkness ahead.
I froze, dropping the rifle to the floor and raising my empty hands. “I’m Captain Hayes! United States Air Force. I’m friendly!”
A flashlight beam hit me square in the face, blinding me.
“Viper Leader?” the voice asked, lowering the beam slightly.
I blinked against the spots in my vision. Standing ten feet away, using an overturned conference table as a barricade, was Special Agent Miller, the head of the presidential detail. His suit was torn, his face covered in soot, and he was holding a submachine gun trained directly on my chest.
Behind him, huddled in the corner of the ruined conference room, was the President of the United States. He looked shaken, pale, and exhausted, but he was alive. His left arm was wrapped tightly around a heavy, silver metal briefcase.
“Captain Hayes,” the President said, his voice raspy but steady. “We saw your jet go down on the radar before the crash. We thought you were dead.”
“I’m hard to kill, Mr. President,” I said, stepping slowly forward. “We don't have much time. The men outside aren't a rescue team. They’re mercenaries working for General Vance. They staged the attack. They want whatever is in that briefcase.”
Agent Miller lowered his weapon, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Vance. You’re sure about this, Captain?”
“I found one of their pilots,” I said, urgency bleeding into my voice. “He was carrying a comms unit directly linked to Vance. Sir, we need to move. They’re going to breach the hull any second. We have to get you into the deep woods and hide until loyal forces arrive.”
The President nodded, struggling to stand. He clutched the briefcase tighter against his chest.