Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,24

as though she were in a wonderful bed.

King noticed Sara’s body go slightly limp beneath him. If she passed out it would make for a rough landing. Hell, it was going to be rough already. But if she were unconscious, someone would most likely get hurt. He knocked on her helmet with his fist. “You okay?”

“Never better,” came Sara’s reply through his earpiece. “I’m—”

“King, LZ is compromised,” Knight said coolly.

King looked past Sara’s helmet and saw crisscrossing patterns of tracer fire slicing across the field that was supposed to be their deserted landing zone. King had no idea who the combatants were and had no time to ponder about it. Damnit, where are you, Deep Blue, King thought. They could have used him now. But he wasn’t there, and King would have to trust what he could see with his own two eyes.

The field was surrounded by miles of thick jungle and uneven terrain. There was nowhere else to go.

“Land at the edge of the northern jungle and hump it inside as soon as you hit. Protect Pawn. Shoot to kill.”

Sara’s body went rigid and her breathing became frantic. She’d never been in a firefight and they were dropping straight into a war zone! She felt a second knock on her helmet.

“Sorry, Pawn,” King said in her ear. “This is gonna hurt.”

NINE

Annamite Convergence Zone—Laos

CHAOS REIGNED AS the Chess Team hit the thousand-foot mark and deployed their chutes. Their parachutes snapped open loudly, but the sound was drowned out by the staccato machine gun fire being traded by the opposing forces below. With their one-hundred-twenty-mile-per-hour descent slowed significantly, the odds of surviving a normal landing improved greatly, but they were far from traveling at a safe speed . . . and this was no normal landing.

With ten seconds to impact, there was no time to issue orders, change plans, or even hope for the best. From the moment the tracers were first seen and King’s initial orders were given the team had been relying on their single greatest asset: instinct. It told them to come in fast. To roll, cut loose, and make for the trees. To stay together.

Only one of them lacked these instincts.

Pawn.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!” The words issued forth as if she were a stutterer on speed. Sara whipped her head from side to side, taking in the crisscrossing bolts of light that revealed the path of thousands of invisible bullets. Her subconscious told her to pray. Death loomed and her maker would soon greet her, but she couldn’t get past “Oh, God.” Perhaps it would be enough?

Then a voice penetrated her mania. “Go loose, Pawn!”

Without fully registering the statement, her body obeyed and went slack. She heard the sound of tearing fabric, a grunt, and then met the ground. The world went dizzy as she was turned over, cut loose, and shoved away. She fell face-first into soft, muddy earth, surrounded on all sides by four-foot-tall reeds.

“King, this place is crawling,” came Rook’s voice in her ear. “The forest is a no-go for now.” She looked to the side, expecting to see Rook beside her, but she couldn’t see anything but reeds in all directions, lit from above by the angry fireflies flitting back and forth.

Not fireflies. Bullets.

“How many?” King replied.

“I’m seeing ten to fifteen,” Knight said as he scanned the reeds with a pair of night vision goggles. “From each side. These guys are looking to engage at close range and we’re at ground zero.”

Sara felt a hand wrap around her mouth and tried to scream, but her voice was muffled. She was yanked around and found King’s face only inches from hers. He put his finger to his lips, shushing her.

“Bishop,” King said. “Waist level. Full spread.”

“I’m ready,” Bishop said. It was unusual for him to be called into action at the outset of a mission, but his skills were obviously called for.

King pushed Sara down, lying on top of her so that the side of her face squished into the mud and the chaos finally got to her. She breathed deep as the tracer fire left purple streaks in her vision, the ceaseless pop of gunfire pricked her skin like hot needles, and the wet mud itched her face. Something in her mind snapped, almost audibly, like a breaking branch. She screamed like a banshee, but no one heard.

Not over the staccato roar of Bishop’s machine gun.

With each fired round, he loosed the pure rage built up inside him—a product of childhood