Author's note: Thanks so much for the support and the reviews. It is certainly encouraging me to get back into my writing. I hope you enjoy. As ever let me know- J

Chapter 3

The whole of the interior of the vehicle shook with the force of the explosion and instantly the cabin was alive with sound. Comms talk buzzed in the background as the unmistakable sound of the attack chopper manoeuvring around them dropped Steve back into his memories. He wasn't sure which sounds were real and which, if any imagined, wasn't sure how much of his sense of being under attack was real or imagined either, but nonetheless powerful instincts of self preservation took over. He pulled the tac vest from its storage spot above one of the seats and fastened the velcro strips before unclipping the automatic weapon from the front and fingering the setting to semi-automatic fire. As he checked the clip the back exit door of the vehicle exploded outwards and he could almost see Sergeant Dryden shouldering it out.

Steve knew he was vulnerable even before a second rocket hit the jeep behind the truck. It exploded in a mushroom of orange flame, leaping into the air before tumbling back to the ground upside down. He felt the searing blast of heat as his vehicle rocked from the massive concussive shock wave. He didn't have time to recover before bullets slammed into the seat beside him and he looked out to the black clad men repelling down from the chopper. He still wasn't sure how much of this was real and how much his overactive memory, but he returned fire sending his enemy or his ghosts scattering as they dropped to the ground.

Were they real? Could he trust his senses when the ghosts of his colleagues still spoke into his non-existent earpiece, when he saw men long dead if he turned to look. . . How would he know what was real? What was. . . He felt a familiar punch in the arm that told him he'd been hit, and reality bit.

Time to move.

He popped the overhead hatch, hauling himself onto the roof scanning for threats as he emerged; the smoke from the two burning vehicles gave him cover. There were three of them, like last time but unlike last time these men were not professionally trained. Steve could tell that from the way they had positioned themselves, from the way they moved. It gave him a chance. He mentally calculated the odds, action and reaction; the threat assessment taking a fraction of a second because that was all he had, and then he was firing; moving before he'd even acknowledged to himself the best course to follow, in a firefight instinct ruled.

The hail of bullets that he released as he jumped down the front of the armored vehicle, took out one of his opponents, a poor choice of cover sealing the man's fate and then Steve was down hitting the ground rolling, using the vehicle as a shield from the remaining two gunmen. He let himself drop flat crab crawling backwards between the wheels and then he waited, breathing heavily, adrenaline pumping, every muscle in his body screaming at him to take action.

He remained still.

The human brain was preprogrammed to respond to anything that moved; survival required spotting predators and prey quickly, and picking out movement from surrounding stillness was evolution's answer, adequate unless your enemy knew how to remain still; Steve did.

Steve watched and waited. The two remaining men split up, preparing to trap Steve in their crossfire based on where they thought he was. He waited until one of them passed close by his position, then crept out silently, moved into place behind him and struck just as the man broke cover around the side of the vehicle to where he expected Steve to be. Double shock, one, Steve wasn't there; two, Steve had the drop on him. Expertly trained hands took a choke hold around his neck and took charge of his weapon.

Steve used the weapon to spray an arc of fire that cut the remaining gunman in half, he swivelled the gun arm back and round, peppering the ground and the downed man just for good measure, before twisting his hand to the pressure-point just behind his captive's thumb so that his weapon dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers to the ground. Then he increased the pressure around the man's throat, bringing his other hand back to press against the skull, one twist and his neck would be broken, Steve almost did it, almost made that final short jerking motion that would snap the man's spine, but he managed to stop himself, to pull back from the animal instincts that took over in a kill or be killed fight, allowing higher reasoning to take over. This man worked for the man who had Danny, he could have information, could be useful to keep alive.

He leaned forward taking huge gulps of breath to provide the oxygen his adrenaline soaked muscles needed and spoke into the man's ear in gravelly gasps. "If I twist now I can snap your neck like a popsicle stick." He pressed a little harder onto the man's throat strangling off his breathing just a little more. "Or maybe I just keep pressing until you stroke out from lack of oxygen to the brain" He dropped his voice even lower, "I know at least 15 other ways to kill you with my bare hands from this position, some of them more painful than others. Nod to let me know you understand."

Steve eased off the pressure just enough to let the man give a small nod.

"Good, now, the man you are working for has a very good friend of mine. So you are going to tell me everything you know about him, or I am going to use the slowest and most painful of those techniques to kill you." Steve twisted the man's head and pressed, eliciting a strangled grunt of pain from his captive; he couldn't draw sufficient breath for more. "Do we understand each other?"

The man gave another small nod.

"OK," Steve threw the man to the floor, and had his pistol out and pointing at the man's head before he had time to roll over. "Start talking."

The sound of the bullets thudding into the ground registered slightly after the body of the man in front of him jerked from the impact. Steve threw himself to the ground, rolling out of the way and simultaneously bringing up his pistol to fire on the forgotten about chopper as it swung in and flew towards them. The man's body danced up and down as though it was a puppet being bounced on hidden strings, as more bullets from a high powered weapon thudded into it, the chopper angled low, overhead. Steve's bullets bouncing off the fuselage, missing anything vital; in less than a second it was over them and then moving away.

Steve continued to fire, rolling to a standing position so he could take better aim at the now retreating chopper, even though he knew it had moved out of range, knew it was long over for his prisoner, knew that he had lost his last, perhaps only, chance to save Danny and that bringing the chopper down, or not, would do nothing to change that. He continued to fire until his gun clicked, empty; he squeezed the trigger once, twice more in the direction of the retreating dot, then he dropped his hands, continuing to watch for a second then two, before an urgent thought dragged him back and he turned to look at the man on the ground, the man he needed alive. He half turned away in exasperation then forced himself forward. He had to see if there was anything. . .

"C'mon," he muttered, moving to the body and dropping to one knee; he tried to check the wounds, feeling for a pulse. "C'mon Anton," he said to the man who was not Anton Hesse, his words were laced with panic, confusion, his thoughts splintering. He loosened the flack jacket trying to get a better look at the wounds, but he knew it was hopeless, there was too much blood, the wounds were. . . Damn! "No no . .no. . ." Frustration and pain edged his voice. There was nothing he could do to save him, nothing. . . He shouldn't have. . . But he hadn't had a choice; he'd had to kill. . . Hesse had the drop on him, had a gun would have. . .No! No! This wasn't Anton Hesse; this wasn't. . .Steve's reality flipped between past and present, thoughts and emotions tying the two situations together so completely that he was struggling to keep things straight, to sort out memory from reality. He shouldn't have fired, shouldn't have killed. . no, he hadn't . . .not this time, it had been the chopper, they'd. . .This wasn't. . .Damn! Why had he killed him? Why couldn't he. . .?

His phone started to ring.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .