17
Remy hurried to the fallen helicopter that was less than a quarter of a mile away. As he drew closer, he smelled fuel.
“French!” he called.
There was no response.
Fire gobbled at the twisted propeller half wedged into the side of a hill. The tail, crunched as if it were a bendy straw. Like a river, fuel leaked out, pooling on the ground. If the winds took the fire, it would light up like a Christmas tree.
“French!”
“Here.”
Remy barely heard the word. It sounded so soft and wispy. Through the billowing smoke, he saw a hand. Remy hurried over.
French was trapped under a skid. It crossed from his right shoulder to his left thigh.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Remy snapped.
“Being a hero. Catching a bad guy,” French wheezed.
Speaking of which . . . Remy cast a quick glance a
