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Anna leapt for the branch overhead. Her boots landed back where they started, and she glared at the ten feet of smooth trunk. Banana trees were not meant for climbing.
She wiggled out of her backpack and pulled her shirt overhead. Rifle slung over her back, she fed the shirt around the trunk, fisted both ends, and twisted the fabric around her hands. She shimmied the shirt up the tree as her feet dug into the stalk. She worked her way to the sole mass of foliage sprouting from the top, loosened a hand, and latched onto a thick stem. Settling among leaves as long as she was tall, she aimed her scope down the packed stretch of dirt below.
Rapid gunfire blasted in the distance, the Humvee appearing in her sights. A driver in the front, half a dozen women clad in bras and underwear in
