The helicopter hummed steadily through the night, the mountainous terrain stretching endlessly beneath them. August's mind ticked through the calculations as he guided the light-framed craft: five refuels so far, each stop brief, necessary, and precise.
The third had been tense—an improvised detour to one of the Taliban's own supply caches. Quietly, efficiently, August siphoned enough fuel to stretch their journey farther, and no one had caught on.
Hours had passed in the air. Layla's legs were stiff, cramped from hours of sitting in the cramped cockpit. She had swapped her dusty clothes for warmer layers, wrapping herself against the cold that sliced through the high-altitude wind.
Even with the engine's hum filling the cabin, a thin layer of frost clung to the edges of the metal frame, and she shivered despite her best efforts.
Layla's eyes met his, uncertainty in her gaze. "I… I don't even know how long we've been flying," she muttered, stretching her legs as best she could. "Hours?"
"Long enough that your legs feel it," August replied, eyes back on the horizon. "Cold enough that the layers help." His gaze swept the dark landscape below. "And smart enough to know a few detours pay off." He didn't elaborate; she didn't need the details.
Silence settled again, filled only by the drone of the rotors. For a while, it was just the wind and the faint creak of the frame in the cold air. Then August spoke, his tone low, deliberate—less like he'd decided, more like he'd finally said aloud what he'd been thinking since their third refuel stop.
"We're going to Saudi Arabia." August's voice is steady, leaving no room for argument.
Layla's eyes snap to him, a mix of confusion and disbelief. "Why? Isn't that… dangerous?"
"Less dangerous than staying here," he replies, eyes fixed on the horizon. "We'll keep a low profile, get what we need, and move fast. It's not permanent."
Layla hesitates, biting her lip. She knows he's right—staying isn't an option. Still, the thought of another unfamiliar place, more foreign faces and voices, makes her chest tight. "But… Do you even know anyone there?"
August's gaze softens for a fraction of a second. "Maybe."
"What do you mean 'Maybe'?" Layla's eyes narrow with irritation.
August exhales, running a hand through his hair. "I know of someone. Not sure if they're still around."
Layla huffs, crossing her arms tighter. "And then what? Where to?"
August's eyes flicker to the horizon, his voice steady. "America."
Layla's face contorts in disbelief, then a glimmer of hope sparks in her eyes. "A... America?" she breathes, speaking softly over the helicopter's din. "You mean... you mean we could really go there?" Her posture straightens slightly. "But how? How is that even possible?" She pauses, then continues, "I-"
Layla's thoughts are interrupted as a sudden crack of gunfire rings out from somewhere below, the sound carried on the mountain winds. Startled, Layla ducks instinctively, her hands clutching the rifle tightly once again. "W-what was that?" she asks, speaking quickly. "Were those gunshots? Are they... are they following us?"
August scans the skies and surroundings, his posture tense. There's no sign of immediate threat, but his instincts are screaming. "Turn off the searchlight. It's on your side, top panel."
Layla's hands shake as she fumbles with the searchlight controls, her fingers brushing against the switches before finally finding the right one. The beam of light disappears, plunging the helicopter into darkness save for the dim glow of the instrument panel. The sudden change in visibility makes Layla gasp, her grip on the rifle tightening once more. "I... I can't see anything now," she whispers, her words laced with fear. "What if we crash?"
"We're too high up for that," August replies, his tone even. "And this isn't a country where we have to worry about airplanes and jets."
He guides the helicopter through the dark mountain valleys, his awareness on high alert. The engines hum steadily, the rotor blades slicing through the crisp mountain air. Shadows loom below, deep and foreboding, but August's focus never wavers.
Layla's breaths come quick and shallow, her eyes flicking between the darkness outside and August's steady expression. The absence of the searchlight makes every shadow feel heavier, every gust of wind more ominous.
"So…," August pauses, the words catching slightly in his throat. "How's a life away from here sound to you?"
Layla's face contorts in shock at his question. "I... I don't know," she stammers, speaking softly over the helicopter's din. "It's all I've ever known. Everything I was taught…" She trails off, conflict evident on her face. "But after everything we've seen... everything we've done…" Layla's words become more subdued. "Maybe... maybe it's time for something new." She continues, speaking softly over the helicopter's drone. "It's not supposed to be like this. The violence, anger… That's not what Islam teaches, right?"
August lets out a harsh breath, fingers flexing momentarily on the controls. "Many people are idiots," he says bluntly. "The smart, evil people take advantage of the young and foolish. That's how messes like these start."
Layla flinches slightly at the bitterness in his voice, but she doesn't argue. Deep down, she knows he's not entirely wrong.
Suddenly, the radio in the helicopter crackles to life, filling their headsets with static. A distorted voice comes through, speaking in Pashto: "One of our own spotted, moving southwest against orders. All units, converge on Sector 4 immediately. Do not engage until confirmed sighting." The voice is hurried, laced with urgency.
Layla's face drains of color. "That was... that was them, wasn't it?" she whispers, speaking softly. "They're still looking for us."
August's eyes narrow, his hands tightening on the controls. "Of course they are," he mutters. "Bastards don't give up easily."
The helicopter crests a ridge, and for a fleeting moment, the lights of the Saudi border glint in the distance. Relief flickers in Layla's eyes, her breaths slowing—until a sudden flash of light illuminates the cockpit.
Gunfire.
The helicopter rocks violently, a barrage of bullets tearing into the fuselage with sickening force. Alarms blare as smoke spews from the engine compartment, thick and acrid. August grits his teeth, fighting the controls with all his strength.
"We're going down!" he barks. "Hold on to something!"
The craft spins out of control, spiraling towards the dark, jagged terrain below. Layla's scream rips through the chaos, her hands white-knuckled on the sides of her seat.
The impact comes hard and brutal. The helicopter slams into the rocky, forested ground with a deafening crash, metal shrieking and glass exploding inward. The force throws them forward, safety harnesses straining to the limit.
For a moment, there's only darkness—thick and suffocating. Then, the world tilts back into focus, filled with the sharp tang of smoke and the distant echo of gunfire.
August shakes his head, a curse low in his throat as he struggles to gather himself. The world is a blur of smoke and dust, the smell of burning metal thick in the air. His hands are still locked on the controls, his heart hammering in his chest as the helicopter's alarms continue to scream.
He looks at Layla, his eyes immediately locking onto her—something's wrong. Blood seeps through the fabric of her sleeve, staining it dark. Beneath, the raw, jagged wound from shrapnel is glaringly visible.
Her face is pale, her eyes wide with shock, but she forces a strained smile, even as she clutches her arm in a feeble attempt to staunch the bleeding. "I'm fine... I think." Her voice cracks with the lie.
August's expression hardens, his hand moving to his own harness, tearing it off in one swift motion. His instincts kick in, and he moves toward her. He's already calculating the next steps—get out of the wreckage, find cover, assess their options—but seeing her injured makes everything else feel secondary.
He kneels beside her, looking at the injury. "This isn't 'fine,'" he mutters, his tone cold but laced with concern. "Can you stand?"
Layla grits her teeth, a small groan escaping as she shifts. "I… I think so," she mumbles, wincing. "But… what now?" Her eyes dart around the crashed helicopter, now little more than a smoking wreck.
August quickly exits the wreckage, scanning the surroundings. The moon casts long shadows over the rocky landscape.
Layla struggles to her feet, cradling her injured arm, and retrieves her book bag from the damaged helicopter. Her face contorts in pain, but she doesn't complain as she follows him outside.
In the far distance, headlights bounce across the rocky terrain. August's hearing picks up voices drifting on the wind—they're getting closer. The crash site wasn't as concealed as August had hoped.
"Grab what you can. We're moving on foot," he orders, already swinging out to the side of the wreckage.
Layla swallows hard, cradling her injured arm, but manages to snatch her book bag from the mangled cabin. Her face contorts with pain, but she doesn't complain, gritting through it as she stumbles after him.
August slings the duffel bags over his shoulders, the weight barely registering. He turns to Layla, his eyes sharp. "I'll carry you," he says, leaving no room for argument.
Layla's eyes flicker with protest, but she sways on her feet, the world spinning from blood loss and shock. She exhales shakily, nodding.
"Alright," August says, voice steady, bending slightly to scoop her up. "Hold on tight."
Layla barely has time to tighten her grip before he hoists her over his shoulder, her injured arm dangling limply. Her breath comes in short gasps, a mix of pain and fear, but she bites down hard, refusing to slow him down.
The headlights grow brighter, voices cutting through the night air—Taliban forces closing in fast. August's eyes narrow, and without hesitation, he bolts forward. But instead of sticking to the ground, he leaps, feet hitting the trunk of a nearby tree with enough force to splinter bark.
Layla's eyes widen, a startled gasp escaping as August kicks off, launching them into the air. He lands on a thick branch, barely pausing before springing to the next, then the next, movements fluid and terrifyingly fast.
Wind howls past, and Layla squeezes her eyes shut, clutching at his shirt with her good arm. The landscape blurs beneath them, the sound of boots and shouts fading rapidly as August puts distance between them and the crash site.
Branches whip by, but he doesn't falter, weaving through the treetops with inhuman precision. His enhanced senses pick out the safest paths, boots barely making a sound despite the speed.
Layla risks a glance down, her stomach lurching at the sight of the forest floor speeding by far below. "This is… insane," she breathes, voice tight.
"Would you rather walk?" August deadpans, leaping to another tree without missing a beat.
She huffs, the faintest ghost of a laugh breaking through the pain. "No… just—warn me next time."
"Noted." His tone is dry, but there's a flicker of amusement beneath it—brief, almost imperceptible. It then changes to concern. "We need to get that wound fixed."
"Noted." His tone is dry, but there's a flicker of amusement beneath it—brief, almost imperceptible. It then shifts to concern, eyes flicking to the blood soaking through her sleeve. "We need to get that wound fixed."
Layla grits her teeth, forcing herself to stay conscious despite the throbbing pain. "It's… it's not that bad," she mumbles, but the way her voice wavers betrays her.
"Bullshit," August snaps, his grip tightening slightly. "You're losing too much blood."
He lands on another branch, pausing just long enough to adjust his hold on her, making sure her injured arm isn't jostled. The sharp scent of copper fills the air—hers, not his. It makes his jaw clench.
"There's a river nearby," he mutters, the sound of rushing water in the distance picked up by his hearing. "We'll stop there, clean the wound, and bandage it. Just hang on."
Layla doesn't argue this time, eyelids fluttering as she fights to stay awake. "Okay…" she breathes, her voice small.
August moves faster, each leap carrying them farther into the forest, away from the headlights and voices. The urgency in his movements is unmistakable—calculated but edged with something raw, something desperate.