"Helicopter 2 shot down!" shouts black Jack, jumping off the upper tier, which has been torn apart by the explosion.
Outside, machine guns are firing incessantly. Dust and concrete debris are flying everywhere. I change the magazine on my Kalashnikov.
"Fuck! What's wrong with them?! Do they have unlimited ammunition?!"
"We need to try below," says Jack, and I nod in response.
We quickly descend the steps, which have been reduced to sand, almost sliding down. There is even more dust and smoke in the narrow, dilapidated neighborhoods.
"Like in nigger's ass," Jack jokes, flashing his white-toothed smile. From the side, he reminds me of a young Ray Charles.
We move along the bullet-riddled walls in short bursts. A large-caliber machine gun continues to systematically fire at the upper tier. It's impossible to raise your head there now. I'm sure the snipers are on the alert too.
A figure in white flashes in the black opening of the window.
"Jack! At 2 o'clock!" I shout, raising my rifle, firing a burst into the darkness and, judging by the short groan, hitting my target.
"Ready," my partner says, shooting the second Daesh fighter at point-blank range. "Don't stop. They're coming out of every hole here."
Trying not to expose ourselves, we gradually advance toward the landing point. The street opens up into a small market square, which is being shot through. Ahead, three fighters in Syrian uniforms, occupying a fortified firing position, are actively firing at the Daesh fighters entrenched opposite them. We use their lively fire to catch our breath. One Syrian, noticing me, smiles from under his aristocratically curled mustache and waves his hand playfully. I mentally name him Sinbad.
The next second, the guys are hit by a homemade mortar shell. Dry earth mixed with pieces of flesh and entrails flies in all directions. That's it. The position is suppressed. The militants will be here soon. That means we have to get out of here.
"Where are our helicopter pilots?! Where are our brave falcons... Bitches..." I grit my teeth in pain. Two shrapnel fragments as thin as needles are stuck in my forearm. A local muscle spasm occurs, the muscle itself clamps down on the bleeding, followed by a release of platelets.
Hiding behind a well, then behind a fragment of a half-collapsed wall, we finally take refuge in a dark passageway. Trying not to crunch the brick debris, we delve deeper into the labyrinth of dark corridors of the old fortress. Thin rays of light shine through the medieval loopholes.
Suddenly, we sense some movement ahead. Without saying a word, Jack and I freeze, pressing ourselves into the nearest niche in the wall. Two Daesh fighters, obviously not expecting to meet anyone here, are busy pulling a wire. I gesture that I will take the first one. Jack nods.
As soon as the militants are close to our position, I sneak up behind them and quickly slit the first one's throat. He chokes, drowning in his own blood. Jack kills the second one, driving a knife into his neck.
"Looks like they've mined everything here," Jack remarks, examining the wire. "We need to hurry."
We continue moving through the tunnels of the old fortress. Above, where the blue sky is visible through cracks in the walls, we hear the sound of blades. It seems that Helicopter-1 has finally reached its destination. The sound of the propellers becomes a buzzing noise. It seems that the machine is hovering in the air. The whistle of an air-to-ground missile is heard. There is a dull explosion, and the annoying rattling of a large-caliber machine gun stops. Finally!
The helicopter, barely touching the ground, begins to pick up our guys. Jack rushes to the exit, where the lifesaving aircraft looms. The last thing I notice is a thin thread of tension in the doorway. I try in vain to shout something, but the blast wave deafens me and throws me back.
The last thing I see is an eight-year-old girl standing in front of me, staring straight into my eyes without blinking. Her long, straight hair is neatly combed and pinned up on the sides. She is wearing a light-colored dress with wide pleats on the skirt. It is elegant, but without excess, in the manner of a schoolgirl. Her face is deathly pale, and her hands are just as white and lifeless. I realize that I am losing consciousness.