Her gut drops as she falls from the sky. Spinning. She cries mayday into her headset. She's focused. Terrified. Fighting to balance the machine. The ground draws closer. The craft rolls to the left. She braces.

Metal crunches against stone. Dirt flings in the air. The rotors smash into the ground, snapping to pieces as the windshield fractures against the barrage of rocks and dust beating against it. Sliding down the hill, she continues to brace herself with no more than her harness keeping her seated. The cockpit shakes, violently, filling with dirt and dust as small pieces of rock pelt her body. There's nothing more she can do - only ride it out.

Lexi grits her teeth and holds tight until the craft finally comes to a halt at the bottom of the slope. Dust covers her line of sight. Her right hand still grasps the control stick and her left hand clutches the harness. The ear bursting sounds are now replaced by a deafening silence.

She just crashed a $5.9 million United States Army UH-60L Blackhawk.

The chopper rests on its left side, placing her up in the air, on the right side of the cockpit. She looks to her left, toward the ground. Her copilot is slumped against his side of the craft. He's not moving. Lexi finally lets go of the stick and grabs her harness with both hands. Gravity pulls her to the left, fighting to drag her out of the seat. She attempts to call to her partner. Nothing comes out. Still in shock, she struggles to utter a word. She clears her throat, coughing out the dust, and tries again.

"Rick," she mutters hoarsely. No response. Lexi strains to see him through the settling dust. Her eyes catch the crimson blood on the windshield. She looks down at her left arm. More blood. Then she touches her face and pulls away to see the same red blood on her gloved fingertips. But it's not hers.

She looks back to her copilot. "Rick, please- please get up," she begs more desperately. Still nothing.

Lexi begins to shake. The adrenaline recedes from her body, leaving her veins cold and her limbs weak. What now? Tears collect in her eyes, as her mind and body attempt to process the emotions and sensations of what just happened. She takes in short gasps of air, which her lungs immediately reject, kicking out the dust.

The coughing fit subsides. Lexi then tries to assess her situation, fighting back her tears. The muscles in her neck and shoulders are tight - whiplash. Everything hurts. She hears the distant clack, clack, clack of gunfire coming from the raging battle on the other side of the hill. The bright sun roasts the helicopter, raising the temperature above one hundred and five degrees Fahrenheit. Attempting to ignore the ache in her neck and the sweat soaking her body, she looks toward the rear of the craft. Lexi observes the massive hole in the left side of the chopper, ripped open by the RPG. 

The crew is missing. Her gunner and medic were either thrown out or decimated in the explosion. Evidence of more blood, indicate the possibility of the latter. 'Maybe they're alive' Lexi thinks to herself. 'Maybe they dropped out just before we hit the ground.' Or is she alone?

No. She's not alone. Lexi's heart drops, when her mind finally catches up; she's an American pilot in a hostile country, surrounded by men who would have no greater pleasure than to decapitate her on camera. They would then submit the footage to Al Jazira for her widowed father to witness the final moments of his only daughter.

As if on cue, Lexi looks up to see her greatest fear becoming a reality. At first, she only sees a few shapes through the smoke and dust. But there's no denying what those shapes bring with them - certain death.

"Shhhit!" Exclaims Lexi, drawing out the word. "Shit, shit, shit." The figures move toward her with purpose. She guesses they're about four hundred feet away and closing quickly.

In a panic, she struggles to push the button on her harness to release her from its grasp. The tension from her body pulling against the belt strains the latch, not allowing it to detach. It won't move. Lexi continues her string of profanities as she quickly readjusts herself to relieve the tension. Finally, it gives.

Dropping to her left, she flops down onto her copilot's corpse. Lexi quickly pushes herself off his body. Now up close to her friend, she sees the massive wound in his neck. A piece of shrapnel tore it in half, nearly decapitating him. His jaw is slacked and his eyes bulge from their sockets.

A wave of sickness drowns her body. Lexi's breathing hastens. Panic sets in. Claustrophobia crushes her, caged in hot metal and broken glass.

She climbs over Rick's body and then around the chairs for the missing medic and machine gunner. The massive hole on the left side of the chopper provides no evacuation as it's flush with the ground. She looks up to see the right sliding door still opened. That's her exit.

Unlatching her helmet, Lexi tosses it aside, along with her headset. Before making her way out, she crouches down and glances through the windshield. The figures are more clear, now that the dust is settled. They're closing in. She doesn't have much time.

---

Rome, Italy | 06:17 hours

She springs from her bed, soaked in sweat. Lexi Remington dashes for the bathroom, swinging the door behind her in a failed attempt to shut it. Falling to her knees, she leans over the toilet bowl and opens her mouth. Her stomach clenches as it disposes her last meal. Her throat burns, but it's over as soon as it started.

She relaxes, elbows on the toilet seat and her hands on either side of her face. In all her years of aviation, she has never experienced motion sickness, let alone the day after flying. What the hell is wrong with her body? Why hasn't it figured out she's on the ground?

After a couple spits to clear her mouth, she reaches for the handle and flushes the toilet. Lexi then uses the sleeve of her Blink-182 T-shirt to wipe her mouth. The shirt has become a regular part of her sleepwear. Nearly twenty years old, it bears the stains and tears of a beloved garment, which has clearly seen better days.

The room is dark. A thin strip of light spills in through the cracked door. The cool bathroom floor offers a relieving touch to her bare knees. She slides into a sitting position, with her legs stretched out, providing their backs with the same relief. Sweat glistens along her brow. The nightmares are becoming more lucid - repeated flashbacks of the hot desert, cold mountains, and blood - always blood. She suddenly feels awkward and vulnerable, dressed in only underwear and an old T-shirt.

The door swings open.

"You okay?" His voice is deep. Lexi's husband stands in the doorway wearing a concerned look on his face.

She smears the sweat off her face with the back of her forearm and then looks up at him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she lies. Then pulling herself to her feet she leans against the smooth edge of the counter top.

"You still feeling sick? I'm gonna be pissed if you caught the flu, now that we're finally in Italy," Sam Remington jokes. Her husband of ten years understands Lexi's disdain for pity and now offers very little.

"I don't think it's the flu," says Lexi. "I don't have any other symptoms. Pretty sure I'm just... still feeling a little off from the flight."

"That doesn't make any sense," Sam interjects, shaking his head. "We've been on the ground for more than twelve hours and you're still feeling sick? Plus, if I recall, I'm pretty sure you've been in worse flights on tour."

Lexi looks him over. Although approaching forty years old, Sam is incredibly fit. She takes a moment to admire his physique. He leans against the wall in just his boxers, with his arms folded, exaggerating his already bulging biceps. Although largely built, Sam is very toned, showing off the details of his muscles. Besides a few small scars here and there, she's surprised he's lasted this long in his career without much visible harm to his body. The large tattoos on his back and shoulders nearly blend in with his dark skin. His long thin dreadlocks are pulled up, hanging off the back of his head in one giant mass, and a closely trimmed beard sits neatly across his face. He is well groomed, but warrior-like in his demeanor.

She walks over to him and places her hand on his chest. Looking him in the eyes she says, "I'm fine. Don't you worry about me."

She then stands on her toes to give him a kiss, but he pulls away. "Oh, hell no. You brush your teeth," he laughs. "I don't need none of that vomit mouth up in my face!"

Lexi glares and shoves him out of the doorway and into the other room. "Screw you," she says.

He chuckles. "We can do a lot of that while we're here," Sam suggests, as he gestures to the unkempt bed, with a cheesy grin across his face.

"Oh yeah? Not after that comment," states Lexi. She walks across the room and grabs her water bottle from the desk. Twisting off the cap, she takes a few gulps.

Warm sunlight works its way into the room through the thin curtain, draped in front of the balcony doors. The hotel suite offers a cozy haven for the couple, providing a couch, small kitchen, flawless king-sized bed, and a beautiful balcony view.

Sam walks up behind Lexi. He hugs her around the waist and kisses her neck. "You think you're pregnant, again?" he asks in a more serious tone. He then gently places the palms of his hands on her lower stomach, as if to cradle the potential baby.

"No," she says, after a long pause. "It's not happening, Sam." She caps the bottle and sets it on the desk. Then, turning to face him, she rests her arms around his neck, crossing her wrists.

Sam sets his hands on her waist and pulls her closer. "Doc never said it was impossible."

"Yeah, but very unlikely," Lexi responds. She sighs. "And even if I was... it wouldn't make it." She glances down at the floor and then adds, "just like the other three..." After a brief moment, she returns her eyes to his. "Sam, you promised we wouldn't talk about this anymore..." Her mind triggers bitter memories of her younger self, reading baby books and fertility blogs, followed by countless visits with the doctor, and repeated heart breaks. 

"Well... I just-"

"No. It's done. I made my decision years ago and that's it."

Sam lets out a long sigh. "Okay," he replies, surrendering to his wife. There was a time he wanted nothing more than to be a father. But when Lexi chose to decline any treatments for fertilization, he was forced to resign that dream. She even nixed adoption.

"Well," he starts, "it's our first day in Italy and we've only got five days here. So, what are we gonna do?"

Lexi smiles, happy to change the subject. "Well... first, I'm gonna take a shower," she says. "Then, we're gonna eat breakfast. And then..." She thinks for a moment, pursing her lips. "I want see the Trevi Fountain."

"Sounds like a plan," states Sam with a nod. "We should check out the Colosseum right after. They're not too far apart."

"Okay, but first - shower," demands Lexi. She pulls free from his arms and struts toward the bathroom. Sam quickly throws his hand in her direction, slapping her buttocks. His eyes follow her as she peels off the gray T-shirt and drops it to the ground. He then trails closely behind his wife.

"Oh but you're not invited," Lexi shoots back over her shoulder.

"What?" protests Sam, coming to a halt. He throws his hands in the air like an athlete reacting to an unfair call.

Lexi turns and gives him an exaggerated stern look. "Yeah. Apparently, I have 'vomit mouth.' And you're still in trouble for that comment," she adds, pointing her finger at him.

Sam, helplessly watches her walk away. "Come on, baby, don't be like that," he pouts.

She stifles a playful grin and continues her strut.

Sam shakes his head, glancing up and down Lexi's body. Standing at five-foot-six, Lexi is well built and her extensive hours of training show. Complex tattoos intertwine from her shoulders to her wrists. More ink wraps around her left thigh and on either side of her back are painted two angel wings, stretching from top to bottom.

She adorns six piercings along each ear, as well as a single stud in her right nostril. Her jet black hair barely reaches past her shoulders and currently sports streaks of bright purple. No acquaintance would believe her to be a Rancher's daughter - not with her rocker style and gypsy soul.

Lexi disappears around the corner and into the bathroom, without shutting the door. The light flips on. And then, adding insult to injury, she tosses her panties out the doorway, reminding her husband what he's missing.

"Now that's just unfair," Sam groans.

Her playful giggle echoes out the bathroom, as she pulls back the shower curtain. The water begins to spray, cascading down the shower wall and onto the base of the tub.

Sam makes his way to the bathroom just as Lexi steps into the shower. She pulls the curtain closed.

"Hope you're enjoying that lovely shower, all alone," says Sam.

"Oh, I am," she responds.

"Whelp. In that case, I'm sure you won't mind if I take a shit." He flips the toilet cover up, letting it hit the tank with a threatening thunk.

"No!" Lexi protests. "Don't you dare!"

Sam laughs to himself. "Hey," he says. "A man's gotta go when a man's gotta go."

She pulls the curtain back, enough to glare at him. Yesterday's makeup streams down her soaked cheeks. "I sure as hell ain't gonna sit here and wallow in your steamy shit," she proclaims. "You get the hell outta here and wait your turn, mister!"

Sam chuckles. "Oh fine. I'll go."

"Good." Lexi drags the curtain back to its place of privacy.

Sam starts to turn, but decides to make one more 'romantic gesture.' With a single finger, he pushes down the lever, flushing the toilet. Lexi's reaction satisfies his inner juvenile self.

The sudden out-pour of hot water surprises her and she lets out a scream. "Dammit, Samuel!" she yells from the other side of the curtain. "Why?! Why would you do that?!"

Sam laughs as he strolls out of the bathroom. "I love you!" he hollers back.

"I hate you!" Lexi responds.

---

Caracas, Venezuela | 23:42 hours

On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, President Mateo Rodríguez sits back in his leather chair, right leg crossed over his left. The sleeves of his well-pressed white shirt are neatly rolled up to his elbows. A navy blue suit jacket drapes on the back of the chair and the red silk tie hangs loosely around his neck, exposing his unbuttoned collar. He's a handsome politician - well groomed and clean shaven. Approaching his mid-fifties, he's relatively fit and his black hair only shows a few specks of silver; both of which are incredible accomplishments, considering he carries the weight of his entire country on his shoulders.

It's approaching midnight and the four disgruntled generals opposite his desk have yet to come to a conclusion. As the President of Venezuela, Rodríguez has plenty on his mind, let alone attempting to appease his highest ranking soldiers.

He uncrosses his legs and leans forward. Placing his elbows on the desk, he buries his face in his palms.

"Gentlemen," he says, addressing the room in Spanish. The generals fall silent and turn to their Commander and Chief. Looking up at them, he says, "I think we've circled this issue enough for tonight."

"Si, but we haven't accomplished anything," interjects the stout General Enriques. His hair is thinning on the top of his head, leaving the sides full and gray. Enriques is close to retiring and has become more concerned with filling his pockets than fulfilling his duties. Clawing at as much cash as he can, the issue at hand has placed him in paramount anxiety. Not to mention the possibility of facing imprisonment.

"Well, I don't see any of your ideas making way," refutes General Almanzar. Unlike Enriques, his hair is well kept and his appearance is much more attractive. He's younger than the others and looks even younger than his real age. Almanzar shot through the ranks quickly, not because he is well-liked, but because he obtains results.

"That's enough," states the exhausted Rodríguez. He takes a moment to consider the individual they've been discussing all night; Diego Perez has been a thorn in Rodríguez's side for several years now. The time for serious action is long overdue. "I've listened to you run in circles over and over again. We've let this issue fester much longer than necessary... Perez was a pain in the ass when he was in the Army and still is today." He pauses. "We know he cannot be bought; we've tried that. He's incorruptible. And clearly, your people have been too incompetent to kill him..." He looks directly at each general, disappointed in their failed efforts. "The people now see him as untouchable, thanks to your half-cocked hitmen. He's survived car bombs, poisoning, and whatever else you've tried throwing at him."

He leans back in his chair, considering his options. "Perez's security has increased. What's worse, is he's gaining more and more support from the people - his poles are skyrocketing. If we don't do something soon, I'll lose my presidency to him and you will all be left at his mercy." Rodríguez places his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers together and bringing his hands to his chin. "Now that I've made my point, I think we've put this off for far too long; I'm going to let my American friend work this out for us."

"For god's sake, Señor Presidente," starts General Enriques, shaking his head, "what can the American do that we haven't already done, ourselves?"

Rodríguez looks at Enriques and considers his question carefully. "General, I've been doing some serious thinking while you have been flapping your mouths at each other. I believe we have been going about this the wrong way the entire time; if the cartel kills him, he becomes a martyr in the drug war. The people will rally behind his death and use that momentum to keep fighting." He pauses, still working it out in his mind. "But, if someone else were to kill him... we can then have a common enemy." He allows his last few words to linger in the air as he considers their meaning.

"Señor Presidente," starts another general, "the American can't be trusted."

"He's proven resourceful," retorts Rodríguez. "He's already recruited enough agents within the rebel groups to provide us with damning intel. The American CIA has spared no expense in his training."

He looks down at his desk, as his mind continues to ponder the priceless gift the CIA has dropped into his lap. Brian Erikson has been worth every dollar spent.

"The man has connections to some of the best-trained assassins in the world. Not only that," Rodríguez adds, waving his finger at his generals, "he knows how to manipulate propaganda - how to control the media." After a brief pause, he continues, "It's done. I've made my decision."

He suddenly grabs the armrests of the chair and pushes himself up, in one motion.

"Gentlemen," he addresses them again, excitedly. "I believe we're finished for tonight. Let me work a few things out in the morning and we'll regroup."

Rodríguez quickly ushers the generals out of his office and shuts the door. He has a lot of work to do, but it can wait until morning. Now it's time to return to his home, his wife, and his bed. Blood will not be spilled