Maran gasped, his breath quickened. He had the receiver in his hand, but there was no signal on it. Amber was too far away for it to register. They would have to circle the area fast in the hopes of picking it up. In the ambulance, Sergei spun the steering wheel. The vehicle screeched around the turn. He turned on the siren, hit the accelerator, swerved in time to avoid a traumatized driver in a compact convertible. “Go! Go! Straight. Straight ahead. We’ve got to get to her before those…shit!” “Keep your tool cool,” Sergei’s words rolled. “You’ll piss your pants, Bra-zzee,” he said in his Russian accent using the tongue-in-cheek Army nickname he reserved for his partner, “Brass Balls,” a testament to Maran’s loyalty to his men in the face of abusive higher officers. He hoped to calm him, flashed the maniacal smile Maran had come to rely on. On the verge of panic, Maran rallied once again.
