He thumbed through the stack of bills then tossed them back onto the cot with the rest. A chilling breeze blew through the gaps and sent them swirling past the open trunk, brown rectangles lined up in its mouth. He’d only seen heroin bricks in person one other time.
He took a last look around Caine’s hootch and strode out, climbing over rubble and picking his way through the remains of the disemboweled outpost.
His lieutenant was waiting, silently. Everyone else was on board already. The two of them checked the timer and set the detonators together. Strode out to the hulking, crouching bird, rotors turning, whining, ready to claw upward.
They stopped at the base of the ramp. The lieutenant looked at him expectantly.
He knew it would come to this nonsense. He should let it go. Remember what Shannon said.
Goddamned Shannon.
Just let it go. Don’t let on.
No goddamned way.
He turned and looked in the lieutenant’s dark eyes.
“Get on the fucking helicopter, sir.”
The lieutenant looked back at him, long and probingly, before turning and stumping up into the troop compartment.
Shaking off the feeling of sudden nakedness, he turned back and looked at it. All of it. Looked up to the empty hills and mountainsides, which had taken all of them.
Not empty.
The crew gunner hollered at him through the rotor wash. He had the kid by several ranks, but helicopter crews, like medics, honor no courtesies and respect no rank. They respect the bird. It’s what keeps them in the sky.
Merrick turned away and put one boot heavily on the ramp, then the other, its sole scuffing a little cloud of dirt behind it as he stepped up.
He didn’t look out as they rose away. He looked at the ID card in his hand.