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recited as part of a litany of shattered innocence, victims lost in the violent struggle for control of the city's streets.
    Why should she feel bad for a little girl? Nobody came back to rescue her when she was young. Daddy sacrificed himself for some obscure political cause, leaving her to a world of ghosts and war. Out in the desert, she always turned her back on the screaming children and their teary-eyed mothers. Fuck them.
    After the two soldiers melted into a sweaty mess in the sheets, Miles shut his eyes and dozed, while Vega continued to watch the news. The little girl with the big smile seemed to linger on the screen, and the tired mercenary thought she could hear her father's voice somewhere, calling her into his bedroom to say goodbye.
     
    ***
    Their brief nap was interrupted by a knock on their hotel room door.
    A Beretta M9 appeared in Miles's right hand, and he was as alert as he'd been, and it was as if he'd never fallen asleep at all. "We weren't that loud, were we?"
    Vega stood in her underwear and shouted, " Qué pasa con la revolución?" she hoped the phrase, "What about the revolution?" would be answered by their team leader. If the reply came, there was going to be a mission.
    There was a long pause. Miles frowned and kept both hands on the semi-auto, while Vega stood completely still.
    On the other side of the door, a gruff voice said, "La revolución está vivo ," (the revolution is alive and well). "Now open the fucking door and cut the shit."
    Miles dipped his head back and allowed his mouth to hang open in relief. Vega had to tell herself not to run to the door.
    In the hallway stood Bob Fields, their liaison for all contracts. He was known simply as Bob, and whatever strange and tragic past he owned remained shrouded in mystery. Bob often went with Vega and Miles on several missions to be sure they wouldn't fuck anything up and cost them money. He didn't look anything at all like a special forces hardass; with his potbelly stretching his black tee-shirt past his waistline and a neatly-trimmed, bushy white beard reaching down to his chest, he looked more like an old biker who'd rather be sitting at the bar with a beer.
    Bob pushed his way past her. "Get some clothes on, you pigs," he growled at them. "We roll out in two minutes. You did one thing right, for once: got yourselves a place next to an airport." His eyes looked up at the TV.
    "Take a good look," Bob said. "We're going to be in that shit-hole soon enough."
    Before either Vega or Miles could ask questions, Bob said, "Gas ain't cheap, kept the motor running. Get your shit and let's go! You'll be briefed in the chopper."
    Bob was always a pain in the ass.
    They dressed and Bob drove them to the airport in his rental car. He didn't say much because he likely had the Intel and gear for the mission all in one spot. Bob was trustworthy—his missions always yielded enough money for them to feed their habits.
When they approached the CH-149 Comorant helicopter on the runway, which waited for them at the airport, rotors thundering, Miles couldn't resist saying, "I forgot the Canadians even owned helicopters."
    "This is all that's available," Bob replied. "It's being used for evac, and I was lucky to find it. This was a last-minute scramble."
    Vega understood something else about the Canadians flying them out to Detroit: government money was being spent on their mission, which meant the situation was desperate.
    Inside the chopper, they found their gear and immediately suited up in their gray urban camouflage. All of their weapons were U.S. military issue. Vega was proficient with a sniper rifle, and she was quite pleased to see an M25 waiting for her. An MP5 submachine gun and a complement of hand grenades rounded out her personal arsenal, in addition to the Beretta and combat knife she already carried. Miles was given an M16 assault rifle with an M203 grenade launcher and several grenades, while Bob brandished a black Benelli M4 shotgun and his