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own assorted grenades. Flashlights were mounted on their primary weapons.
    They ritualistically put on their flak jackets with the IFAK in its sealed plastic container packed behind the body armor. Vega marveled at how much gear they actually had. She spread black face paint over her cheeks and face. A long time had passed since her last night mission, and the added element of risk enhanced her sense of anticipation. She preferred to be a little lighter on her feet, but all the extra gear heightened her excitement.
    "Heavy shit, boss," Miles said. "No night vision goggles? Helmets? What's the op?"
    They trusted Bob enough to suit up before they agreed to the mission, and they were extremely eager.
    Bob looked at them, and Vega always found it amazing that the gear never hid his girth. He looked heavy and off balance, but she knew from experience that he was a damn good field commander. He always kept his cool and never did anything stupid.
    "We expecting help?" Vega asked.
    "We're meeting another crew on the ground near the target," Bob replied. "An old friend of mine named Nick Crater, and he'll have about thirty hand-picked men, maybe more. I was supposed to go with them, but I wanted to bring the best mercs I could find for the ride."
    Miles smiled, "Aww, shucks. That's awfully kind of ya to think of poor ol' Miles and Vega."
    "You got something better to do?" Bob's bushy white eyebrows furrowed over his bright eyes. He and Miles got along as a matter of course; they respected each other, but their personalities often clashed.
    "I've heard of Crater," Miles sat back and looked at Bob as if he were calling his bluff. "He's a loose cannon, and he's not exactly a merc, either."
    "If you stop running your mouth for a damn minute, I can start."
    Vega was growing impatient with Miles, too. He never knew when to shut the hell up. Then again, any man who could doze after snorting lines of coke might never be satisfied with the answers that life tried to provide.
    "That shit you saw on TV is live. Detroit's on fire and every swinging dick with a gun is going to be there for the big show. This is it, the real deal. We're not the only mercs going in there."
    "Who hired us?" Vega asked.
    "Classified."
    "Listen, boss, this bird is practically fucking civilian…" Miles began.
    "We're not expected back," Vega interrupted.
    "Cut the shit," Bob looked straight at her. "Now, listen up. We’re going to be dropped on the roof of the Marriott at the Renaissance Center where this bird is supposed to evac VIPs. Bunch of white boys in suits."
    "It's right on the Detroit River," Miles said. "But wouldn't there be a safer place for evac?""That whole area's locked down, and the city's under quarantine. We're only being dropped in because that's where this bird is headed, and I couldn't get any other transport closer to our actual target."
    Miles nodded. "I getcha, boss. But what the hell's going on?"
    "A riot."
    For a moment, an uncomfortable silence settled between the trio, while the helicopter pounded the sky toward Detroit.
    "If the city's under quarantine, they're trying to contain whatever's going on," Miles mused aloud. "Do we expect our drop to be hot?"
    Bob nodded. "We're looking for one specific target. His name's James Traverse, former Special Forces. We're pulling him out of Eloise Fields, a nut hospital. The guy skinned an entire family alive and hung their skin on the wall." Bob paused for a moment, grinding his teeth. "He called it art."
    Bob had an iPad with a picture of their target on the screen. He passed it around between them; with blank eyes and black hair combed over the side of his head, Traverse hardly seemed a soldier at all. Not a single line of age or stress creased his hairless cheeks.
    "A lot of Intel on this guy's classified," Bob said. "We know he was in Egypt with an entire team of commandos who were wiped out. He reported what he found, but none of that's available to us, either. Whatever happened right after, he