Speed checked the batteries in his optics, then dangled a line of tobacco spit into an empty Rip It can. Muted heavy metal leaked from Cook’s headphones. I recognized the song, though I couldn’t remember the title; it had been popular when I was with the Marines. Cook loaded a thirty-round magazine from a stripper clip, then slapped the mag against his palm. The precombat inspections went quietly, with none of the pumping up or slamming helmets together I saw in movies. There was some small talk—old video games, the foods they missed—but mostly they focused on making sure their gear was ready. The point was to stay loose. Once in action, the training would take care of the rest. “What do you miss most, Moret?” Speed asked. “Close air support,” she said, then went back to jury-rigging a rifle sling with paracord. Riggs was hunting us, but he wouldn’t have to look hard. We were headed for the coast, for a safe port, and then we were going straight at him and Samael.
