Nick pulled the pickup to the side of the road out of habit more than anything. It wasn’t like anyone would need to pass. The front half of the huge plane sat embedded in a house, torn apart on impact. Bits of blackened metal were strewn across the road in front of them. Its ass was a burned-out husk in the garage across the road. Little remained of the actual brick and tile dwelling the Hercules had hit, the walls having caved in around the wreckage. The Humvee it had been carrying lay further down the street, smashed to smithereens. Bodies were scattered around, most of them too badly decomposed to be identifiable. But their equipment he recognized just fine. These boys had been Special Forces. The Minimis, M4s and other fancy toys confirmed it. All of it was the sort of stuff that would be useful for buying Roslyn’s way into Blackstone. “There’s something you don’t see every day,” Roslyn said, gaping at the wreckage. “This isn’t going to be pretty. But I’ll feel better if we have more weaponry.”
