Their quads would have sputtered out empty long before they’d reached their destination, leaving them to complete their trek on foot. With Dee’s splinted leg and shot foot and Bruce growing feverish, that wasn’t an option. Though he was sweating profusely, Bruce persisted in downplaying his physical state, insisting all was well. They clambered aboard the skiff with their guns and packs, weighing the boat down in the water. They had taken boards from the town and used these as oars when necessary, the river’s current taking them downstream. Bruce sat at the bow, the barrel of the M40A3 sniper rifle resting on the portside gunwale. Riley was next to him, their backs resting against the backpacks they’d propped against the bench seat. Dee and Kevin sat towards the stern of the small boat, Kevin with a plank of wood—a makeshift oar—directly behind Bruce because Bruce was not rowing. Dee’s FN-FAL jutted out over the transom, above the water. The river had carved its channel from the earth for some two million years.
