Micky said they had called them “go pills” years ago when he was in the Marines. “They’re amphetamines,” I protested. “They can’t be good for you.” The dashboard threw a dim light into the interior of the jeep and I could just make out his sardonic expression. “Connor. You moron. We’re heading toward a camp of armed terrorists and kidnappers. A little chemical enhancement is going to be the least of your problems.” So I had gulped them down dry and now I sat, restless and wired, as we bounced through the night. In the aftermath of the chopper attacks, Ueda had made us drag our gear back into the ready room. People were rushing around like mad and nobody was paying any attention to us. Cooke was off caring for what was left of the strike force and Reyes was in another room, phoning in to his superiors. He had looked green as he prepared to report on another debacle in this case. Only Ueda seemed untouched by the chaos at the camp, and strangely unworried. The cultural attaché glanced at his watch and looked at us significantly.
