MV PetrelM
arco Sanpere flicked his smoke over the rail of the merchant ship that was wallowing in some fairly big waves. He watched the moon bob up and down as the deck rose, twisted, and plunged under his feet. They were about a day and a half from the rendezvous off New Orleans at which point he would enjoy kicking a few black asses. He was more than a little tired of pretending to be a solicitous escort and babysitter for that gaggle of kafirs down below decks.
His buddy Samuel Imshana, an old pal from their days with the 13th Demi-Brigade, said it was necessary to play it cool and keep the Africans healthy and clueless. He was probably right. The money was good. More than that. The money was unbelievable for a guy whose only skill was humping heavy loads, busting heads as required,
