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Road watched the river flowing two hundred feet below his boots and wondered if he’d hear the smack when he hit the water. Ghosts roiled his gut and, while the single malt didn’t help, it wasn’t intended to. He turned to the woman sitting stock-still next to him and grinned. She was rail-thin with dirty-blonde shoulder-length hair, a harsh, angular face, and a 160th soar patch on the shoulder of her flight suit. Her name tag read kurtysiak. “What do you think? Will I hear it when I hit?” She glared at him. “Is that the scotch? Or the spite?”