Maracaibo was as dark as the grave, and the irony was not lost on him.
The nightly chaos introduced with the occupation was wholly absent. He was briefly reminded of the humid summer evenings in Charleston and the quiet of Kanawha Boulevard after the bars closed.
His eyes drifted from the street to her and his thoughts raced the 2,000 miles back to Venezuela.
“My battalion leaves tomorrow for Bolívar.”
The invasion had certainly experienced many ups and down, but both were painfully aware the highlands were a deathtrap.
“Yanqui,” she whispered, “leave with me.”