Doan matter, I got people to find and kill. It comes in fast and low. Right through the smoke and shit. Tracers comin' outta the far tree line reach for it. It blocks our shots.
Snakes roll in outta somewhere.
The tracers stop. Sam grabs five 'yards and runs like a stallion for the bird. They're hardly in and it lifts. We can shoot again, and do. Man, those are our 'yards.