The mouth of the large gray cargo plane hung open like that of a great shark. Within were the many bags, stacked in rows, all oblong, all sealed, each numbered and tagged. The receiving sergeant stood atop the loading bay, dressed in fatigues with a clipboard in hand. He was nervously scanning the runway and buildings beyond. Young Nick Jordon stood below him, at the foot of the deck, behind a pair of dark sunglasses. He wore faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a pair of Nike tennis shoes. His blond hair was still cropped short and glistened in the morning sunlight.

The sergeant dropped the clipboard to his side, his cold gray eyes fell upon Nick's.

"The money?" he asked sharply. "Do you have the money?"

"Where is he?" was Nick's reply.

The sergeant motioned his head to the top of the freight deck. A lone bag lay separated from the others. Nick lifted on his toes and peered up the freight deck at it.

"The money," the sergeant insisted. "This is deep shit, man. Really deep."

Nick pulled a thick envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to him.

"Fifteen hundred dollars."

The sergeant looked in the envelope, thumbing through the bills. He scanned the airfield once again. Then, stepping up the brief incline, he dragged the bag down to the edge of the loading deck.

"Are you sure it's him?" asked Nick.

"Read the tag."

The sergeant jumped off the edge of the loading bay while Nick studied the bag. John C. Henley was printed clearly on a small tag attached near the head of the bag.

"Come'on, let's go," the sergeant pressed. He had already pulled the bag halfway off the cargo bay.