Without a word Ethan gets up and goes into the kitchen and gets a bottle of water for Finn, who twists off the cap and says “Cheers,” then drinks. Ethan returns to his chair and sits, glancing once at me.

Finn lowers the bottle from his mouth and screws the cap back on. “Thank you,” he says. “So. Turns out the cargo on those trucks was money flown in from the States. Over six hundred bricks of cash, each brick made up of a thousand bills. In that particular shipment, those were hundred-dollar bills.” Finn pauses, allowing us to do the mental math.

In a low voice, Ethan says, “That’s over sixty million dollars.”

Finn nods, slowly. “All flown over in a single C-130 Hercules. And there were a lot more flights like that.”

“Forty billion,” I say.

“What?” Finn says.

“That’s how much money I heard we flew into Iraq. Forty billion dollars.”

Finn gives a lopsided smile. “That’s what I heard too.”

“So let me guess,” Ethan says. His voice is harsh and it lights up my spine like a flare. Wilson, who has fallen asleep next to the couch, jerks awake, his ears raised in alarm. “You ran security for a few more convoys, and the thought of all that cash was too much temptation. Is that what you’re going to tell us? A few million here or there, who would notice?”

Finn considers Ethan as if seeing him for the first time. The look in his eyes is cold, predatory, and I drop my hands to my hips so my fingers are closer to my pistol. Ethan glares back at him, as if daring Finn to say what we both fear—that our father stole money. That’s why Ethan’s angry, I realize. Because he’s afraid it’s true.

Then the predatory look in Finn’s eyes vanishes and he sags back in his chair a bit, and I release a pent-up breath.

“Not exactly,” Finn says. “I mean, everyone thought about it. You have to understand, Baghdad was flooded with cash. Money flowed in and out of the CPA’s vault like it was a casino. Sometimes we ran convoys directly to the Central Bank of Iraq, pitched duffels full of cash into the bank lobby like they were bags of laundry. And no one was documenting anything. Once the cash was flown in and turned over to the CPA at the airport, keeping track of the money was an Iraqi problem. Someone might have to sign a half-assed receipt, but that was it. There was no accountability. It was corrupt as hell. How many contractors billed the CPA for shit that was four or five times what they actually spent? How many soldiers slipped a brick of cash into their rucksacks? It was like the fucking Wild West over there.

“Your dad, though, he just wanted to get home. Until Ahmed.”

“Ahmed?” Ethan asks.