The young, hefty, sweat-soaked gun runner slams the accelerator of the dilapidated jalopy and checks the sideview mirror. “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear,” it taunts, also displaying a cohort of Kalashnikov-armed Iraqi insurgents in the not-so-distant distance. Bullets whiz by his face, barely missing their intended targets. His partner is in the passenger seat, and shouts over the fire of AKs: “They’re gettin’ closer, come on man, go!” The truck is on empty, so the old Jordanian smuggler dangles perilously out of the side of the truck as he attempts a refuel. They’re losing speed, and the insurgents are gaining. Everyone panics. All seems lost.