Read Online Blaze of Glory by Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Suspense fiction, War & Military, Political Science, Men's Adventure, Terrorism, Political Freedom & Security, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
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questions when asked, and provided a needed balance to the team. Although he was devout, no one could claim the young man wasn’t a soldier. No one trained harder, and no one had shown more courage when the chips were down. Compared to the other team members, J. J. seemed the least likely to be the weapons and demolition guy. But he was and he excelled at it. His love of guns earned him the nickname, “Colt.”
Sergeant First Class Jose Medina sat behind J. J. and across from Zinsser reading a newsmagazine. He looked Hispanic in every way: dark hair, rugged brown skin, and dark eyes that released glimpses of his intelligence. Considered one of the top medics in the Army, Medina had been approached by nearly every team leader in the country. Moyer had to threaten to break the thumbs of those trying to steal Medina away. He had four children at home. He used to boast that a man couldn’t have enough children. That changed last year when his wife Lucy’s pregnancy nearly cost her life.
Moyer let his eyes shift to Jerry Zinsser. New Guy sat in the back. Unlike the other team members, he passed the time staring straight ahead or out one of the small windows. Something about him gave Moyer pause. The man was a hero; he’d shown bravery in the worst of situations—the kind that usually left soldiers bleeding to death on the ground. Zinsser deserved every honor he received, but Moyer sensed there was something more. Looking at Zinsser, Moyer found one thought repeating in his head: Some heroes came home whole and healthy; others came home broken. Fractured in ways that couldn’t be seen.
He could only hope Zinsser was in the former category. If not . . . Moyer didn’t want to think about it
THE ROAR OF THE luxury jet’s engine vibrated through the hull and bored into Zinsser’s brain. He took a deep breath then let it out, releasing the air in a slow, steady stream. He repeated the action. His heart tumbled in his chest. His stomach twisted. The sound of automatic fire echoed in his skull. He pressed his eyes shut as if squeezing his lids hard enough would exorcise the images from his mind.
If only the jet would go down. That would end it.
It would end it all forever.
CHAPTER 9
DELARAM SAT AT THE outdoor coffee shop sipping espresso and gazing down the street. The late Rome night remained warm and the air carried a perfume of warm bread, rich sauces from the restaurant a half block down the narrow street—a street so narrow only foot traffic could travel its length. It was her favorite spot, the place she retired to when the day became too stressful—and every day was stressful.
Her attention flitted from a person at a nearby table to a man walking down the street. A young couple brushed past her. An elderly man with gray whiskers gazed at her from a second-floor window in a building across the lane. They were there; she knew it. Several people looked familiar, but she couldn’t be certain they had watched her before.
They always watched her, and she had no doubt they had tapped her phone. Even now, as she sat under a darkening sky, she imagined men rummaging through her small apartment nestled in a complex of apartments a ten-minute walk away.
Let them look. Let them search all they wanted. She had done all they asked, provided no resistance, kept the police out of the matter. She had done it all. They would find nothing to fault her with. Not that it mattered.
Delaram looked into the small cup she held as if she could read the future in the black fluid; as if wisdom waited for her just below the surface. No amount of wisdom would save her. Her life ended two weeks ago with a hand-delivered letter containing photos.
She set the cup down. Holding it made her hand shake.
Locals spoke in soft Italian. Tourists strolled the uneven surface of the walkway, drawing in the ambiance of the quaint and quiet part of Rome. Delaram knew how they felt. Once she had been captivated by the charm of the neighborhood. She
Sergeant First Class Jose Medina sat behind J. J. and across from Zinsser reading a newsmagazine. He looked Hispanic in every way: dark hair, rugged brown skin, and dark eyes that released glimpses of his intelligence. Considered one of the top medics in the Army, Medina had been approached by nearly every team leader in the country. Moyer had to threaten to break the thumbs of those trying to steal Medina away. He had four children at home. He used to boast that a man couldn’t have enough children. That changed last year when his wife Lucy’s pregnancy nearly cost her life.
Moyer let his eyes shift to Jerry Zinsser. New Guy sat in the back. Unlike the other team members, he passed the time staring straight ahead or out one of the small windows. Something about him gave Moyer pause. The man was a hero; he’d shown bravery in the worst of situations—the kind that usually left soldiers bleeding to death on the ground. Zinsser deserved every honor he received, but Moyer sensed there was something more. Looking at Zinsser, Moyer found one thought repeating in his head: Some heroes came home whole and healthy; others came home broken. Fractured in ways that couldn’t be seen.
He could only hope Zinsser was in the former category. If not . . . Moyer didn’t want to think about it
THE ROAR OF THE luxury jet’s engine vibrated through the hull and bored into Zinsser’s brain. He took a deep breath then let it out, releasing the air in a slow, steady stream. He repeated the action. His heart tumbled in his chest. His stomach twisted. The sound of automatic fire echoed in his skull. He pressed his eyes shut as if squeezing his lids hard enough would exorcise the images from his mind.
If only the jet would go down. That would end it.
It would end it all forever.
CHAPTER 9
DELARAM SAT AT THE outdoor coffee shop sipping espresso and gazing down the street. The late Rome night remained warm and the air carried a perfume of warm bread, rich sauces from the restaurant a half block down the narrow street—a street so narrow only foot traffic could travel its length. It was her favorite spot, the place she retired to when the day became too stressful—and every day was stressful.
Her attention flitted from a person at a nearby table to a man walking down the street. A young couple brushed past her. An elderly man with gray whiskers gazed at her from a second-floor window in a building across the lane. They were there; she knew it. Several people looked familiar, but she couldn’t be certain they had watched her before.
They always watched her, and she had no doubt they had tapped her phone. Even now, as she sat under a darkening sky, she imagined men rummaging through her small apartment nestled in a complex of apartments a ten-minute walk away.
Let them look. Let them search all they wanted. She had done all they asked, provided no resistance, kept the police out of the matter. She had done it all. They would find nothing to fault her with. Not that it mattered.
Delaram looked into the small cup she held as if she could read the future in the black fluid; as if wisdom waited for her just below the surface. No amount of wisdom would save her. Her life ended two weeks ago with a hand-delivered letter containing photos.
She set the cup down. Holding it made her hand shake.
Locals spoke in soft Italian. Tourists strolled the uneven surface of the walkway, drawing in the ambiance of the quaint and quiet part of Rome. Delaram knew how they felt. Once she had been captivated by the charm of the neighborhood. She
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