Read Online Too Wylde by Marcus Wynne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marcus Wynne
Tags: detective, thriller, Crime, Mystery, Hardboiled, CIA, Terrorism, Noir, special forces, guns, underworld, Navy SEALs, Special Operations, gunfighter, counterterrorism, marcus wynne, covert operations, afghanistan war, johnny wylde, tactical operations, capers
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black pant, with a leather jacket over that...Lawdy,
lawdy.
"Nice ass," he said. "How much for a dance
with you, honey?"
Nice Ass spun on her heel, faced him.
Damn.
Broken nose dominated a face with fine bone
features, sharp high cheekbones, brilliant hard eyes, black hair
pulled back tight in a bun, Smartwool T-shirt taut over breasts and
some seriously hard midriff. Yum.
"What the fuck did you say?" Nice Ass
said.
"I said, nice ass, Nice Ass. And..."
Never saw it coming. One second he was
relaxed and grinning, the next minute she had the web of her hand
jammed up in his throat and he was back-pedaling and then on his
back, arms coming up in the guard and he just froze when he saw the
big black bore of a Glock .45 resting on the bridge of his
nose.
"Hey, bitch," Nice Ass said. "My name's not
Nice Ass. It's Sergeant fucking Kapushek to you. Bitch. And if you
want to get froggy, I'm in the mood to dirty up Lance's fucking
floor with your brain matter. So...how you doing? Wanna get
froggy?"
Jimmy John Wylde
I thought about what Nina said. It made
sense. In a way. It was strange, that after all these years in the
life that I'd chosen to live, that a woman who might be the only
female peer I'd ever had would be the one to tell me that the key
to living with my past was to put it right where it belonged --
behind me. Absorb the lessons, integrate them, and move the hell
on.
Straight ahead.
Great in theory. Not so easy in practice.
Introversion is a poor character trait in the
world of violence. You don't want to be lost in navel-gazing when
you got incoming, whether its gunfire or a fist, and afterwards,
when you've debriefed, it's time for decompression and moving on.
Sifting out the emotional content after the fact enables you to
keep the hardest lessons handy without the crippling recall of the
terror or the adrenaline cocktail -- or, as most of us wouldn't
admit, the sheer glee of the fight.
There was no glee in this for me.
She understood survivor guilt, in the way
that only someone who'd been down that road could. No specifics,
but she didn't need to be specific. If you were in The Club, you'd
know. If you weren't, you weren't going to get it anyway.
You learn to live with it. Or it kills you.
Or keeps you up till you go crazy.
But what about when the past comes back?
That was the part I couldn't get my head
around. Was it real? Was it comeback from one of the other deals
I'd run, one of the pack of enemies I'd created along the way?
Who was out there?
Mr. Smith
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a
beautiful day in the neighborhood, won't you be mine, won't you be
mine...
Mr. Smith hummed, floating on the custom
cocktail his pet chemist had brewed for him, riding the razor's
edge between pain and narco-dullness, hands as steady as they could
be, as he steered the white Plain Jane Honda Civic through the
mid-morning rush of traffic in downtown Lake City and then onto the
ramp near Hennepin and 94, through the construction and onto the
highway.
It's a beautiful day in the
neighborhood...
He took the Capitol exit, made his way
through the snarl of one-way streets that defined St. Paul, and
turned down University towards the capital building. This was Hmong
town, the largest concentration of expatriate Hmong in the States.
What most people didn't know was why the Hmong were all sitting
here in the coldest fucking state in the Union. A couple of good
Lutherans from Minnesota who happened to be Old School Oh So Social
boys (OSS) from WW-2 and the generation who rallied round Lucien
Conein when the flag and the White Star went up in Laos, held to
these Old School virtues: You Take Care Of Your Own. Even if it
means burning down the fucking headquarters and the flag with it, a
field man took care of his own. And those Hmong warlords, the ones
who married their daughters to the white men who choppered in and
lived with them, ate their food, carried their wounded, led their
warriors -- the Hmong
lawdy.
"Nice ass," he said. "How much for a dance
with you, honey?"
Nice Ass spun on her heel, faced him.
Damn.
Broken nose dominated a face with fine bone
features, sharp high cheekbones, brilliant hard eyes, black hair
pulled back tight in a bun, Smartwool T-shirt taut over breasts and
some seriously hard midriff. Yum.
"What the fuck did you say?" Nice Ass
said.
"I said, nice ass, Nice Ass. And..."
Never saw it coming. One second he was
relaxed and grinning, the next minute she had the web of her hand
jammed up in his throat and he was back-pedaling and then on his
back, arms coming up in the guard and he just froze when he saw the
big black bore of a Glock .45 resting on the bridge of his
nose.
"Hey, bitch," Nice Ass said. "My name's not
Nice Ass. It's Sergeant fucking Kapushek to you. Bitch. And if you
want to get froggy, I'm in the mood to dirty up Lance's fucking
floor with your brain matter. So...how you doing? Wanna get
froggy?"
Jimmy John Wylde
I thought about what Nina said. It made
sense. In a way. It was strange, that after all these years in the
life that I'd chosen to live, that a woman who might be the only
female peer I'd ever had would be the one to tell me that the key
to living with my past was to put it right where it belonged --
behind me. Absorb the lessons, integrate them, and move the hell
on.
Straight ahead.
Great in theory. Not so easy in practice.
Introversion is a poor character trait in the
world of violence. You don't want to be lost in navel-gazing when
you got incoming, whether its gunfire or a fist, and afterwards,
when you've debriefed, it's time for decompression and moving on.
Sifting out the emotional content after the fact enables you to
keep the hardest lessons handy without the crippling recall of the
terror or the adrenaline cocktail -- or, as most of us wouldn't
admit, the sheer glee of the fight.
There was no glee in this for me.
She understood survivor guilt, in the way
that only someone who'd been down that road could. No specifics,
but she didn't need to be specific. If you were in The Club, you'd
know. If you weren't, you weren't going to get it anyway.
You learn to live with it. Or it kills you.
Or keeps you up till you go crazy.
But what about when the past comes back?
That was the part I couldn't get my head
around. Was it real? Was it comeback from one of the other deals
I'd run, one of the pack of enemies I'd created along the way?
Who was out there?
Mr. Smith
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a
beautiful day in the neighborhood, won't you be mine, won't you be
mine...
Mr. Smith hummed, floating on the custom
cocktail his pet chemist had brewed for him, riding the razor's
edge between pain and narco-dullness, hands as steady as they could
be, as he steered the white Plain Jane Honda Civic through the
mid-morning rush of traffic in downtown Lake City and then onto the
ramp near Hennepin and 94, through the construction and onto the
highway.
It's a beautiful day in the
neighborhood...
He took the Capitol exit, made his way
through the snarl of one-way streets that defined St. Paul, and
turned down University towards the capital building. This was Hmong
town, the largest concentration of expatriate Hmong in the States.
What most people didn't know was why the Hmong were all sitting
here in the coldest fucking state in the Union. A couple of good
Lutherans from Minnesota who happened to be Old School Oh So Social
boys (OSS) from WW-2 and the generation who rallied round Lucien
Conein when the flag and the White Star went up in Laos, held to
these Old School virtues: You Take Care Of Your Own. Even if it
means burning down the fucking headquarters and the flag with it, a
field man took care of his own. And those Hmong warlords, the ones
who married their daughters to the white men who choppered in and
lived with them, ate their food, carried their wounded, led their
warriors -- the Hmong
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