Read Online Too Wylde by Marcus Wynne - Free Book Online Page B
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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swore fealty to them. And the good ones among
the whites returned it, when everything fell apart -- they sent
stolen choppers or planes in, led their Hmong and their families
out overseas, or bought their way out with gold paid for out of
opium proceeds, or bought them out of a camp and loaded them onto a
boat or a plane and put them into the Lutheran run resettlement
shelters in friendly Minnesota, where guys like Tony Poe could drop
in and check on them, and then disappear, leaving the silent
scarred elders, the Buddhas of War, nodding and looking out over
their flock.
Mr. Smith wasn't of that generation, but he,
as they say, was read-in on some of those assets from someone of
that generation, so he had a number to call, an electronic drop box
which consisted of a USB drive buried in the mortar of an old pho
house in downtown Lake City, where he could pick up data and names
and pass some instructions...
...and you had to give these Hmong this, they
were good at following orders down to the fucking T.
Because there he was, in the parking lot of
the McDonalds, a sturdy quiet looking fellow in his twenties, hands
on the wheels of an equally non-descript Ford Focus, beige in
color, just as anonymous as can be. Mr. Smith pulled up beside him
and nodded. The younger man's face was flat and brown and hard, and
there wasn't even a smidgen of reaction to Mr. Smith's quite
remarkable face.
They got out and exchanged cars without a
word, Mr. Smith toting a Patagonia Messenger Bag. The Hmong man
drove away. Smith opened up his MacBook Air, powered it up, opened
the wireless and connected to the Internet through the McDonald's
interface, which in this case linked to a server in Lake City
instead of St. Paul. The proxy program he ran spoofed his IP and
computer ID, instead of making him invisible. Best to hide in plain
sight, no easy task for someone as fucked up as he was.
The tracking program from the cellular GPS
mounted in the package built into the trunk and back seat of the
Civic came up, and showed the location of the car in real time. The
vehicle pulled into the parking spaces in front of the designated
building and stopped. From his recce, Smith knew the parking spots
were designated for drop off and delivery only, and the security
people gave them only a few moments to stay there. He split his
screen and looked at the moving dot that represented the active
cell phone used by the Hmong driver. The driver had dismounted and
would be now walking into the building. To his immediate left was a
hallway with a T-intersection; down that hall and to the right was
an exit door; from the exit door to the MTD bus-stop was 25 meters.
He split the screen again and saw, as usual, the MTD bus on time,
that good Midwestern efficiency at work.
He tapped his fingers lightly against the
keyboard, looked up, saw one of the local street scum going car to
car, asking for spare change. The crack-head, an acne scarred white
boy with bleach blond dreadlocks, cued on the car, tapped on the
glass. Mr. Smith turned and gave him the full face blast, grinned
his frightening grin, and mouthed, "Get the fuck away from me."
The white boy ran.
Mr. Smith laughed, turned his attention back
to his monitor. The cell phone signal merged with the bus GPS
signal, and away they went. He tracked them to the corner, mentally
counting off the distance, 100 meters, 200 meters, 300 meters, 400
meters...
He slid his cursor down to a custom
interface, clicked on the little red switch that said BOOM.
Far off in the distance, the concussion,
blast and then, finally, the smoke, of a carefully constructed car
bomb, VBIED or Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device, to use
the cool guy vernacular, going off outside a government building
that hid the offices of a very particular OGA operation and, no
doubt at all, inflicting 100% casualties or at least seriously
pissing off anyone left standing.
Smith clicked over to another program and
turned the volume up and listened
the whites returned it, when everything fell apart -- they sent
stolen choppers or planes in, led their Hmong and their families
out overseas, or bought their way out with gold paid for out of
opium proceeds, or bought them out of a camp and loaded them onto a
boat or a plane and put them into the Lutheran run resettlement
shelters in friendly Minnesota, where guys like Tony Poe could drop
in and check on them, and then disappear, leaving the silent
scarred elders, the Buddhas of War, nodding and looking out over
their flock.
Mr. Smith wasn't of that generation, but he,
as they say, was read-in on some of those assets from someone of
that generation, so he had a number to call, an electronic drop box
which consisted of a USB drive buried in the mortar of an old pho
house in downtown Lake City, where he could pick up data and names
and pass some instructions...
...and you had to give these Hmong this, they
were good at following orders down to the fucking T.
Because there he was, in the parking lot of
the McDonalds, a sturdy quiet looking fellow in his twenties, hands
on the wheels of an equally non-descript Ford Focus, beige in
color, just as anonymous as can be. Mr. Smith pulled up beside him
and nodded. The younger man's face was flat and brown and hard, and
there wasn't even a smidgen of reaction to Mr. Smith's quite
remarkable face.
They got out and exchanged cars without a
word, Mr. Smith toting a Patagonia Messenger Bag. The Hmong man
drove away. Smith opened up his MacBook Air, powered it up, opened
the wireless and connected to the Internet through the McDonald's
interface, which in this case linked to a server in Lake City
instead of St. Paul. The proxy program he ran spoofed his IP and
computer ID, instead of making him invisible. Best to hide in plain
sight, no easy task for someone as fucked up as he was.
The tracking program from the cellular GPS
mounted in the package built into the trunk and back seat of the
Civic came up, and showed the location of the car in real time. The
vehicle pulled into the parking spaces in front of the designated
building and stopped. From his recce, Smith knew the parking spots
were designated for drop off and delivery only, and the security
people gave them only a few moments to stay there. He split his
screen and looked at the moving dot that represented the active
cell phone used by the Hmong driver. The driver had dismounted and
would be now walking into the building. To his immediate left was a
hallway with a T-intersection; down that hall and to the right was
an exit door; from the exit door to the MTD bus-stop was 25 meters.
He split the screen again and saw, as usual, the MTD bus on time,
that good Midwestern efficiency at work.
He tapped his fingers lightly against the
keyboard, looked up, saw one of the local street scum going car to
car, asking for spare change. The crack-head, an acne scarred white
boy with bleach blond dreadlocks, cued on the car, tapped on the
glass. Mr. Smith turned and gave him the full face blast, grinned
his frightening grin, and mouthed, "Get the fuck away from me."
The white boy ran.
Mr. Smith laughed, turned his attention back
to his monitor. The cell phone signal merged with the bus GPS
signal, and away they went. He tracked them to the corner, mentally
counting off the distance, 100 meters, 200 meters, 300 meters, 400
meters...
He slid his cursor down to a custom
interface, clicked on the little red switch that said BOOM.
Far off in the distance, the concussion,
blast and then, finally, the smoke, of a carefully constructed car
bomb, VBIED or Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device, to use
the cool guy vernacular, going off outside a government building
that hid the offices of a very particular OGA operation and, no
doubt at all, inflicting 100% casualties or at least seriously
pissing off anyone left standing.
Smith clicked over to another program and
turned the volume up and listened
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