Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
The fun in our dysfunctional family came from Thomas Lindy. He would have been the estranged second cousin who only showed up to weddings and funerals but still managed to be everyone’s favorite. Married with three kids, he hadn’t been around for many of our nights of debauchery, but when he was there, it was guaranteed to be legendary. He’d been dubbed Skytrash after one bad jump on a free-fall operation. Honestly, it didn’t take much for shit to stick in the military.
Rounding out our family tree was Sergeant Rhodes. He was that weird uncle who you loved but also kind of scared the shit out of you. His smooth Southern accent wasn’t fooling anyone—that was no gentleman. He was a beast in every facet. None of us dared to call him any-fucking-thing other than, “Roger, S’arnt.”
So yeah, we were all miserable, thousands of miles away from home, and missing family and friends, but good company made for a good time.
“Uh oh, Nutz,” I said quietly, my eye never leaving the scope of my weapon. “I think you might have a stalker.”
“Huh?” he replied.
“I can’t be sure, but she definitely looks like one of the girls you used to sneak into the barracks.”
“You gotta be more specific. Kilo’s first-floor window saw more traffic than a parade route. I used to tell the ladies it was the VIP entrance.”
I chuckled. “Look for yourself. Three o’clock, short little blonde.”
His kit rustled as he shifted his weight, turning his binoculars down the street. “What the hell are you talking about? That’s just the old dude out walking his—oh, you son of a bitch.”
A grin split my lips as I feigned innocence. “What? It’s a cute dog.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you meant, fuck face.”
Steve-O chuckled. “He does have a point. You really need to up your standards. You’re embarrassing us all.”
Nutz scoffed. “I don’t know who you’re calling embarrassing. Have you looked in the mirror recently? Your lips are big enough to suck your own cock without having to bend over.”
“You sound jealous,” Steve-O retorted.
“Yeah, I’m jealous of people that have a real wingman. How am I supposed to up my standards when your ugly ass is always standing behind me at the club like a damn scarecrow in a field of hotties.”
I bit my cheek, desperately trying to suppress my laughter. God, I loved riling them up. Who needed television when you had this kind of entertainment?
I couldn’t see him, but I felt his presence as he entered the room.
“What the hell’s all the noise about?” Sergeant Rhodes rumbled.
“Steve-O runnin’ his mouth, S’arnt,” Nutz replied.
“Don’t blame that shit on me. Cherry was the one who called your girl a Golden Retriever.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I did no such thing.” I smirked. “Golden Retriever would have been a compliment. That right there’s a grade-A mutt.”
Steve-O laughed while Nutz let out a mumbled string of curses.
“All right, shut it, and keep it low. Anything new?” Rhodes asked.
“No, S’arnt,” I replied. “We have the same elderly civilian male out for his daily stroll with his dog, but besides that, nothing to report.”
He hummed approvingly. “Good. If it stays that way, the GFC will be good to EXFIL tonight. This is a waste of our time.”
My shoulders sagged in relief. Thank. Christ. Getting back to the FOB wasn’t the same as going home, but it was a hell of a lot better than this shit.
“Cherry, take a break and get some chow,” Rhodes ordered. “Steve-O, take over for him. Skytrash just woke up. He can man the stairwell.”
“Roger, S’arnt,” we whispered in unison.
My muscles ached as I sat up straight, stretching from side to side. I wasn’t sure if I was actually hungry or if I’d become Pavlov’s dog and the act of stretching had signaled that it was time to eat. Either way, I was suddenly starving. Like a well-oiled machine, as soon as I stood up, Steve-O slid into my seat, adjusted the rifle, and then put his eye to the scope.
With sleep still thick in his voice, Skytrash appeared in the doorway and asked, “So what’s your fine dining today, Cherry? Pizza? Lobster? Kung Pow Chicken?”
That all sounded amazing, but it was going to be some brittle crackers with cheese spread, M&Ms, and whatever the hell travesty of a protein the MRE gods had handed me as we’d packed to leave. Luckily for me, I’d always been a mind-over-matter guy. The brain was a hell of a weapon. With enough concentration, I could pretend my mystery meat was tikka masala and boom, I had gourmet cooking in the middle of a world conflict.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” S’arnt rumbled. “Can we not do this? I had tuna in my MRE. The smell alone made me want to shit myself.”
Steve-O’s shoulders rounded with a gag. “Damn, tuna in this heat? That should be against the Geneva Conventions.”