Blind Rage: Team Red, Book 4 Read Online Free Page B

where he now had two desks side-by-side in preparation for working with David again.
     
    David and Marcia would share the official guest room, where we installed a second bed. Bas came up with the idea of having Wes sleep downstairs with the Mustangs. Bastian, and Henry who seconded the idea, thought a nine-year-old would love the novelty of hanging out in the Cave. Gregg had hung blankets around one of the lower bunks to make a “fort” in preparation. I remembered how much Janey, Bas, and I had enjoyed blanket forts when we were growing up, and thought it was a splendid idea. No one said it, but I’m sure we were all thinking Wes would acclimate better if he wasn’t upstairs watching his mom’s slow deterioration. The constant activity would keep him occupied and distracted.
     
    For all the commotion below, it was relatively peaceful in the house. Bas, Henry and I continued our glass of wine ritual in front of the fire each evening before bed. It was wonderful having Henry on the “family” level. He blended in seamlessly with our daily routines, and I loved the older man’s quirky humor and quiet competence. The Mustangs referred to him as Jeeves, a testament to his efficiency and the deftness with which he handled logistics. I quickly realized Henry was the eye of the storm. No matter what chaos revolved around the house, a person could come and sit with him for peaceful conversation, to vent, or seek advice.
     
    With the sudden influx of so many people, it was soon apparent Henry and Bas’ modest cooking skills would not be up to the task of feeding such a large group. The Army soldiers were self-contained, bringing their own food and shelter, but the addition of eighteen adults taxed our resources. Man cannot live on pizza take-out alone. Which is not to say they didn’t make a gallant effort.
     
    Enter, Mrs. Russell Thomas: earth-mother, goddess, homemaker, sharpshooter, and eagle-eyed den mother. A dichotic combination of Tomb Raider and Mrs. Cleaver; kick-ass woman with a spatula or a handgun, her attitude hinting the spatula could be used for multiple purposes, from benign, to lethal, to… well, I hesitated to carry that thought any further. What goes on behind closed doors is none of my business.
     
    Gwyn Thomas’ arrival last week heralded the beginning of an organizational whirlwind. My first glimpse of the fair Gwyneth, courtesy of mind-sight, positively floored me. She was the exact opposite of her homely, geek-like husband. An Amazon, standing a statuesque six foot tall, she towered over many of the men, including her husband. Her blond hair was sculpted into a classic upsweep, and she dressed in a casual 50’s Hollywood-starlet chic which emphasized her hourglass figure without appearing tasteless. If she had dark hair, I would have likened her to Sophia Loren, with similar dark eyes and a full-lipped smile. Gwyn was a beauty. She also possessed the sharp, methodical mind of a four-star general. Her directives were always couched as sweet requests, but no one ever doubted she expected compliance.
     
    Meals were now prepared in bulk, thrice a week, portioned and stored in two additional refrigerators which would eventually end up at the Compound. For now, the fridges were hooked up in the garage, and stocked with labeled Tupperware containers, handily popped into the microwave. A list of weekly chores was tacked on the bulletin board downstairs, so each Mustang was now pitching in to help with mundane tasks such as laundry, vacuuming, and kitchen clean up. Such was the plan, anyway. Gregg LaValley, one of the guys on the training project, was making a killing as some of the Mustangs were paying him fifty bucks a shot to do their chores. I’d heard he socked away over three hundred dollars his first week.
     
    At Bastian’s invitation, Russ and Gwyn were staying at the furnished rental house he and David leased when they first arrived in town last July. Technically, Bas lived there alone,