I KILL RICH PEOPLE 2 Read Online Free
Author: Mike Bogin
and walked out, keeping the thorn tree between his back and the village walls and swaggering forward with casual nonchalance through the thick dust they kicked up as the incoming Strykers slowed. An extended arm reached out to him. He locked his grip around the other soldier’s wrist and felt a tight grip wrap around his own wrist, and then he was pulled inside the cool, air-conditioned cavity.
Spencer looked over the swollen finger. A black line showed through his fingernail, surrounded by deep reds and purples where the thorn had penetrated a full inch under the nail and into his knuckle. A corporal riding with him in the back reached over, taking hold of Spencer’s hand, and turned it up and down again to get a decent view inside the dim compartment. He didn’t like the look of it. Reaching down beneath the bench he was seated upon, the corporal retrieved a field emergency medical kit, opened it and fished inside until he located lidocaine. He motioned for Spencer to stick out his left hand and sprayed it wetly on all sides. He put back the kit and closed his eyes afterward.
With their turret gunners working fifty caliber guns in tandem, the Strykers drove out to the fields to the bodies Spencer had dispatched just minutes before. Two-man relays jumped from the vehicles, quickly snapping black body bags lengthwise on the ground and rolling in bodies while the gunners loosed short bursts that put out the clear message that anybody who wanted to keep his head had better stay off the walls. Spencer and the corporal lifted their own legs clear when they heaved the first heavy sack into their Stryker, landing the contents with enough momentum to slide the woman’s body over the metal floor. The next one was bagged and shucked in by a second pair of hands. The first pair dropped in the third and lightest bag, then slammed the rear gate shut again. The corporal stuck in ear buds and closed his eyes, seeming unbothered as his helmet banged off the steel wall behind him. Neither one of them said a word. Their Stryker, on point, moved out instantly. The trailer, the second Stryker watching their backs, loosed a last burst from the fifties as the unit jerked through gears, making distance from the village.
Spencer’s heels thumped against the body bags for the next forty minutes while they bounced across twenty rough miles. Tears dripped over his cheeks; he attributed them to the adrenaline dissipating through his system.
CHAPTER TWO
The Strykers removed Manchester United and the old man and woman from their vehicles before they ripened. Spencer waited through five long hours, resting his head on his knees with the body bags fifteen feet away from him until somebody finally boxed in a helicopter to lift him and his stinky cargo back to base from 2 nd Bridge 2 nd Division Stryker’s forward position. The bags were left stewing in the heat, where they had ballooned with gasses by the time they were loaded into the chopper. Even with his head stuck out the open doorway, the sickly sweet stench was inescapable.
Right after landing Spencer made straight for his tent. Towel and shower first, then shuteye.
“ Fuck!”
Outside Spencer’s tent, Miller’s “translator” sat squatting on his heels, his chin low beneath his pakol, the Afghan cap he wore pulled down over his eyebrows. Spencer instinctively loathed the man. The Afghan would never look him in the eye. He was a snake, not a fighter. The man’s loyalty was to the money Miller represented, period.
A half-emptied bottle dangled from Miller’s loose wrist. The drinking was nothing new, but this was the first time that Miller was flopped inside Spencer’s tent drunk before noon. He had his muddy canvas boots on, too, one on Spencer’s sack, the other rested on top of Spencer’s guitar case. Spencer kicked Miller’s boot to the side and toed his guitar case deeper beneath the cot.
Miller wasn’t Army, which made for a loose, undisciplined hierarchy. Their
Spencer looked over the swollen finger. A black line showed through his fingernail, surrounded by deep reds and purples where the thorn had penetrated a full inch under the nail and into his knuckle. A corporal riding with him in the back reached over, taking hold of Spencer’s hand, and turned it up and down again to get a decent view inside the dim compartment. He didn’t like the look of it. Reaching down beneath the bench he was seated upon, the corporal retrieved a field emergency medical kit, opened it and fished inside until he located lidocaine. He motioned for Spencer to stick out his left hand and sprayed it wetly on all sides. He put back the kit and closed his eyes afterward.
With their turret gunners working fifty caliber guns in tandem, the Strykers drove out to the fields to the bodies Spencer had dispatched just minutes before. Two-man relays jumped from the vehicles, quickly snapping black body bags lengthwise on the ground and rolling in bodies while the gunners loosed short bursts that put out the clear message that anybody who wanted to keep his head had better stay off the walls. Spencer and the corporal lifted their own legs clear when they heaved the first heavy sack into their Stryker, landing the contents with enough momentum to slide the woman’s body over the metal floor. The next one was bagged and shucked in by a second pair of hands. The first pair dropped in the third and lightest bag, then slammed the rear gate shut again. The corporal stuck in ear buds and closed his eyes, seeming unbothered as his helmet banged off the steel wall behind him. Neither one of them said a word. Their Stryker, on point, moved out instantly. The trailer, the second Stryker watching their backs, loosed a last burst from the fifties as the unit jerked through gears, making distance from the village.
Spencer’s heels thumped against the body bags for the next forty minutes while they bounced across twenty rough miles. Tears dripped over his cheeks; he attributed them to the adrenaline dissipating through his system.
CHAPTER TWO
The Strykers removed Manchester United and the old man and woman from their vehicles before they ripened. Spencer waited through five long hours, resting his head on his knees with the body bags fifteen feet away from him until somebody finally boxed in a helicopter to lift him and his stinky cargo back to base from 2 nd Bridge 2 nd Division Stryker’s forward position. The bags were left stewing in the heat, where they had ballooned with gasses by the time they were loaded into the chopper. Even with his head stuck out the open doorway, the sickly sweet stench was inescapable.
Right after landing Spencer made straight for his tent. Towel and shower first, then shuteye.
“ Fuck!”
Outside Spencer’s tent, Miller’s “translator” sat squatting on his heels, his chin low beneath his pakol, the Afghan cap he wore pulled down over his eyebrows. Spencer instinctively loathed the man. The Afghan would never look him in the eye. He was a snake, not a fighter. The man’s loyalty was to the money Miller represented, period.
A half-emptied bottle dangled from Miller’s loose wrist. The drinking was nothing new, but this was the first time that Miller was flopped inside Spencer’s tent drunk before noon. He had his muddy canvas boots on, too, one on Spencer’s sack, the other rested on top of Spencer’s guitar case. Spencer kicked Miller’s boot to the side and toed his guitar case deeper beneath the cot.
Miller wasn’t Army, which made for a loose, undisciplined hierarchy. Their
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