I KILL RICH PEOPLE 2 Read Online Free Page B

stall inside the portable trailer, and glanced around, feeling good that the first shower stall he picked was freshly cleaned. He left the hot water splashing against his eyelids for minutes, then lifted his head and felt the spray against his throat and neck, all the time forcing the images that passed inward through his scope to wash past. One direction. When you look through your scope you locate targets. You dispatch targets. It’s a one-way baffle. The shit goes out, never in. The black-covered mother he dispatched was only the third woman he had ever shot. A mother playing with her kid. Fucking war .
    You shouldn’t have done it, shooting both together. It didn’t matter that the fresh Afghan recruits were shot down one by one by the roadside; there was no excuse. He scrubbed hard, but no amount of scrubbing would clean away how he had made a game out of it, how he killed them with one bullet.
    Full soap dispenser. That was good. Plenty of hot water, red dirt flowing down the white shower walls, swirling, past the stainless steel screen, and down the drain. But the one finger ached at even the slightest touch. Spencer shampooed his scalp then turned off the hot water and left the water on cold, or, rather, the lukewarm temperature that was as cold as the water ever got at midday. Running along his back and shoulders, he lifted his arm up into the spray to scrub his armpit. Spencer felt a tiny, penetrating burn running along the latts. He made a mental note of it, turning just enough to check whether there was a tear. No. Just a pull. He recalled thinking that he had landed poorly when he jumped; the Barrett added thirty-one pounds and it was his fault for not front-balancing it during descent. He had no excuse for allowing an injury that was preventable.
    He walked in his underwear straight to the medical tent after the long shower. He learned something there; who knew about Plant Thorn Synovitis? Puncturing the knuckle could easily have left him with a localized form of arthritis if he had ignored maintenance and toughed it out instead. A shot of antibiotics later, along with a bottle of naproxen, and Spencer felt satisfied that he had made good decisions. He entered the mess tent having missed the regular lunch so instead of pulled pork and a French roll, he got a PB&J and an apple. Fair tradeoff. Maintain the hands, the tools of the trade.
    Inside Spencer’s tent, Miller was flopped-out; a snoring ball of drunken sweat, half on Spencer’s cot and halfway out. Spencer looked on and wished that he could have turned in Miller to the Duty Officer for drunkenness. Miller was an asshole, but Spencer was no rat. For better or for worse, he and Miller were an autonomous operation. Once a week, on average, Miller appeared with a translator in tow. Miller arrived by helicopter when he could, by convoy when he had to. IEDs scared the shit out of him.
    Miller’s stomach heaved, his throat swelled, and his mouth opened wide, looking like he was about to puke. Right on Spencer’s cot. It looked painful as he choked it back, but then he rested and went back to snoring.
    Spencer stripped and cleaned the Barrett while Miller snored.  Right after he finished, he looked at his cot with Miller still on it and his bullshit alarm went off.
    “Hey. Wake the fuck up.” Spencer lifted his boot heel and rattled the cot. “Miller!”
    Miller awakened contorting his dried-out mouth and tongue, initially looking for the Scotch before squinting to see Spencer across the tent seated on the floor.
    “Enough! I earned so down time! This is my place. Get off my bed!”
    Miller opened the bottle then took a sustained swig from the last dregs.
    “Ten months going from one shit pile to the next one,” Miller griped. “Pricks won’t even give me a permanent helicopter.”
    “Its way past 1600 hours,” Spencer shouted, this time rousting Miller and pulling him into a sitting position then holding him upright, shaking at him until his