Black Frost Read Free

the stress of originating
mortgages; working paper, phone and numbers to get approved loans.
The work in the smithy was as therapeutic as it was helpful
financially. The old skills I had learned as a boy, hanging with
and helping my grandpa came back quickly, tempered and smoothed by
age and life experience.
    When he died, I took over completely, using
the income to supplement the social security death benefits that
Sarah had left behind. I had a third source of income that took up
time in the afternoons and some evenings, but it was more
irregular.
     
    None of this seems important to you, not, but
trust me, this back story is important if you’re going to
understand what has happened.
     
    About two hours into the morning work, Charm
lifted her head from her paws and looked at the door of the smithy,
silently announcing a visitor. By habit and lifelong training I put
the current piece back in the forge and picked up the fighting ax
that was one of the first things I ever made. I moved closer to the
door, strategically positioned for when it eventually opened and I
got a look at the white-haired head framed in the opening.
    “Hi Dad,” I said, noting his slightly widened
eyes.
    He wasn’t really shocked to find me within
his danger space, a modern tomahawk in my hand. He was, instead,
pleased, although the only sign of it was a slight quirk at the
corners of his mouth, just under the white mustache that lived on
his upper lip.
    “Hey Ian, how’s it comin’?” he asked.
    “Good, I’ve got some roughing out to do on
one more blade, then I can come in for a coffee break and help
you,” I said. My father had come over to go through some more of
Grandpa’s papers.
    “Good enough, I’ll get a fresh pot brewing,”
he said, reaching down to pat Charm on the head. As he backed out
the door, the muscular little dog looked at me, seeking permission
to go with him.
    “Go ahead, go get him!” I said. Her response…
a tail wag, a doggy grin and a brown blur out the door.
     
    Threatening your father with an ax is not
normal behavior in most parts of the world. The fact that he
approved of my actions is even stranger, unless you know my
father.
     
    My grandfather was a welder by trade, but his
son, Bob, Jr. spent his entire career in the employment of the U.S.
Government working for a little organization with the initials DEA.
In fact, he started with the Bureau of Narcotics & Dangerous
Drugs ,and then was carried along into the federal merger that
created the Drug Enforcement Agency. So I grew up living in five
different cities across this great nation. And growing up DEA is
quite a bit different than the normal American experience, whatever
that is.
     
    DEA households are well kept and tidy, but
there is never a name on a mail box, the houses all have alarms
that are used faithfully, and there is always, always, always a
dog. Could be a little Shih Tzu, a Pekingese or a Great Dane; it
doesn’t matter. As long as it has all of its senses.
    DEA children are constantly coached in things
like situational awareness, household security and never telling
anybody anything personal or private. Cars are backed into the
garage, ready for an emergency exit. Drug dealers are notoriously
unforgiving on both agents and their families.
     
    My father took it further, by having me take
martial arts lessons in every city we lived in. When I was six, I
knew enough about gun handling to safely unload a weapon, if ever I
came across one unattended. At ten I could hit the center ring on a
standard target at seven yards with almost any handgun you could
name, and I had a lot of practice time as Dad was almost always the
firearms instructor for whichever field office he was working out
of.
    Each summer I would spend three weeks at my
grandparents’, helping with the forging although I also roamed the
hillside and woods on the little farm. So I grew up with a rather
intense education in modern survival, one that would one day be put
to full