Dead Simple Read Free Page A

men—had handled their end of things brilliantly, only to be fucked by an establishment that was balancing image and dollars instead of protecting lives. Torrey wrote one final memo, walked into the SOC commander’s office, and broke his jaw with a single punch.
    He accepted his discharge, took his pension, and dropped off the face of the earth, so far as most were concerned. But he couldn’t escape the Special Forces network, which had a way of keeping track of its own, and that’s how Blaine had tracked him down.
    “I got to warn you that if you come down here looking for a place, there ain’t no vacancies,” Buck Torrey said, in a drawl that mixed both sides of the Mason-Dixon line.
    “I came to see you.”
    “I talked with your doctors, son.”
    “You …” Blaine was unable to hide his surprise.
    “They told me they put you back together.”
    “That’s because I can walk without falling and shave without cutting myself. After that, things get tough.”
    “Not much of a life, walking and shaving.”
    “No.”
    Buck Torrey dangled his legs over the dock’s side and shook some of the water from his clothes. “Now, you add fishing, son, and you got yourself something.”
    “I want you to train me again, Buck.”
    “Sure. Fly or cast, take your pick.”

    “I’m not talking about fishing.”
    Torrey looked at McCracken’s DS ring, compared it to his own. “Looks nice on you.”
    “Thanks.”
    “When was the last time you had it on?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “That would explain its mint condition.” Torrey looked at Blaine closely. “You wear it today for me?”
    “I hoped it would take me back.”
    “You can’t go back, son. Forward’s the one direction in a man’s gearbox.” Buck’s eyes settled on Blaine’s ring. “And everything you need to start shifting again is right there in those two letters.”
    “Dead Simple.”
    “Just words. You gotta look beyond them being our motto ’cause of how good we were at killing. Lots of boys can be good at killing. But to live to be old dogs like us, you got to be good at plenty more than that.”
    “Like you, maybe.”
    “I don’t know. You’re alive, ain’t ya?”
    “Not by much.”
    “It’s a yes-or-no question, son.”
    “Yes.”
    “Then tell me the rest of the story.”
     
    T he A-1000 Thunderhawk helicopter cruised through the sky in stealth mode, silent and invisible in the night. Blaine crouched in the doorway of its cramped rear bay, as the Washington Monument drew closer beneath him. When the tip was directly below, the Thunderhawk slowed to a hover and he eased out gracefully into the night sky, holding fast to the black line rigged to his harness. Camouflaged in black as well, Blaine knew he was invisible to even the trained eye.
    All the equipment he had required had accompanied the FBI’s elite Hostage and Rescue Team to the staging site set atop a baseball field in West Potomac Park. He left it to Kirkland to explain his role in the operation to the commandos, listening to the briefing as he buckled himself tightly into a climbing vest and carefully checked his supply of pitons and carabiners for wear and spring. Satisfied, he clipped or pocketed them in place and then went to work coiling the climbing rope so it would drape comfortably from his shoulder. Pulling the rope over him to get accustomed to its feel and weight, Blaine carefully eased the rest of what he needed into a pack, leaving inspection of the piton gun Kirkland had managed to obtain for him for last.
    Now, twenty minutes later, three hours after the Monument had been seized, Blaine dropped his feet and angled his toes straight for the tip. The
wind pushed him slightly, and he learned fast how to compensate by twirling his lower legs to keep the tip of the Monument directly beneath him.
    Touching down was a bit more jarring than he had expected. But Blaine slid slightly down the precipice and leaned his torso against the base, legs straddling it.