I KILL RICH PEOPLE 2 Read Free Page B

beyond the brown mud walls. Looking back later, he would see how none of it added up, but at the time he couldn’t add right. He was thinking on some level about two busloads of Afghan Army recruits. Gunmen kneeled them down in rows and blew their brains blown out. Why was he thinking about this? Why did his brain go there? Mission drift…it was like closing your eyes just for a second when you’re dog-tired behind the car wheel. That’s the second that gets you killed.
    Three quick chirps back from the Strykers. Three minutes out. Thank Christ for that.
    Spencer locked onto his targets, framing his focus like Olympic ski-jumpers melding minds and bodies to their skis in facing down the 100 meter jump. He became an extension of the Barrett.
    The weapon is perfect. Be at one. Make perfection.
    He inhaled from his fingertips, his eyes, from the ridges along the tops of his ears. His right eye caressed the hot rubber fitting of the Leupold.
    The kid zigged and zagged, dancing his feet around imaginary opponents. Spencer centered upon the bright red cloth between the bomber’s shoulder blades, but held, timing his fire to the woman’s leap. BRASS. Breathe. Relax. Aim. Slack. SQUEEZE. Her feet landing on top the next furrow and his shot converged just as Spencer had choreographed it within his mind’s eye. The dime-round fifty-caliber bullet burst through her skull, lifting her body off the ground and sandwiching the woman to her dead son. One strike. Both . Spencer enjoyed a moment before shifting slightly to bring the turban and beard to center sight. The man turned and immediately roared his pain and anger. Spencer let him live a minute longer.
    Fuck with the U.S. Army. This is what you get. Take it in.
    The older man dove down into the shallow furrow, but he remained ludicrously exposed. Spencer centered on the eyes, watching the rage bulging out from red, burning burning eyeballs. Then he did something that Spencer appreciated. He didn’t try to run. Instead, he managed to pull the AK out from under the kid and rose up screaming, wildly spitting a spray of bullets on full-automatic until he emptied the full mag. When he was out, he shook his fists above his head and screamed.
    Spencer let him empty the weapon, let him rage, all the while breathing in, centering his shot. Hindu love-tap. Right between his bulging red eyes.
    Three kills. Confirmed. A day’s work done. Exhale.
    The goats stood entirely still, every one of their heads twisted with eyes locked onto him when he stood. Spencer turned and glanced behind him. The Strykers looked to be about two miles out, hauling ass and kicking up a dust cloud.
    A return round coming from the mud walls popped up dust a foot in front of him. He lifted the heavy rifle and shifted his eye back to the Leupold while, typical to amateur shooting, two more bullets hit wide, landing way off center at a ten-foot spread. The shooter’s ragged head showed eight inches above the village wall to compensate for the AK-47’s long, curved magazine. Spencer squeezed the trigger and the head disappeared concurrent to the stiff recoil. Two more dark shapes showed over the wall. Spencer dispatched them in quick succession, and then scanned the village and the top of the lone minaret. Nothing more moved, except for the goats hustling back to their pen, complaining noisily.
    Spencer scanned. Not a dog or person in his sights. He replaced the barrel-cover, dropped flaps on the Leupold scope, removed the magazine, cleared the chamber, and slung his weapon across his back with practiced efficiency. He had already accounted for his supplies, checking and double-checking ammunition, binoculars, mini-scope, night vision goggles, sidearm, and the obvious, his Barrett.
    When the Strykers came in the firing from the village was already over with, but that didn’t stop them from coming in hot, strafing cover-fire that sent chunks of mud exploding off the village walls.
    Spencer towed his pack down low