Knife (9780698185623) Read Free

in July and he got piss drunk with Hagan and Massey. He got the date of her death tattooed on the wrist covered by his watch before the hangover had time to sprout. Massey tucked him in that night, wrapped a blanket in the caves of Shaw’s big body, and set a trash can by his face. When Shaw woke, the first thing he saw was Massey sitting on the floor against the wall.
    â€œYou okay?”
    â€œNo. I’m not.”
    Then Shaw looked at the fresh tattoo on his wrist. The ink shiny and black, the skin red and raw. He smiled. Then he cried. Then he threw up.
    He needed her. He didn’t know it at the time, but whenever he visited her back home in Minnesota her smile absolved him of every mistake he knew he had made or ever would. She was his mother, his grandmother, and as he was a godless man, his single savior and saint. His kills weren’t murders or ending the lives of others. They were protecting the country like his grandpa had, keeping his sweet grandma from getting blown up on the bus on her way to the market. She was his anchor to the civilian world. To peace. She was the only person he was close to outside the squadron—the boys from high school and college didn’t understand him anymore—and after everything he’d seen and done, that didn’t seem likely to change. When he saw her he saw approval, redemption. He was her Little Dutch, no matter how big he got or how many years passed. When she saw him she still saw the little boy with grass stains on his knees and truth in his heart. And he would be okay with that if he knew. But he didn’t and never would.
    After her death he replaced her as beneficiary with a Labrador retriever shelter back home. He loved dogs and had a yellow one named Patch growing up. Patch had a white tuft of skin scarred under his left eye that he got dogfighting before Shaw’s grandparents adopted him when Shaw was five or six. He was a good dog, loyal and smart, with the right mix of goof. Patch used to steal Shaw’s grandpa’s hairpiece while he napped on the couch and then leave it on his slippers for him to find when he woke. Patch lay under the casket for hours after the cancer beat Grandpa—it had taken him like a bullet, unexpected and quick. Grandma ran her hands through his fur on their deck in the summertime, and Shaw and Patch would both fall asleep in her lap. A boy and his dog. So the Labrador rescue would get all his money when he died. He requested cremation over burial, and that made figuring out the contents of a casket pretty easy.
    When Shaw finished looking over his will, Hagan was still gesturing with his air breasts. He was closing his eyes, rubbing and slapping the breasts around. Really getting graphic and into it. Dalonna just stared at him. Shaw laughed.
    The team. The squadron. The only family left.
    A Briefing Officer came into the pits carrying a megaphone and shouted, “Briefing room in twenty, buses in ninety,” and a couple guys booed him and he gave them the finger and walked out. Hagan let go of the breasts and smiled at Shaw, raised his eyebrows.
    â€œLove me some Afghanipakiraqistan.”
    Shaw nodded and took his kit out of his locker.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    F itted flush and tight against chest and back, the kit was an operator’s life source. Everything on it had a purpose, and operators could access anything they needed blinded or in total darkness. They were consistent, yet unique. Each man had his tailored to his person and no two were alike. Shaw ran his hands over the dusty straps, fabric, and worn patches. He could smell on his fingertips the earth of a dozen countries and the smoke from countless firefights.
    He shot righty, so he kept three mag pouches next to one another, starting to the left of his belly button and continuing to the right for quick changes. His bleeder kit was on his rear left side so if he had to harness his rifle and use his pistol,