Free Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) by Stan R. Mitchell

ten times. He knew he should practice it more, but his
tactical side reminded him that he needed to stay at least partly presentable.
Not sweaty and stinky.
    He
already needed to shave, and his shirt was starting to look, well like it had
been worn for two days and slept in. He still resisted the thought of reaching
down in his pack and changing into a new one. He was in the country, and few
would care. Many in the country either farmed, hunted, or fished, and looks weren’t
something folks in the country worried much about.
    Resuming
his training in the middle of the thicket, Nick thought his way through a
firefight based on his current situation. It would be close and nasty, and few
liked that, even him. Hell, that’s why he was a sniper.
    But,
still, it’d be close. No way around that.
    They
would either get the draw on him or perhaps he would get lucky and recognize
them before they had pulled their pieces; either way, he could do the last
drill, firing a single shot quickly at the nearest one’s chest, half-aimed,
before dropping to a knee and firing two well-placed shots.
    Ninety
percent of the time, Nick would go with that option. In cities, there likely
wouldn’t be any cover, so he would just engage and use pure aggression. One
quick shot, followed by two controlled shots from the kneeling position.
    Yet
there could be cover, so he thought through that. Perhaps it might be a
vehicle. Step one, get down or race behind it. Then return fire. Few could hit
a nearby target running laterally. Normally, even he wouldn’t try.
    He
could find concealment. Concealment could be anything from thin desks to
couches to walls. Concealment didn’t stop rounds like cover did. But, concealment
caused most untrained people -- even cops -- to hold their fire because they
couldn’t see their target. You had to be trained to shoot through concealment,
and most cops weren’t.
    Look
for cover and concealment, he thought. Cover and concealment, he repeated,
reinforcing the idea. The two bastions infantrymen sought. The two things that
could keep you alive on any day of the week.
    Satisfied
with his morning pistol work, he reloaded the pistol and placed it and the
magazines in his belt.
    He’d
cooled down while he thought through shooting engagements. Now he needed to
practice his hand-to-hand. Before starting, he checked his surroundings.
    Then
he began, all of it nice and easy. He practiced various blows that, at best,
would be considered dirty by most if used in a fight.
    He
threw eye gouges, shots to the nuts with low kicks and knees, throat punches,
elbows to the temple, and double-hand slaps to the ears. He hated those.
    Then,
he practiced joint manipulation. At least, that’s what they’d called it in the
Marines. He never liked the term. In Nick’s estimation, breaking arms, ripping
shoulders out of sockets, and snapping fingers seemed to be a bit more than
mere joint manipulation.
    But,
he didn’t know. He was just a simple man, and some piss-ant, college-grad could
hardly title a section of a manual, “Fucking another man up with your bare
hands.”
    He
did all his moves in slow motion. He hadn’t practiced as much as he should have
the past few years, Anne having convinced him he was paranoid, maybe even sick.
    Nick
had always believed mastering hand-to-hand combat was about analyzing every
possible situation a fight could end up in. It was hard to think when blades
were flying and punches were connecting. And damn if a person didn’t do some
stupid stuff in a fight.
    But,
as he’d become trained in fighting, he’d found that if you envisioned certain circumstances,
you usually would react right.
    So
he began practicing his blocks, beginning with the counter to the overused
right hand sucker punch. He went through his blocks, doing each ten times
without exception, though in slow motion as he had his attacks.
    His
grumbling stomach reminded him of his hunger, and he nearly didn’t finish his
regimen.
    Nick,
he