Free Knife (9780698185623) by Ross Ritchell

of each. Hagan had holed two and nicked the third.
    â€œI hate my life,” Hagan said.
    Cooke whistled.
    â€œDon’t worry, Hog. I’ll pick out a nice one for you.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I t had to be close to one hundred twenty degrees in the sun. The walk from the range to the GMVs really got their swamp-ass running—Shaw’s armpits and crotch seeped through his top and bottoms, and Dalonna was so wet it looked like he’d pissed himself. Hagan’s back tattoos were visible through his soaked white T-shirt and the men had their bottoms rolled up to their knees.
    â€œThat one right there,” Cooke said. He pointed to the GMV at the far end of the column. Heat waves shimmered off its armored sides. It was last in line and had taken the sun since it rose hours before.
    â€œYou’re still a pussy,” Hagan said, unbuckling his pants and walking to the vehicle. “Big grass-fed pussy from Texas.”
    â€œAss on, you bum,” Cooke said. “Clock it, Mass.”
    Massey looked around. “When did I become the time bitch?”
    Laughter trickled around the dry shooting range but no one offered his watch instead. Breaths of wind kicked up small puffs of dirt.
    â€œFine. Ass on, Hog,” Massey said.
    Hagan’s ass was large and meaty. Hairy. The blond hairs twinkled in the sunlight and the operators winced as he eased onto the hood of the GMV, cupping his distended, hairy balls with his hand.
    â€œFoot-long, huh?” Cooke shouted. “Hope you’re as generous with the charities back home, Hog. Lots of puppies and little kiddies could use your help.”
    Hagan flicked everyone off and sat on the vehicle with a quick jerk of his knees. He cried out immediately and the men were bent at the waist so fast and laughing so hard they hardly noticed his screams had died off and he wasn’t on the hood anymore. Hagan was howling and shrieking and he’d made his way about halfway to the line of men with his pants at his ankles before most even noticed he was off the hood, standing bare-assed in front of them. He pointed at the hood and said the GMV had grated his ass. Everyone walked over to the GMV and Shaw peered close. He saw little flecks of skin curling toward the sky in the paint of the hood and Cooke whistled again.
    â€œDamn, Hog,” Cooke said. He picked up a small scrap of Hagan’s skin between his fingers. “Just like shredded cheese.” He offered the skin to Hagan. “I’ll give you fifty bucks to eat this.”
    Hagan winced and slapped at his behind with the back of his hand. He craned his neck over his shoulder, looking toward his backside. “I’m not eating any part of my own ass, Cooke. I have principles.”
    â€œPrinciples, maybe. But you can’t shoot for shit.”
    â€œCooke, fuck yourself. Mass, do we have any ass cream?”
    Massey looked at Hagan and raised his eyebrows. “What the hell is ass cream? That’s not a real thing. So no, I don’t have any ass cream.”
    â€œDammit, Mass. Ointment.” Hagan cupped his ass in his hand and came away with small flakes of skin on the palm. He held the skin up for the others to see. “Balm. Ointment. I need some damn ointment for my shredded arse.”
    â€œOf course I have ointment,” Massey said. “And did you say
arse
? You trying out for SAS or something?”
    â€œI don’t know what I said. And maybe. I hate all of you. My ass is on fire.”
    â€œWell, thank God it’s your ass and not your arse,” Massey said. “I’m out of British ointment.”
    â€œMass, seriously. I’m burning. Where’s it at?”
    Massey turned toward the tents and pointed. “The tent, you bloke.”
    Hagan turned around and walked off to the tents, his pants at his ankles and dirt clouds kicking up at his feet.
    â€œLearn to shoot and you won’t be so