Free Knife (9780698185623) by Ross Ritchell Page A

ass-hurt!” Cooke yelled after him.
    â€œI bet he would’ve eaten it for a hundred,” Dalonna said. “Hog doesn’t even know how to spell principles.”
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    W ith hours left to waste before the night shoot, Massey and Shaw went to the gym while Dalonna called his girls back home and Hagan rubbed ointment on his backside. The fear and anticipation kept them awake, so most walked with rucks for hours in the hot sun or shot at the range. The gym was private and beautiful and packed with guys who had witnessed Hagan burn himself on the GMV hours before. Muscles were tightening and tested under strained barbells, and white teeth gleamed bright through ragged beards. Heavy metal screamed through speakers one moment and then switched to classic rock, country, or rap the next, and no one seemed to notice or care. The gym was packed with kettlebells, bench presses, pull-up and dip bars, and rows of dumbbells and treadmills. There were even big box fans in the corners of the room to keep the place a little cooler and to keep all the stink out. In the first couple months and years of the war, poles and water cans full of sand or water sufficed for weights and exercise equipment. Sometimes men would just find large rocks and boulders and haul them around for hours.
    Squadron and team rules were set in place for working out on hops. They might have seemed restrictive to the true meatheads of the unit, but they made perfect sense to those who didn’t juice. No maxing out on weights, and cardio sessions were maxed out at eight miles or an hour. Whichever came first. There weren’t specific checks in place, but since it affected operational capacities, most operators followed the rules.
Screw personal records if they would get anyone shot
or blown up.
It was a squadron mantra on hops.
    Same as with the gym, the chow hall was a noticeable improvement over their food sources in the past. The men were used to eating MREs in birds, GMVs, or in the hamlets, homes, and villages they visited, but the chow hall had wooden tables and chairs and clean metal utensils. There were big steel vats of hot food and it was available at any minute of the day. There were a couple TVs on the walls and local staff had been hired as servers. They stood behind the vats and smiled at the men, saluting them with steel tongs.
    Shaw looked at Massey’s tray as they walked over to a table. Massey had four chocolate milks in a line along with a straw set on top of a napkin and a single piece of rye bread.
    â€œWhat the hell are you eating?”
    â€œI’m on a liquid diet,” Massey said. “You know that.”
    â€œI remember,” Shaw said. “Liquids and peanut butter cups, sure. What the hell’s that?” He pointed at the bread.
    â€œThat’s rye bread that’s about to be eaten. I’m expanding my horizons. Let me eat my rye bread in peace.”
    Shaw sat down and poked a hole in the rye bread with his finger. “Fair. Eat.”
    â€œYou’ve tainted it now.”
    â€œSo that’s why you won’t like it? Okay. Enjoy.”
    Massey shrugged and turned to the TVs. He ate like a child. He ate turkey with ice cream on top; bacon and pickles and Hershey’s Kisses; peanut butter cups and whole milk. Four chocolate milks and rye bread. It wouldn’t be fair to say he was on a particular diet, because he rarely ate anything at all, yet even the most proven gym rats were in awe of his physique. He was a scientific anomaly, a man ripped from marble after fueling himself with shit. More than one operator had joked that Massey simply wasn’t human, had to be spit from the sack of Zeus. Trips to the cornfields of southern Illinois had been planned to test the water and corn.
    Massey finished two of the milks and started pecking at his rye bread with his fingers like a bird on the street. He and Shaw were alone in the chow hall,