Free Knife (9780698185623) by Ross Ritchell Page B

watching the TVs and eating in silence. Reporters were commenting on the increasing violence and bombings in the country, and a male reporter with dark features and nervous eyes stood outside a mosque that had been blown apart. He held up the wheel of a shopping cart, said the bomb might have been wheeled outside the mosque and detonated after prayers let out. The headline stated that at least twenty-three were dead.
    â€œThat’ll rise. The reporters always get there too fast.”
    Shaw watched the video feeds intently, hadn’t heard what Massey had said. Blood was spread over the streets like paint and Shaw was staring at a leg strewn among the rubble that the editing team forgot, or didn’t care to blur out. Massey pointed at the screen, and Shaw broke his gaze from the TVs.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDid you see that?” Massey said. “The Mexican cartels are cutting off heads and just burying them. Leaving the bodies out on the street so no one knows who got killed.”
    Shaw hadn’t even noticed the stories had changed. He looked back at the TV and pictures of a Mexican field of red rock and police tape filled the screen. He still saw the streets outside the mosque covered in car parts and blood. The leg the camera had failed to blur out.
    Massey picked up his bread and gestured around the room with it. The bread flopped loosely in his hand like a rag. Seeds fell on the table. “You think we’ll get sent to Mexico soon—take a shot at all the cartels?”
    â€œProbably not, Mass. The cartels don’t come after us and I think we’re busy enough here.”
    â€œMan. Mexico. Colombia. Everywhere. World keeps churning, no matter how many guys get wasted.”
    â€œThis is the world, Mass.” Shaw stuck another finger in Massey’s rye bread. “You know that.”
    â€œYeah. You’re right. You know what else I know?”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œI don’t like rye bread.”
    They laughed and got up, cleared their trays, and then walked out of the chow hall. Massey grabbed a couple brownies and put them in his cargo pockets on the way out. Outside, the moon made their shadows dance on the walls of the tents.
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    N ight shoots were a colorful affair, a favorite among the men. The heat was kept at bay when the stars were out, and with the NODs down and lasers all fired up, the shooting was more like something out of
Star Wars
than zeroing and throwing rounds downrange. Green lasers swept the range, and orange and yellow fire bursts cracked the dark air. The
pop, pop, pop
of their weapons quickened and slowed like a rainstorm that couldn’t make up its mind. Gunpowder, dirt, and lead ruled the air. It smelled good. Familiar and right. If townspeople had looked over the concrete barriers from the town surrounding the FOB, they wouldn’t see a thing except for maybe a small glint of the rounds reflected in the moonlight from afar. They would hear only the slight puffs of air from the suppressors and the
thwack, thwack, thwack
of the rounds finding their targets and punching into the dirt mounds set behind them. It probably sounded like a whole army of housemaids had come outside in the middle of the night to beat their carpets clean at once. Among the spent casings and bottles of water stacked behind them, the CO walked slowly behind the teams, his hands clasped together at the small of his back.
    â€œWe’re green in twenty-four,” he said. “Try to get some sleep.”
    Nobody cheered or grabbed ass. They welcomed the news by finishing off the rounds they’d loaded up and then by stacking all their gear neatly in the war room and surgically cleaning their weapons.
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    S haw didn’t sleep much. He watched baseball with Massey because the latter was a diehard Cardinals fan and then he got up around 0600 hours after having