Hero Read Online Free PDF Page B

Shimon that he be strong, and to be strong you had to get enough rest, you had to eat enough of the right kinds of things, and you had to train your body and your will at being strong and staying strong.
    But that was all there was to it. Everything was always so simple.
    And when the bus slowed to negotiate another sharp turn on the road, and the men in the brush beyond the ditch opened fire, two rising to their feet, each with a launching tube on his shoulder, it didn't matter that they were all wearing the mottled Casa fatigues, it didn't matter that there wasn't supposed to be any trouble, not on this job.
    No. That would have been complicated. That would have called for decisions and caring and thought. None of it mattered.
    It didn't matter when the stream of bullets stitching across the windows caught Avram in the head, spraying Dov's face with his oldest friend's blood and brains, the air filled with flying glass and gore and shouts.
    It was utterly unimportant, because the bullets missed Uncle Shimon, and while splinters of glass dug deep into Dov's cheek and forehead, they missed his eyes.
    The spray of blood and brains only filled and blinded and pained his left eye, and that didn't matter because one eye was all Dov needed. It was simple, it was so easy for Dov to spit out the warm salty gobbets and then snap his faceplate down with one hand while his other hand brought up his shotgun, thumb brushing away the safety.
    Dov snatched up Avram's field jacket and used it to shield his hand as he punched out the remaining splinters of glass, then tried to push out the mesh over the window.
    It didn't give, and, encumbered by his seat straps, he couldn't quite reach far enough to put enough pressure on it. He punched the release and the straps fell away.
    You must be very strong for me, Dov , Uncle Shimon had said. And Dov was strong.
    Oh, yes, Uncle Shimon. I am very strong.
    Dov wound Avram's jacket tight around his left fist. Rising to kneel on Avram's corpse, Dov leaned forward and punched hard, metal squealing, feeling the distinct snap as small finger bones broke.
    But they were just bones, they didn't matter, and the pain didn't matter as he threw the field jacket aside. He shoved the muzzle of his shotgun out through the mesh while he turned sideways to grab Shimon.
    He didn't need to see where Uncle Shimon was in order to grip his shoulder; Dov always knew were Shimon was.
    It was simple: Uncle Shimon had to be pushed out of danger and the man trying to kill Uncle Shimon had to die. The rest of the universe could fuck itself up the ass.
    Dov squeezed the trigger gently with one hand while his other hand, his broken hand, gripped Shimon Bar-El's shoulder and forced him down, hard enough to move him but not to hurt him. Nothing was allowed to hurt Uncle Shimon; that was the rule.
    The shotgun kicked gently against Dov's right hand while Shimon went limp against his left, letting Dov push him down, and the world was simple and beautiful.
    Dov released Shimon and nudged Avram's body out of the way. He pumped, fired, pumped and fired again, ignoring the shouts and the sounds of explosions and gunfire.
    The shotgun kicked against his good hand with gratifying firmness; the first rocketeer dropped his launcher and grabbed at his belly.
    Pump, fire, pump, fire.
    This time Dov's first shot missed, but his second blast smashed the other rocketeer's face to bloody pulp and the rocket launched straight up, riding a pillar of smoke and fire into the sky.
    Pump, fire, pump.
    Another of the enemy leaped for a rocket launcher but Dov led him just enough, firing instinctively, sending the bastard screaming off into a neatly timed stutter from a Barak.
    Dov's shotgun locked open, empty. The first two fingers of his left hand were bent at impossible angles. Clumsy, broken fingers refusing to obey properly, Dov awkwardly reloaded as the crack of Baraks echoed through the cabin, and more shots from outside starred the window to his