RW11 - Violence of Action Read Online Free PDF

been torqued with a jackhammer. My muscles were beaten, battered, and pulped. But in time I began to learn a new way of fighting. And I loved it. The pain was teaching me well.
    I’d learned how to properly fight and kill with a knife. The Emerson CQC-7 tactical folder I’d picked up at a local knife show now complemented my new skills. Along with slicing and dicing with cold steel I could also beat a man to death with a rolled up Newsweek magazine; strangle someone to death with triple-reinforced dental floss; and break nearly every bone in an opponent’s body as easily as wiping my ass. My speed and power, blow for blow, had been magnified tenfold. I’d mastered the art of deception and could strike like a cobra without giving my intention away with an inadvertent glance or twitch. By the beginning of the second month I was Worden’s uke , or silent training partner. He’d gotten a contract to teach his unique brand of combatives to the First Special Forces Group’s Green Berets at Fort Lewis and I was rolling with Kelly’s punches well enough that I could help him instruct.
    With my martial arts training came additional studies in the healing arts. Worden introduced me to a couple of true masters who’d come from China and the Philippines to settle in the Pacific Northwest. In turn, they shared with me how to use herbs and the natural properties of the body to cure injury and illness. Worden, a master healer himself, worked on the wreckage of my battered body using his inner Chi . Old pains faded and new ones quickly disappeared. Soon I could treat myself. I was now not only a Master Destroyer but a capable healer. The balance suited me more than I’d have ever expected.
    When I left Mr. Worden’s school for modern day warriors I was physically, mentally, and emotionally fit. Better yet, my close quarters fighting skills had been taken to a level well beyond formidable. I was no longer a brutish brawler with a thick skull and quick fists. I had attained a master’s ability to destroy my enemies with perfect timing and effective technique.
    For the next several months I went wherever the road or my mood took me. To San Diego and the Silver Strand to visit and learn from my brothers at SEAL Teams 1 and 5 at Coronado. To Mexico where I spent a month training Mexican naval commandos in ship-to-ship boarding operations to help stop waterborne drug smugglers working the Pacific Coast between Mexico and the states. From Mexico back to the U.S. where I made the rounds of America’s finest shooting schools beginning with Clint Smith at Thunder Ranch in Texas. Along the way I met up with my old friend and fellow Tango hunter Danny O’ Coulson, the founder and first commander of the FBI’s famous Hostage Rescue Team. Coulson brought me up to speed on what was happening real time in our war on both foreign and domestic terrorism. Danny is the only motherfucker who could get me to wear a cowboy hat to a bar and enjoy doing so.
    Fuck you very much, Danny!
    It was in the middle of all this, while doing a little job down in El Salvador, that I happened to meet up with a couple of fire-breathing, whip-smart military punks named Trace Dahlgren and Paul Kossens. After what we went through down there, I recognized them as the foundation of my new team and they were just crazy enough to join me.
    A few phone calls to my attorney revealed the heat was off in Washington. Dead terrorists were now good terrorists. And how they died didn’t matter. My detractors had been muzzled and my absence had helped take the edge off their self-serving need to see me sidelined during the current fray. I was fit, fucked, and ready to go to war again. From the ashes of the old Rogue Warrior had been born a new and more deadly version of my Self. It was time to return home, time for me to go operational once again. Meaning? New Demo Dick, new team, and new bad dog attitude for anyone stupid enough to get in my way.
     
    My blue cell phone began