The Edge of Courage (Red Team) Read Online Free PDF

you accepted the deal.”
    “I have already paid a terrible price. I lost my wife, thanks to you. I want out. Out for good. I will repay you what you have invested in me.”
    “There is no out, Mr. Buchanan.” Amir took out a ten-dollar bill and set it on the table. “By the way, how is your daughter?”
    “Don’t hold her over my head. She isn’t my kid. She was my wife’s.” He pretended indifference. “Do what you want to her, I don’t care.”
    “Of course I was not threatening her. Do you think me a monster? But I do have your signed confession. I would not hesitate to turn it over to the FBI should you find yourself unable to complete your obligations to us.”
    Alan shut his eyes as he weighed his options. He couldn’t cut and run, because he’d be right back where he was five years ago. He couldn’t go to the authorities: they wouldn’t believe him, and they’d throw him in jail for his past crimes. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t do it, just that after I do it, then I’m out.”
    Amir smiled. “Good day, Mr. Buchanan. Always a pleasure to chat with you.”
    * * *
    Fresh out of a shower, Rocco studied his duffel bag, trying to decide whether he should unpack it and stay awhile or keep living out of the bag and remain mobile. He’d waged this debate with himself for a quarter of an hour without any progress.
    What the hell. He couldn’t even decide something so freaking simple. It wouldn’t take long to repack if he had to leave in a hurry. All he really needed was his shotgun.
    He pulled his clothes out of the duffel and stacked them in the dresser. When he finished, he wished he hadn’t. Everything he owned fit in two drawers. Almost thirty fucking years old, and what did he have to show for three decades of life? An old beat-up Ford, a shotgun he’d had as a kid, and two drawers of clothes.
    He quickly tamped down on that line of thinking—it was a dark road that led straight to hell. His life had been so much more than the sum of his things. He was a father and a husband. A trusted warrior. A linguistic freak of nature, coveted by spec ops groups for the ease with which he could learn languages and emulate dialects. He had a dark complexion that let him infiltrate any indigenous people in the Middle East and the skills to survive on the lam in foreign, hostile lands.
    At least he still had the languages, though there wasn’t much use for a linguist in the wilds of Wyoming. Maybe that was a blessing.
    He drew off his towel and stepped into briefs and a fresh pair of jeans. He laid out his toiletries in the bathroom, straightened the small bunkhouse, checked the locks on the doors and windows, and pulled the drapes. When everything was settled, he pushed an armchair into the far corner of the living room, facing the kitchen, moving it into the most defensible spot in the house. He set a box of shotgun shells next to it on the floor. With only the dim light from the bathroom, he settled into the chair for the night and reached for his shotgun. The hard, cold metal was all that passed for his backbone anymore.
    It was after midnight. He’d spent the evening getting the toolshed straightened up. He’d found lumber in the old barn and made shelves for the boxes of household discards mixed in with the equipment. He set the implements that didn’t fit the tractor off to one side for Mandy to decide what she wanted to do with them. Tomorrow, he’d tackle repairing the tractor—after another quick tour around the ranch.
    He blinked. His eyelids were heavy. The nightmares couldn’t take him if he didn’t sleep, so he fought to stay awake. He hated nights the most. The dark was the perfect backdrop for the images his mind kept playing, a continuous loop of a B-Rated horror flick, except what he saw was real, a memory, and far, far worse than any movie. He held the sides of his head, wishing the images that taunted him were less fragmented. The wisps that played in his mind, in his dreams, were