Too Wylde Read Online Free PDF Page A

the grass beneath her feet, to her
favorite spot beneath a tree, where she could see the lake and the
rest of Lake City laid out beneath her. Sat down, stretched, began
a power yoga routine designed for her by her good friend and
occasional night out partner Lizzy Caprica, probably the most
beautiful woman inside and out she'd ever met, whose boyfriend
Jimmy Wylde Nina was probably going to have to kill.
    Someday.
    Nina laughed out loud. Stretched in the sun.
Lay on her back and let the fatigue drop into the earth, the sun
beating down on her.
    Got up and as she walked the short blocks
home, thought: Kill Jimmy? Fuck Jimmy? Maybe that's why she
wanted to kill him. Not just because he was a stone killer and a
serious bad guy. Because she liked him. She'd fought beside him.
And she very likely owed him her life.
    It was enough to drive a girl to drink.
    ***
    After her shower, Nina made a cup of coffee
in her brand new Keurig machine. Poured a short shot of Amaretto in
it, splash of cream, curled up in her favorite arm chair, the only
piece of furniture she'd brought with her from Minneapolis when she
left. Snuggled in, stared out the window.
    This was the way to start a new day.
     
    Mr. Smith
    "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a
beautiful day in the neighborhood, won't you be mine, won't you be
mine..." Mr. Smith sang. He hunched over the narrow platform table
that lined one wall of the Motel 6 room, his components laid out in
neat orderly rows: good old C4 in one-pound blocks, det cord, the
detonators in a neat metal box, lined up all so carefully, his
soldering tool smoking a little bit as he worked on the circuit
board taken from the Trac-Fone (two others lined up neatly) he'd
disassembled, the green foil box that held the bottle of Bushmills
Green Label he had set to one side.
    Everything in its place. Order is essential
in the bomber's business. At least the ones who live.
    The challenge wasn't in making the firing
circuit; it was to install a reliable back up circuit that
wouldn't/couldn't be easily spoofed by a cell phone killer (the
very cool high tech gadget that runs off a phone cell network as
you move the gadget through it) or someone deliberately or
inadvertently setting it off with a random signal. American cities
had *so* many signals -- wi-fi, cell phones, 3G/4G data
transmission pipelines, high power cables, digital and analog
encrypted and unencrypted radio frequencies -- such a rich signal
environment and each signal ran the risk of setting off a remote
activated device.
    It made Mr. Smith long for the old days of
fuses, pressure release plates, barometric switches and all the Old
School solutions to blowing things and people the fuck up.
    He checked the RF monitor beside him. There
were 8 separate wi-fi signals, at least 11 cellphones (according to
the program running on his laptop) and a radio transmission from a
nearby police car across the street at the BBQ stand and an
interstate trucker taking a break down the road.
    Dang. Might make some people nervous.
    But it's just another day in the neighborhood
for Mr. Smith.
    "Won't you be mine....won't you be
mine...."
    ***
    He'd always liked making the big bang. Even
as a kid. Fires were first; those were easy. Then firecrackers.
Getting spanked by his mom for putting the firecrackers on the
frogs and setting them off. His first real big bang, a propane tank
with a railroad flare...dang, he still remembered that. Lit up the
whole hillside and set the summer grass aflame.
    Toasty.
    As a Special Forces engineer, he'd learned
how to build bridges and how to blow them up. As a door kicker he'd
worked with the legendary Steve Mattson, Gen 1 Delta, on refining
the exact requirements for explosive entry; he'd gotten so good he
could weigh it out by eye, punch a hole big enough for a hand or a
handful of shooters, you call it, he'd deliver. In the 'Stan he
could blow a wall on the run, make a breach and get the crew in
place, but the truth was, not so much