Too Wylde Read Online Free PDF

call for that, though he had
some great scores, including setting a rock slide off to crush some
runaway Taliban in an unreported firefight in the far reaches of
the Tora Bora -- just like in the fucking movies, dude. Pretty
cool, and brought him more than a few beers when he told the
tale.
    Task Force was like that. Old School updated,
Gen 4.5 of the Killer Elite, all the Old School attitude with the
New School technology. More like Star Wars than the civvies would
ever know, especially since the Patriot Act allowed contractors and
DHS to field test military tech for surveillance unbeknownst to the
civil liberty yo-yos...tracking dandruff from satellites, nano tags
in the blood and on their clothing, press on micro circuits. Life
was like a sci-fi movie.
    Or a horror movie. Depends on the day and
which side you were on.
    After his Big Burn (and there was a part of
him, someplace deep down, that wondered if there wasn't something
to this whole karma thing, when he thought of how many people he'd
blown up or burned in his life, but he'd always been on the side of
the angels, or at least he comforted himself with that thought...)
and the lengthy stay courtesy of DOD and the ever so helpful OGA in
the best rehab, he'd been hard pressed to come up with something to
do. Teaching wasn't gonna work, they wouldn't put him back in the
field, and all of his options were complicated by the fact that,
well, technically, he was dead and cremated in a box and his ashes
handed off to a third tier auntie or some such relative he'd never
met. Problem with being an orphan, there's a gnome in the DOD
computer that flags guys with certain skill sets that come up with
a certain family background: as in no family, few friends, no
social network, none of the things that get people caught or
identified; that family/social network coupled with a certain psych
profile -- ability to get along, be low key, hide in plain sight --
hell that's harder to find than the technical skills, get the right
guy (and it's mostly guys, though rumor had it there were a few
women in The Program) and you can *teach* him the skills. Reminded
him of a SEAL acquaintance, who told him the apocryphal story of
the BUDS candidate who turned up for his swim test into BUDS. Like
all the rest, he was handed a brick and told to swim it to the
other end of the pool. To the astonishment of all watching, the
young candidate held the brick, sank to the bottom, and walked the
length of the pool, before pulling himself up and out and handing
the brick to the BUDS instructor.
    "Son? What the fuck did you just do?"
    "I can't swim, sir."
    "You can't fucking swim?"
    "No sir."
    "Why are you here?"
    "I want to be a SEAL."
    The BUDS instructor looked at his candidate,
looked at the brick, grinned and said, "Hell, son. I can teach you
to swim. Welcome to BUDS."
    Kinda like that. But not as nice.
    Mr. Smith was like that.
    But he didn't spend much time thinking. No,
he was a in-the-moment kind of guy. He didn't spend too much time
thinking about himself. Just about what to do. One moment after the
other. During his time in the hospital, a nurse asked him if he
wanted the TV. Nope. Book? Nope. What do you want? Quiet. So she
left him alone. Eight months like that. Alone with no thought and a
great deal of pain.
    And in that, a plan took shape.
    And then he met someone who was looking for a
particular skill set coupled with a certain psychological bent,
and, fucked up or not, there just weren't many of them around, so
he got himself a job for as long as he could last, and plenty of
money to buy the drugs that kept him working. And the opportunity
to do a little side work, return a few favors, one in
particular.
    And to look up old friends, like Jimmy
John.
    "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a
beautiful day in the neighborhood..."
     
    Nina Capushek and Lizzy Caprica
    Lizzy and Nina sat at a table near the
window, easily the two most beautiful women in the Loring Bar,
ignoring the OMG looks