Wild Hearts (Novella) Read Online Free PDF Page A

intrigued.”
    Julian gave him the you’re-an-idiot look. “Always the first to jump into a black hole or the night sky from the ass end of an airplane.”
    Risk smirked. “Now I don’t feel so bad about going through your bag before we left our quarters this morning.”
    “If you cut holes in my briefs again, I’ll—”
    Risk fended off a fist coming at his biceps. “For old times’ sake, buddy.” One of his favorite pranks was cutting holes in his comrades’ briefs. Built-in air-conditioning. He paid for it with retaliatory pranks. “Are you telling me”—he took all of them in—“that none of you are even a little intrigued by what that guy said? What his company is about? If it’s legit, it rocks. It’s everything we’re about. And it’s not military or government.”
    Not a one of them gave away his interest. But Risk saw it in Knox’s face, and yeah, Saxby had that spark in his eyes.
    “So you’re going to do it?” Knox asked.
    Risk slung his bag over his shoulder. “The only plan I’m making right now is going to Norway and then Pakistan to do some jumping. Get the piss out of my system.” The guy knew about going through this kind of hell. He’d formed a company because of his experience. “But I’m sure going to keep it in mind.” Risk lifted his cell phone. “Keep in touch. See you on the other side.”

Chapter 3
    The last time Rath had come home to Breckinridge, Tennessee, he’d been one of the few in the Blackwood bunch to accomplish something. Now he was coming home a failure. He knew he’d always be a SEAL, but everyone else would consider him a fuckup and a nobody. It wasn’t like he needed to prove himself to anyone, but that they’d see him that way ate away at the calm veneer he’d layered over his anger. The anger, inherited from his father, was always simmering below the surface. He’d worked as hard to keep it there as he had to break out of the Blackwood mold.
    His ma was long gone, and probably lucky at that. Rath’s dad was an angry man who used his fist to make his point more often than he used words. And they weren’t pretty either. Though probably the first bit of abuse Rath had suffered was being stuck with the old family name, Rathmusen. He’d gotten plenty of ribbing over that as a kid. That had stopped when he’d shortened it to Rath—and adopted the attitude to go with it.
    He did a visual check of his storage unit. No signs of tampering or water damage. Much more secure than storing his stuff at the family’s barn. Rath pulled off the cover that shrouded his 1978 Harley Shovelhead and ran his hands over the gas tank with the American flag painted on it. A high school buddy had begged Rath for bail money. Instead of making a bad loan, Rath had offered to buy the bike from him.
    The Shovel had been in rough shape, and Rath spent every spare minute of his senior year rebuilding the engine and making her pretty again. A local named Al had let him store it at his motorcycle shop and taught him how to fix all things Harley. Eventually, Al had let on that he’d been a SEAL, and Rath had soaked in his stories as much as he soaked in the mechanics stuff. He’d ridden the Shovel throughout his two years of college, when he’d considered taking over his uncle’s rifle business. Then he’d toyed with the idea of becoming a motorcycle mechanic or restorer. He liked using his hands, fixing and making things.
    He swung his leg over the seat and cranked the engine. She started on the second attempt. He patted the tank.
Thanks for the welcome, Betsy
. After putting on his helmet,he backed out of the unit, closed it up, and raced down the road that wound around Breckinridge.
    Freedom. The idea of it both buffeted and buoyed him, same as the wind. Over five hundred pounds of vibrating metal and the roar of the dual mufflers took hold of his body and mind. He rode for an hour, long after he’d told himself it was time to head on over to see his family. A part of