Wrongful Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

didn’t even consider rolling down the windows. During their training in the Mojave Desert troops had driven through mock Iraqi cities with M16 and M4 rifles sticking out the windows in what they called “the porcupine.” The tactic was meant to intimidate, but as the insurgents became more sophisticated and better shooters, it also turned into a good way to get killed. An order came down the chain of command to keep the windows closed, no matter how hot or piss-poor the air-conditioning.
    Ford envied Phillip Ferguson, who stood in the center hatch, head out the roof, manning his M249. At least Fergie got a breeze and wasn’t suffocating on the smell of sweat-soaked cammies. The pungent odor reminded Ford of the smell of unwashed gym clothes and sneakers in his sons’ bedroom.
    “Everyone hydrating?” Kessler asked.
    Ford held up a half-empty bottle of water.
    “Doesn’t help to hold it, Ford.”
    “I just drank a full one, Captain.”
    “Drink another.”
    Ford unscrewed the cap and chugged the rest of the bottle. He had actually grown to dislike the taste of water. Seemed like all he did was drink water, sweat, and drink more water. About the only good thing that had come from it was he had shed thirty pounds from his six-foot-five frame. He wasn’t svelte, but 220 pounds was better than 250.
    He stretched his neck, popping vertebrae, which caused Michael Cassidy to lean forward from his seat directly behind him. “Dude. Don’t fucking do that! It creeps me out.”
    Ford grimaced. “Sorry, Butch, back’s killing me.”
    Cassidy wasn’t much older than the high school kids Ford taught in Seattle. They had nicknamed him Butch, as in the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but Cassidy wasn’t anything like the calm, polished bandito Paul Newman had portrayed. He was a bundle of exposed nerve endings and tics from a liberal use of caffeine pills he washed down with cans of adrenaline like Red Bull or Ripped Fuel. Cassidy, too, had lost weight, but he hadn’t had a lot to lose, and it had left him looking like a strung-out dope addict, gaunt through the face with sunken eyes and dark circles. His uniform hung from his shoulders and bunched at his waist.
    Being off base midday made all of them tense, and when Ford got tense he thought about his family. He pulled an envelope from his ammo vest and slid out the photograph Beverly had given him the morning he’d left their home in Seattle. In the photo he stood behind his wife with his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck and breathing in her beauty. It had been a split second of intimacy before the kids jumped into the fray, clinging to his arms and legs like ornaments on a Christmas tree. His mother-in-law had snapped the photo.
    “That your family?” Cassidy asked, head still between the seats.
    “No,” Thomas said, “he’s carrying a photo of someone else’s family.”
    “Shut up, DT,” Cassidy replied.
    Kessler, who was also married and had kids, pointed to Ford’s baby girl sitting atop his shoulders and beaming down at the camera. “Who’s she?”
    “That would be my Althea,” Ford said.
    “She has quite the smile.”
    “She’s my angel. We were supposed to be done after the third. She was a surprise. I believe God sent her to me special.”
    “I got a little girl too,” Kessler said. “They’re special until they turn thirteen. Then the aliens snatch their brains and you can’t do anything right. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
    Thomas muttered something from the backseat.
    “How’s that, DT?” Ford asked. Being another black man, Ford had thought he and Thomas might develop a friendship, but Thomas seemed perpetually angry, with a chip on his shoulder he never shook.
    DT raised his voice. “I said, you just torturing yourselves, carrying around pictures and shit. Why you worrying about that stuff? This shit is hard enough to do without all that other crap.”
    “You married? Got kids?” Ford asked.
    “Nope.”
    “Then