Breakout Paul Herron (books to read in your 20s female .TXT) 📖

Then you hear a noise. A groan? You’re not sure, but it comes from the living room.

Generally, high ground is the best location for an ambush. Some natural obstacles to keep the enemy in the kill zone are a bonus. That allows the ambush force to control all phases of contact. I always preferred urban environments for that exact reason, but that’s not an option here. Firing an M249 in downtown Miami is going to draw too much attention.

But it’s Miami, I hear you say. Who the fuck’s going to notice gunfire? Sure, I get it. But I don’t want to take the risk. I might not get to finish the job.

You also need to figure out what kind of ambush you’re planning. Hasty or deliberate. Hasty ambushes aren’t prearranged. They’re reactive, like when you’re on patrol and stumble across enemy troops. If I was going to do that, I could just follow the bastards home and shoot them as they get out of their cars. No. I want them to suffer. I want to look them in the eye.

I’m going for a deliberate ambush.

One that I can plan. One that I can control.

I’ve already gathered the intel I needed to plan the mission. Their movements, their habits, their preferred bars, the name of their drug dealer…

You creep forward, gun held ready. The moonlight shines through the front window. The dresser’s been ransacked, drawers pulled out, the contents dumped on the carpet.

Your gaze drops to the mess. Playing cards, coins, old USB sticks, bits and pieces lying every—

You freeze. There’s a larger shape on the floor.

Your eyes skip over it. Something inside forces you to look away, some protective instinct. Instead, you stare at a photograph of you and Amy that’s lying on the carpet. It’s the one you took when she first told you she was pregnant. She’s laughing. You’re holding her from behind, the cell phone in your hand as you snap the picture in the bedroom mirror.

Finally, you drag your eyes back to the shapeless mass. Your heart pounds loudly in your ears.

So—the things I have control over: location of ambush. My own location in relation to the ambush. And of course the mission statement: torture and kill, slowly and painfully, with extreme prejudice.

The things I don’t have control over: a platoon always needs an assault, support, and security element when launching an ambush. I don’t have support, or security to back me up. I’m on my own.

Also, you’re supposed to split your team. One group to execute the attack and one to lay down cover fire. Not gonna happen here.

But that’s fine. The kills are going to be mine alone. I don’t want anyone else involved.

You reach out and flick the light switch.

Your brain refuses to take it in.

Your vision is reduced to flashes, like Polaroid pictures, images that sear into your brain, images you will never forget.

Amy, sprawled facedown on the carpet.

The T-shirt she sleeps in riding high, revealing her panties and the small tattoo over her kidney.

Her caved-in skull, hair matted and soaked with blood.

The aluminum baseball bat lying next to her.

The dark stain that has spread out over the gray carpet.

The bulge of her pregnant stomach.

You slump back against the wall. The gun falls from your fingers as you drop to the carpet, staring at your wife.

The most important rule of any ambush, after all the prep, all the work, is speed. You have to shock your enemy. Scare the shit out of them. Go in hard, shoot everyone, then get the hell out. You want your contact to last less than sixty seconds.

That’s not happening tonight. I’m going to make this last as long as possible.

You don’t give the investigating detectives the footage from your security camera. You tell them you’d taken the memory card out and hadn’t replaced it. You get looks. What kind of cop doesn’t keep their own security camera working?

You don’t care what they think. You keep the footage for yourself. Watch the three men break into your home, editing the frames into a loop and playing it over and over until their faces are imprinted in your mind.

After a while, staring at the video loop, you have the weirdest feeling that you actually know them. Every curve and angle of their faces is so familiar it’s like you’re looking at old friends.

When your bereavement leave is over, you use the police database to ID the killers. It doesn’t take long. They have rap sheets longer than your arm.

Marcus Tully, Barry Novak, and Luther Wright.

Three names.

You write down their addresses, their known associates.

Then you launch the first phase of the operation—gathering intel.

You find Marcus Tully first. He’s still living with his mother in a one-bedroom apartment deep in Overtown.

Barry Novak is a veteran. That surprises you. Disappoints you. He served in Afghanistan five years before your tour. Not in Marjah. Somewhere else. He lives on his own. He visits a support group for ex-army. He sees a shrink, drinks a bottle of vodka every night. The guy has PTSD. You can see it a mile away.

Tough shit.

Luther Wright is the outsider. The guy who always hangs on the outskirts of the gang, hoping he’ll gain cred just by association. He’s a yes-man. Does whatever he’s told.

Phase one complete. Next step is to check known associates.

As soon as you see that one of those associates is a drug dealer, the beginnings of a plan form in your head.

I’m using the M249 Paratrooper for the ambush. The Para. It’s a compact version of the M249 SAW, with a shorter barrel and sliding aluminum buttstock. Easier to move around with.

I had to call in a lot of favors from an old army buddy to get it. He wanted to sell me an M27, but I never liked them. Thirty-round magazines just don’t compare to the linked ammunition the M249 uses. It’s older than the M27, but I like that. It’s more familiar in my