I KILL RICH PEOPLE 2 Read Online Free Page A

relationship was tentative at best.
    Neither saluted.
    “Take a drink,” Miller slurred. He reached out the bottle and sloshed a long splash of the Johnnie Walker Blue Label onto the tarp floor. Spencer stared as the whisky soaked into the canvas, leaving concentric rings of wet dust on the floor of the tent that was more home to him than anyplace else that came to mind.
    Spencer pulled his shirt off over his head. Ripples defined every movement across his taut, lean musculature. Miller thrust the amber liquid toward him again. Spencer turned away before peeling himself out from his pants. In his skivvies, he stared down at Miller, who remained kicking back on the one place where Spencer might have sat down to unlace his boots.
    Miller rested the whisky bottle against the receding hairline on his forehead. “Boy Scout,” Miller griped. “Jesus Christ Almighty, have a fucking drink!”
    Between the swollen finger and close to thirty hours without any shuteye, Spencer’s only reaction was to shift his stance, bringing the fifty caliber’s long barrel hanging from his shoulder to point straight at Miller’s face. The weapon was covered; safety and scope caps on, chamber cleared, but Miller’s eye followed the menacing line of the weapon. Spencer’s silhouette stood outlined against the intense daylight outside the tent.
    Miller drew back the outstretched Scotch whisky, followed, after a pause, by Spencer racking his weapon.
    “Fine,” Miller agreed. “Fuck it.” Miller swung his boot off Spencer’s cot. “Debrief at 4 o’clock, back here,” Miller ordered, then he rolled out from the cot with his bottle in one hand, cup in the other.
    That’s 16:00, asshole , Spencer thought .
    There was a written zero-tolerance policy for alcohol on base. That was one more thing Spencer disliked about his handler; the way Miller treated rules like they were all a joke that didn’t apply to him. Miller didn’t even bother to hide the bottle inside a bag. Every time Miller got into a bottle, he was bound to mouth off and cynically snark at everything. Always acting like he was something special, like he knew the score while everyone else around him were order-taking idiots.
    Poisonous loser bullshit . Real soldiers were giving sweat and blood to handle tough duty and Miller talked like they were all chumps. But Miller moved through debriefs faster than any intelligence officer Master Sergeant Jonathan Spencer, MSJS, had ever seen. Drunk or sober, Miller synthesized ground photos and aerials, troop movements, supply chains, tactical models, and complex scenarios on the first pass, holding them inside his head in a three-dimensional picture that he was able to examine from every angle. He knew every technology, he knew the personnel, and he knew topography and weather data even and what outpost was going to get a fly-in from a visiting congressman. If a local Afghan Government official was killed anywhere in his district, Miller knew who would be taking his place. Well before any announcement was made, he was already shifting chess pieces in his head.
    Spencer’s assignment was to support Miller, but there were no rules dictating that Spencer had to like the man or his behavior. MSJS trained, maintained, sustained; he achieved the stated objectives again and again. That was the job. The three bloating bodies spoke for themselves. Whatever decisions or policy choices his army or his Commander-in-Chief set forth, he was there to execute on them. The information and the knowledge to evaluate was beyond his pay grade.
    Spencer moved outside into the sunlight to examine the damaged finger. It remained double its normal size. Not ballooned like before, but it could not go without repair. Still, that could wait until after a hot shower and a trip to the mess tent. Other than a cold MRE with the Strykers and one granola bar, he hadn’t eaten since 18:30 the night before.
    He climbed the metal steps in his flip-flops, opened the shower