Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

Blindside

I looked forward, the goggles making it so I didn't have to squint as the wind whipped around us.

We were heading straight toward a group of Iraqi infantry unassing trucks, obviously hoping to make a stand on this highway that the tankers and the Apaches were turning into nothing more than a massive line of death.

A missile was fired from the Iraqis, streaking forward and slamming into the front end of the Gypsy Wagon.

The hood blew off, the cab exploded, shrapnel whickering across me as the blast lifted me up out of the back of the truck as the EFP (Explosively Forged Penetrator) hit the gas tank behind the bench seat of the Gypsy Wagon.

...NO! That's not what happened!...

The blankets wrapped around me as I sat up, fighting, throwing them to the side, as my brain and body tried to react to two different battles in two different countries years apart from one another.

I'd reached the pilot during the Mad Minute.

The RPG-7 had missed the truck, Bomber's return fire hadn't missed them.

I got my legs free, swinging them off the bed, planting them firmly on the carpet of Misty's bedroom.

Behind me, Misty made a snorting noise and rolled over right before she farted.

I squinched my toes into the carpet, bunching it up. Yeah, yeah, it was a trick from Die Hard, but it worked. I bunched my fists into the blankets, feeling the cloth. Pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth and breathing slowly through my nose.

The room smelled faintly of strawberries. I could smell Misty, not counting her flatulence, and used the smells to override my brain's insistence that I could smell the desert and the jungle, the blood and the cordite, at the same time. My toes in the carpet reminded me that I was barefoot, wearing a cotton nightgown, not wearing combat boots and in full battle rattle. Bunching up the blanket in my fists reminded me I was in a bedroom and my hands weren't engaged in other things.

I stood up, feeling the nightgown drop down to my knees, and looked around at the room. I could see like it was daylight, no need to turn on a light. I stretched, putting my hands on the low ceiling of the bedroom, and then relaxed.

It took me a few minutes to walk into Misty's frontroom since I stopped to pee. There was plenty of room once I pushed her glass and chrome coffee table against the couch. I took off the night gown, moved to the center of the room.

Katas.

Starting slow with the basic stretching ones.

Unlike what was seen in the movies, these katas weren't flowing, dance-like, and even though they built off of one another, one move leading to the next, they were short, sharp, and ultimately lethal. Block to strike to block to block to strike strike and strike again.

I could feel the tension drain away as I moved through the katas.

I saw, following through with a backhanded spin strike, that Misty was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, watching me. I made sure to repeat several katas to be sure she was there, smiling at her as I went through them.

At one point I could smell Atlas, the sharp, astringent smell, but it went away after a few quick katas.

When I was done, I moved over and picked up my nightgown, shrugging into it and tugging it down over sweaty skin. I always hated that feeling, cotton over sweaty skin, but I didn't think that Misty would appreciate me sitting, naked and sweaty, on her furniture.

I've got a big ass. And the only thing worse than a  girl with a big ass sitting on your furniture, is a girl with a big sweaty ass sitting on your chair.