Rexall Shaul lifted a hand to his head.
What the hell happened?
He didn’t remember pain like this since he was a kid and fell full on his nuts on the balance beam. He crumpled and slid off, unable to breathe or think. Coach sat him on the gym’s hardwood floor, legs extended in front in a V, lifted him by the armpits about a foot off the ground and dropped him.
Had to do it several times before his balls dropped back to where they were supposed to be.
Jesus Fucking Christ who took a hammer to his car?
He ran his hand over the buckled roof.
Who the fuck would do this?
To his car!
And there was blood everywhere.
And what was this? Down by a left rear tire?
Which was blown open like a burst balloon, by the way.
And nobody stocked those custom rims local. They’d have to be shipped up from Florida.
Fuck it. That’s what FedEx was for.
Oh, Christ, it was a human hand. Holding a mobile.
He hadn’t seen anything like this since he worked for JAWBREAKER in Bosnia. He trained terrorists in bomb making using mobiles as detonators. Stupid sonsabitches kept forgetting to set conferencing, blocking, and waiting options. Some idiot would misdial a number, ring the mobile before everything was set and there goes two weeks of training and the morons you just taught.
Finally had to get Blackwater to run an NAO honk TXT message board with everything coded as camel racing results.
Even then every time their postings were late he wondered if some towelheaded dirt digger screwed up and another asset was adding to the city’s dust.