Blood & Tacos #1 by Johnny Shaw

Author:Johnny Shaw [Shaw, Johnny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
Publisher: Creative Guy Publishing
Published: 2012-02-27T00:00:00+00:00

McCreary regained consciousness, pain glowing bright yellow in his skull. He tried to move his arms, but couldn't. They were stretched behind his back. He opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through tall windows. McCreary recognized the office of Mayor Todd Houston. Same oak paneling, same fancy desk the size of a Mississippi River barge. But the walls were adorned with posters, of proud workers facing the sky under the same backward Cyrillic letters that Hawker had translated the day before—

Hawker. Goddammit, Hawker!

Whitefeather and LaRoy were similarly seated, their arms tied behind their chairs. They were awake. LaRoy had two black eyes. The scrappy little private had apparently tried to fight them off. Whitefeather didn't appear to have a scratch on him. The Russians probably knew better than to tangle with the big Indian.

Other than two Russian guards at the door, they were alone.

McCreary scanned the room. His eyes stopped on a huge oil painting, five feet high and three feet wide, hanging on the wall behind the desk.

The painting looked like something out of the 1700s. It showed a blonde woman in a blue dress, her hair tied behind her head, standing in a field of flowers. A basket of blossoms hung from her elbow. In the distance, a Russian church with three onion domes sat under yellow clouds and a red, setting sun. McCreary couldn't take his eyes off the woman.

Sunny!

The door to the office opened. General Azov wore a more ceremonial uniform, whatever it was that the Russians called their Class A's. His boots shone and thumped on the old oak floor, every step a gunshot.

"I see you're awake, Capt. McCreary," the General said.

"You seem to know me quite well," McCreary intoned. His skull throbbed with every syllable.

"I've known all about you for years." Azov said, pulling an olive-colored folder off his desk and opening it. "Captain Jacob McCreary, United States Air Force… born on March 2, Texas Independence Day … Eagle Scout… joined the Air Force's Pararescue division for training, but forced out with a knee injury obtained when rescuing a comrade from a tangled parachute line. … Reassigned to the 91st Missile Wing, where you performed with distinction."

"Hey, how do you know all that?" LaRoy asked.

Azov continued. "Before assuming command of this glorious invasion of your … doomed empire, I was second-in-command of the KGB. It was my job to know about every American missile officer. I know every detail, Capt. McCreary. I've followed your career. And your personal life. I was amazed at the similarities of our ambitions. Of our character. And most importantly, the fact that our wives appeared so… identical. So naturally, I studied you. And her. With great interest."

"What's that supposed to mean?" McCreary asked.

"Oh, Captain. We shall deal with that soon enough," Azov said, "We are discussing a clash of civilizations. Mighty empires, meeting on the field of battle! Our Chinese allies, tired of being a third-rate power. Mother Russia, impatient that it has taken seventy years to bring capitalism to its knees.

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