Ghosts, Matt Rogers [reading the story of the .txt] 📗

No small feat at six-three and two-twenty.

He reached the range’s outer limits, and now there was nothing around him but desert. Gone was suburbia. The rocks and cacti were still there, and heavy brush had been added to the mix. More mesquite, plus the appearance of the occasional sage and smoke trees to add a splash of green to the yellow canvas.

He thumbed a button on the side of his watch to kill the workout tracker. He checked the stats. Pace: 7:16 per mile. Average heart rate: 132 beats per minute. Distance: 4.02 miles.

Truly elite conditioning.

He’d never known anything else, so to him it was normal. Just an invisible upward progression, chipping away at his aerobic system with the sort of consistency that hadn’t seen him take a day off in over a decade. The powerlifting handled his anaerobic system in turn, and the combination meant he could use his strength long after similarly sized men fatigued. The extensive combat training put the whole puzzle together.

Then there was this component of his training. He walked the final hundred feet to the administrative building at the front of the shooting range, shaking his limbs out, and was met by an old guy in his seventies with a permanent stoop and heavily wrinkled skin. Roy owned the range, and a discreet financial arrangement King had made with him a month previously allowed total privacy when he was shooting each morning.

Because of the unavoidable questions that would come from shooting in front of civilians.

Like, How the hell are you doing that? Where did you get your training? What sort of phenom are you?

It would raise questions, and questions were the last thing King needed. So he nodded graciously to Roy, went past the man, and stepped through a door sporting a sign that read: CLOSED.

He busied himself within the facility, collecting the SIG Sauer P226 MK25 he used every morning. He’d relied on the P226 multiple times in the field, and it had saved his life an equal number of times. The MK25 variant sported several features that had made the P226 the SEALs’ weapon of choice for decades, so that’s what King used. He grabbed a full belt of fifteen-round magazines strung together by a nylon cinch.

Then he went out to the range itself — still sweating, his heart rate not fully settled, which was an obstacle he deliberately added — and unloaded twelve consecutive magazines at the targets.

One hundred and eighty rounds.

He didn’t miss once.

Unsurprising, really. He rarely ever missed when his life was on the line, and that came along with all kinds of additional stressors like adrenaline and mortal fear. Here in the desert heat, with his heart pumping and his pores perspiring and the sun hot on his face, he might as well have been half-asleep. It was nothing compared to the reality of combat.

It was as natural as breathing.

He went back inside and returned the SIG to its rack, then left the building through the same door he’d entered. Roy got to his feet, leaving the shade, and shook King’s hand on the way past.

When the old man stepped inside, he turned the sign to read: OPEN FOR BUSINESS.

King didn’t see that.

He was already running.

Four miles back, tracking it all on his watch, measuring his heart rate, as well as its variability and the total calories burned. He paid careful attention to every metric to avoid overtraining. There was nothing worse than being rendered bedridden, so fatigued that simply walking to the kitchen was an effort. He’d been there before. Dozens of times, actually, back during his testosterone-fuelled youth.

Now he was smarter, faster, better.

All from knowing his limits.

Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

Today he felt good, and his metrics were well within normal parameters, so he added a short loop to his return trip. He ran further east into Summerlin South, no doubt a sight to behold to the housewives of suburbia. He sensed eyes on him the whole way down Spotted Leaf Lane, but the people observing him were the furthest thing from a threat. The men wondered what sort of regime he followed, and the women wondered what he’d look like with his clothes off.

He ran past Spotted Leaf Park, a familiar expanse with a basketball court and two tennis courts positioned in front of a sea of green. Between two gazebos was a row of park benches. Most of them were empty.

One had a blonde woman seated on it.

Still running, King ended up looking twice.

Later, he’d realise that what roped him into the next violent phase of his life was a simple double-take.

2

The first thing King had noticed out of the corner of his eye was the mane of blond hair.

He also caught the flash of sparkling blue eyes.

Subconsciously, he likened the features to Violetta.

Momentarily he wondered what she was doing all the way out here, seated on a park bench, watching him run past. So he looked over and saw it wasn’t his girlfriend, but a woman who looked just like her.

No harm done.

He nodded politely to her, and returned his focus to the street ahead.

Then the double-take.

Because the woman was paler than Violetta, and he could tell it wasn’t her usual skin tone. She was white as a sheet. There were deep bags under her blue eyes, and stress lines on her forehead. She was still naturally gorgeous, but beat down, defeated. He had enough experience dealing with people hammered by the cruelty of injustice. She was caught in its grip, and she couldn’t see a way out.

One might consider it strange that King was able to read all this from a single glance.

They hadn’t been through what he’d been through.

He changed his trajectory, jogged over to the park bench, and sat down at the other end. He busied himself with his watch, ending the run at 4.56 miles, falling well short of the six he’d planned on the return trip. A disruption to his routine, but this took priority.

She