Read Seal Team Seven #19: Field of Fire for Free Online Page A

job, a career with the Navy, and now a Harley Hog like he’d wanted for half of his life.
    The front bikers slowed when they came to a small store set in a wide place in the road. There was parking just off the pavement, and neon blur that said “Beer” in a sign in the window. The first two bikers swung in, stopped and put down their kickstands. Lam and the other man did the same.
    Lam held out his hand to his riding partner. “Hey, I’m Joe Lampedusa.” The man with red hair and a trimmed beard took off his helmet and snorted.
    “Goddamnit, I hate these fucking helmets, but we got to wear them.” He was maybe thirty, built square and heavy with huge arms and an iron-pumped chest. He wiped sweat off his face, rubbed his palm on his jeans and held out his hand to Lam. “I’m Cooley Burdett. Those other jaspers are Woodenhead Woodward and Johnnie Downfield. Not that you’d want to know much more about them.”
    They walked toward the store where the first two had already stepped inside. “What do you do for a living?” Lam asked.
    “I’m manager of a grocery store, a big new Albertson’s. We’re kicking ass in our area.”
    They went into the small store. The first two men were already unscrewing the tops of beers. They passed cold ones to Cooley and Lam.
    Lam held out his hand to the other two men and found out Downfield was a bank loan officer. He was tall, on the thin side, with long blond hair and dark eyes that tried to bore right through you. He had a three-day beard and must not have owned a comb. Woodward was a personal fitness trainer, he said. He had an athletic build, wide shoulders and narrow hips, and walked like a cat on the prowl. They sat on a bench outside the small store and watched the traffic go by as they tipped their beers. Not many cars on this side road. They talked about their jobs.
    “Hate being in the damned bank,” Downfield said. “I get all the little old ladies who can’t balance their checkbook. Drive me bonkers.”
    They had another beer and then worked on a third. Lam had watched the men get a little more drunk all the time. He guessed they weren’t usually heavy drinkers. They might take these rides to blow off steam. He wondered if they could ride back to town.
    Woodward emptied his third beer and snorted. “Had me this old bitch today who wants to be thirty again. She’s fifty-five or so and skinny. Now she wants to build up some tone and a little bit of arm muscle. I told her it would take her two hours of work a day and she threw a vase at me. Luckily I caught it. Hell, this is the only way I can blow off steam. All day and half the night I got to be nice to the rich tits.”
    Cooley had stopped with two beers and he watched the other men with a growing frown. “Come on, guys, we better be getting back to town while you two can still ride,” he said. “We don’t want to repeat what happened two months ago.”
    “That was a fucking accident,” Woodward said. “Hell, I’m getting another round of beer.” He went inside, and a minute later they heard the loud voices.
    “What the fuck you mean no more beer?” Woodwardscreamed. Cooley rushed inside with Downfield right behind him. Lam hesitated. Maybe he should just ride away. It could get ugly in there. He lifted his brows and stepped inside. Woodward had grabbed the shirtfront of the old clerk and twisted it until the man could barely breathe. Lam figured the old guy had to be seventy-five.
    “Look, granddad. I said we want two more beers. Ain’t my money no good in here? Now, get me the beers.” Woodward let go of the man’s shirt and glared at him. The much smaller clerk cleared his throat, rubbed his neck, and then slowly shook his head.
    “You’re on bikes, you get drunk and go down, you could sue me. No sir. No more beer for you boys.”
    “You sonofabitch,” Woodward bellowed. “You old fucking bastard. I should knock your head in. We ain’t half-drunk yet. Now get us those beers.”
    The old