Read The Diaries - 01 for Free Online

dropped
it into the damp alcove leading to the building’s basement, watching to confirm
its destruction.   The cold wind slapped
Gage in the face as he stepped from behind the building, stuffing his hands
deep into the pockets of the warm pea coat.   A black stocking cap was pulled down over his head, making him look like
nearly any other German heading to the Bad Homburg S- bahn station on bustling Daimlerstrasse .   October was hit or miss in Germany; this one
had been cold from the get-go.   The trees
had shed their leaves; the few that remained were on the ground, blowing by
Gage’s boots as he walked.
    He boarded the S5 line
for the fifteen-minute trek into the center of Frankfurt, sitting alone and
enjoying the fact that the train wasn’t extremely crowded, most likely because
it was a slate-gray Saturday afternoon and people were riding out the cold and
gloomy day in the comfort of their homes.   The few people that were on the train were quiet, keeping to themselves
like most Germans do.
    Gage was permitted
to legally live in Germany on a work visa.   His “boss”, Peter Ernst, was nothing more than the profiteer of a false
front, collecting 1,500 euro monthly from hundreds of foreigners, giving them
everything they needed to maintain their work status and not be deported.   He likely had everyone from actors to
professional hit men on his payroll, doing whatever it was he did to keep the Standesamt off their
asses and out of his records.   Frankfurt
had been the ideal choice for Gage, although he would have preferred London
because he had more acquaintances there.   The central European location, the fact that he was fully fluent in
German, the excellent airport, and the lower cost of living cemented Frankfurt
as his ideal home base.
    Now if I could just make some money, I might
actually feel good about myself , Gage ruefully thought.   The walls of the tiled tunnel shot by as Gage
again pondered the alternative of “wet” jobs.   He could easily make more money—much more—if he was willing to kill or
maim.   Like an experienced skydiver who
has lost his balls, Gage could put himself in the door of that airplane but he could
no longer bring himself to jump.   Killing, wounding…the very thought awakened too many horrid memories.   Flustered, he tried to interrupt his brooding
pattern of thought, thinking back to the rich days, back when it all began.   Before the headaches.   Before the sunglasses at nighttime.   Before the nightmares that shrouded his
sleep.
    Before Crete.   Always Crete.   Fucking Crete.
    Stop it…old days.   Take it back to the old days.   The good days.
    As a young
soldier, Gage Hartline, his Christian name Matthew Schoenfeld ,
had been a commander’s dream.   He’d aced
nearly everything he was ever tasked with, making sergeant in only two short
years.   Shortly thereafter, like all
young sergeants with clean records and test scores of a certain level, Gage was
required to attend a Special Forces seminar.   It was there, in a bland Army auditorium, that a green beret-wearing master
sergeant painted a sunny picture of attaining such an elite status.   One-and-a-half years of intense operational training
was all it took, followed by the world’s best language school.   The master sergeant talked about the unique
weaponry, the specialized tactics.   He
showed videos of improvised demolitions.   He told tales about makeshift medical procedures that would make a
surgeon jealous.   A well-practiced
storyteller, the statuesque master sergeant made serving in Special Forces
sound like a daily adventure.   And then he
dropped the bomb: the Special Forces selection program would weed out all
non-hackers in a matter of months—with a ninety-five percent failure rate.  
    Ninety-five
percent.  
    That was all it
took to entice Gage; he loved being up against the odds, and he knew his new
life’s goal would be to finish at the top of that five percent—the