Read THE KILLER ANGEL : Book Three "Journey" (THE KILLER ANGEL TRILOGY 3) for Free Online

night following our routine of equipment practice and maintenance, we discussed our excellent partnership, a relationship that worked perfectly.
    “When I first found you unconscious next to the shore of that river in Dufton, not so very long ago,” Brick recalled, “I instinctively felt that there was something unusual in you. I wasn’t certain of what it was.
    “Of course, your attire, and your armaments made a forceful statement. I had never seen anyone so completely weaponized, from head to toe. Admittedly, I was impressed and intrigued.”
    “Then,” Brick continued, “you spoke French in your semi-conscious state. Clear and distinct, Parisian, too, which reminded me of my mother and visits with family in New Orleans.”
    “Understandably, your reaction upon awakening completed the picture. You had a pistol out so fast that I thought you might be some ex-law enforcement ormilitary type. And calm! A little
conversation française
and you were off. Heh heh...makes me smile to think of it.”
    I chuckled at the memory.
    “Nicki, I knew then and there that you were special and could use a fighting brother. Even though it was obvious that you traveled alone, I felt that we could learn from each other, and that perhaps, together, we would make a first rate runner trashing partnership.”
    I had to smile at his kind words and fun memory, “You were right about that,
mon ami
, and I have been so incredibly proud to stand with you through this journey. Who could ever have predicted the adventures we’ve shared, and the successes we’ve enjoyed. Without you, I could not have made it through the toughest of times.”
    After a pause, I asked, “How is it that you seem to have no nightmares or mental hangover from our struggles? No PTSD, whereas I suffer and fight almost every night, sometimes waking in sweat from the exertion. It’s a hell of a workout you know.”
    “It’s a good question,” Brick replied thoughtfully, “I’ve read that genes probably play a part in this, which might account for why some people never suffer with it after major and prolonged trauma, while others are tortured by comparatively minor events. My father long suffered effects from the Vietnam War, while my grandfather reportedly never lost a night’s sleep, in spite of intense experiences in the Korean War. I was toldthat, until my father came back from Vietnam, my grandfather did not believe in ‘battle-fatigue’, which is what they used to call PTSD.
    “Still,” Brick smiled, “it does not seem to slow you down.”
    “Nope,” I grinned, “not yet.”
    At one interesting point in our odyssey, we passed what had been a gorgeous country mansion. In spite of its decay, the estate was still magnificent. Some hardy ivy grew on the walls and through broken windows; expensive cars lined the large curved driveway, their tires flat, and formerly polished finishes covered in leaves, dirt and animal droppings. We decided to take a quick look inside. Such diversions were often educational and interesting.
    “The end must have happened during a party of some kind,” Brick noted in a matter-of-fact voice. “All the guests were here. It must have been terrible.”
    As we stepped up to the door, weapons at ready, we detected no signs of human occupants – no maintenance of any kind whatsoever. Even so, I loudly announced a “hello” along with a loud whistle. Within moments we could hear distinct pounding sounds and the awful screeching noise that only a runner can make.
    We waited, and although nothing came our way, the noise eventually tapered off, which was puzzling. “Ben?” I said softy, and with that encouragement, our canine scout took the lead, his sharp senses andextensive experience would keep surprises to a minimum.
    Ben carefully padded deeper into the shadows of this once beautiful palace. The farther we proceeded into the gloom, the more unpleasant the atmosphere became, dank and moldy, with the occasional detritus of a