Blaze by Andrew Thorp King

would get him into trouble again.
    â€œWhat’s the story this time? Something about roughing up some broad? What the hell is wrong with you?”
    â€œTrying to defend myself against my girlfriend.”
    â€œAw, you poor defenseless bastard.”
    â€œHey, bitch pummeled me with a lamp.” He pointed to a barely healed gash on the side of his face.
    Gallagher took Zack’s face in his hand and turned it to get the best light. “Not so bad.”
    â€œNearly knocked me cold.”
    â€œBut you somehow managed to come back on her?”
    â€œI—well—she had a broken lamp in her hand and was still charging, so yeah, I had to pop her.”
    â€œWhich broad is it this time? That same whack job with all the jewelry in her face or that cute Armenian-Italian one? Helluva mix she’s got.” Gallagher could not keep track of Zack’s women. For a veritable compulsive screw-up, Zack Batt still found a way to persuade hot women to spend time with him whenever he was on the prowl.
    â€œNeither. A whole new ball of wax I don’t care to explain, and hope to never see again. I suppose a mission would distract me from my disastrous luck with the ladies.” This was true. Zack was at his best when he was in the thick of operational danger. When he was between assignments, somehow he wasn’t as good at avoiding danger.
    â€œGood. I’m glad to know where you’re head’s at now, because if it was latched onto some whacky broad, I’d be moving right along here and letting you rot in this cell.” Gallagher did not chuckle. He was deadly serious. He needed Zack’s head clear.
    â€œSo what’s the angle this time.” Zack was calm now and ready to get into the real deal briefing. His tone and facial expression made it clear to Gallagher that he was serious about jumping into a new mission.
    â€œAryans. Of a slightly different stripe.” Gallagher knew this was gonna throw Zack for a loop.
    Zack jerked his head quickly—mouth agape and eyes wide. He proceeded with his response, talking rapidly like a machine gun, as was his customary street-bred speech pattern. “Aryans? Damn, fighting them has historically got me into a hell of a lot of deep shit. I suppose now’s as good of time as ever to wade back in though. What the hell do you mean by different stripe anyhow? We’re talking about Aryans , right? There is only one damn stripe for an Aryan—white, European decent and nasty as hell.” Zack was game, even though he was already confused as to what exactly this game was going to be.
    â€œNot these ones. Except for the nasty part. These Aryans love Allah and fashioned the name of their nation via a suggestion by Hitler and his buddies. I’m talking about the Iranians.” Now Chuck knew he’d really be confusing the hell out of his young protégé.
    â€œWhat the hell do the Iranians have to do with Nazis?”
    â€œThe word Iran means ‘Aryan’ in Farsi. The name came out of the many meetings Persians had with the Germans during WWII. Persians are just as Aryan as anyone in the Third Reich. And some of them are hell-bent on emphasizing their claim to the master race by targeting the Jews.”
    â€œSounds like fun. An insane ideology meets an insane theology. When do I clock in and where is my employee handbook?”
    â€œLet me pull my strings and get your ass out of here first.” Gallagher knew Zack would be a perfect fit for this mission.
    â€œGood. Please move fast on that pally. Look around the yard here. I’m not exactly with the honor roll here.” Zack waived his arms motioning towards the lovely co-habitants he had been surrounded by.
    â€œOh, and you’re so refined and full of dignity and scholarship? You got a friggin’ spider web tattoo in your inner ear and you’re griping about these fellas?” Gallagher cracked a smile.
    Zack chuckled and gazed