The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) (6 page)

It figured.

Snipers always were hot heads.

Meanwhile, the two men in the ring continued to
pound on one another with distinctively different styles. The
bigger man, wearing blue trunks, was clearly a brawler who’d
participated in one too many bar fights over the years. His lunges
and long swings were meant to inflict major punishment, at the
expense of finesse, mobility and his hit count.

The second man, in red trunks, fought like an
experienced martial artist, well-schooled in hand to hand combat.
He utilized jabs, chops, kicks, counters, and stayed extremely
mobile, dancing in and out, and side to side. Despite his fluid
grace and obvious fighting superiority, his opponent just shrugged
off his blows and continued to rain his own clumsy shots with
little success.

After about five minutes of constant fighting, with
both men sweating profusely, the man in red trunks finally found
his opening. As the man in blue threw a powerful right hook towards
his opponents face, the smaller man easily spun to his attacker’s
right side, twirling beneath his upraised arm. Now at the man’s
back, it was easy to pull off a spinning leg sweep that took the
big man to the mat, and the smaller man’s elbow to his neck.

A few heartbeats passed as the pair stared at one
another before the big man started laughing and allowed the other
to help him up.

“I thought I had you there with that last hook, but
you are too damn quick,
mon ami
. How many shots did I
actually land in that fight? Three? And those barely connected, as
if you knew they were coming. How do you do that?”

“I’ve been studying martial arts since I was able to
crawl,” the smaller man replied. “It’s not just about fighting, but
learning how to anticipate your opponent. Read them. But don’t
worry, you’re doing better. I’ll make a warrior out of you
yet.”

The two continued to chat when McDougal cleared his
throat.

“If the two of you are finished, I’d like to
introduce you to our final member. This is Lieutenant Jacob Hunter.
Hunter, let me introduce Lieutenant James Wang,” he said indicating
the smaller man, “and this rather large brute is Lieutenant Jeanne
Bordeaux.”

I nodded. “Nice to meet you both.”

Bordeaux offered a smile and wave, while Wang bowed
slightly and offered a very British, possibly Welsh, “ello.”

To say Bordeaux was a large man was an
understatement. His legs were the size of tree trunks and his arms
like honey baked hams, while his shirtless upper body was just as
intimidating. In all my time in the military, I can’t remember many
men who matched him in size. Yet, despite his massive frame, his
features were oddly gentle. He had a thin face, with a chiseled jaw
and cheeks, and a slightly pointy nose. Sandy brown hair, and
scruffy facial hair gave me the impression he was pretty successful
at picking up women at night clubs.

His boxing partner, Wang, was the polar opposite.
Only five and a half feet tall, I estimated even the woman at the
sniper range was taller than he was. Not only was he small in
height, but also thin in girth. That said, even if Bordeaux hadn’t
known what kind of fighter he was, he would probably think twice
about getting into a fight with him. His thin body was ripped with
muscles in places I didn’t know you could have them. It wouldn’t
surprise me a bit to learn he could out-bench me.

He had a round face and narrow eyes that appealed to
his surname’s ethnicity but his nose and his mouth had a distinctly
western quality to them.

I was about to inquire into their backgrounds when
the man previously using the chest press bench came into view. The
man, wearing shorts and a sleeveless undershirt, was well muscled,
and bore a striking resemblance to Father Vincent from my car ride
in. It wasn’t until he came around the last corner to face me, that
I realized it was Father Vincent.

“Father Vincent,” I stammered. “What are you doing
here?”

The priest smiled, “I’m part of the team, Hunter.
Indeed, I am a man of the cloth, but prior to taking my vows, I
served in the Swiss Guard, and before that, the Swiss
military.”

“Really?” I asked skeptically

He rolled his eyes. “I was a soldier before you were
even in primary school, but when my term of service was up with the
Guard, I discovered a higher calling. I was ordained and came to
serve here at the Vatican, where until recently I served as both
priest and Pope Gregory’s personal bodyguard, cleverly hidden as a
fellow servant of God. Currently, I serve as the team’s liaison
with His Holiness, but don’t worry, I still know how to handle
myself in a fight.”

I was still trying to process this new information
when he continued.

“When I’m on duty, you may refer to me as Vincent,
or Vince, as my mother used to call me, I suppose. I don’t want my
position to add any undue stress and distance between us, but while
I wear my collar or preside over the team, I am once again Father
Vincent.”

I glanced at McDougal, who confirmed Vincent’s story
with a nod. “Captain Vincent’s story is all true, lad. He’s been a
soldier longer than I have and will serve as my XO and take command
should he need to. You’ll receive more details at the briefing, but
let’s introduce you to our final member first, and have you perform
a quick inspection of your gear as well.”

That sounded like a reasonable plan to me. I was not
only looking forward to meeting the last member of the team, but to
have the familiar grip of my beloved rifle in my hands once again.
With a quick nod to Vincent, and with Bordeaux and Wang once again
sparring in the ring, we made our way to the range where the woman
was retrieving a second target. The large sheet of paper had but a
single small hole, dead center-mass. Upon closer inspection, I
noticed the hole was really the culmination of multiple shots all
fired almost directly upon one another, an extremely impressive
feat, even if the distance between shooter and target had not been
as great as before.

She spent a few seconds studying the target as we
approached, but her head jerked in our direction when we got close.
I wasn’t entirely surprised she noticed us, but many snipers were
notorious for sever tunnel vision due to the constant use of their
scopes. I knew this because it was something I suffered from
slightly myself. It was a good indicator of what to expect out of
her, but I didn’t really have long to think about it. When the
woman completed her turn and I finally had the chance to get a good
look at her, all I could focus on were light green eyes, so bright
and piercing that they bordered on a color meant only for those
deemed clinically insane.

I found myself awkwardly staring into them, so I
blinked before I came off like a creep and noticed that the rest of
her features were also as complex as they were beautiful. Her
facial structure reflected European ancestry, with large eyes, high
cheekbones, and sharply curved eyebrows. Her mouth was wide and her
lips full, but perfectly proportionate with her face and angled
chin. However, her dark olive skin, as though she were perpetually
tanned, did not seem to match the rest of her features. Nor did her
hair, which was as black as the night. It all combined to make her
a rare beauty, and her near six foot frame gave her the air of an
Amazon.

I could barely take my eyes off her, but my gaze was
more inquisitive than lustful. Attractive servicewomen were not an
uncommon sight in the armed forces, but had we been a more covert
unit like Santino’s Delta Force, there was no way she would be
here. It wasn’t a question of sexism, but of reality. Attractive
Western women simply couldn’t blend in and remain anonymous in the
field. A mark would pick her out of a crowd in seconds.

But in this room, she was still beautiful, even if
the look she was offering me in return was disturbingly fierce. Her
green eyes betrayed little, but she didn’t seem particularly
pleased to see me. McDougal must have noticed the tension and
cleared his throat before making introductions.

“Hunter, this is Lieutenant Helena Van Strauss.
Strauss, this is Lieutenant Hunter.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” I said as I
took a step forward to shake her hand. It was only a mere attempt
at walking, however, as my left foot tangled over my right mid
stride, and I nearly fell right into the stoic woman.

Just like high school all over again.

When I regained my composure, straightening my
Hawaiian shirt as I did so, I smiled at her awkwardly. Her
expression remained stoic and she fixed her eyes to mine like twin
ice boring lasers drilling into the back of my skull in
response.

Yikes.

McDougal clearly pretended to ignore my antics as
though he knew something I didn’t.

“Lieutenant Strauss, if you would be so kind as to
show Hunter here the armory so he can inspect his gear? Report to
the briefing room in one hour.”

“Yes sir,” she responded with a salute.

Without another glance, or word, she turned on her
heel, rifle in hand, and marched through a doorway off to the side
of the range. I glanced at McDougal whose stone hard expression
twitched ever so slightly. I continued staring at him as I passed
by in the direction of the armory, still wondering if there was
something he knew that I didn’t. Reaching the door, I glanced out
at the complex and noticed every member of the team, save McDougal,
had gathered near Santino, and were watching me expectantly. It
wasn’t until I passed through the armory door that I heard the soft
drone of laughter.

And I had no idea why.

***

The armory was an impressive sight.

The rows of gun shelves were lined with numerous
weapons from all sorts of countries and manufacturing companies. At
the end of the racks were explosives and other more destructive
types of weaponry. Beyond were ten lockers, wide enough to hold a
single soldier’s plethora of gear. Most operators had multiple sets
of gear, swapping out mission essential items, but only using what
was appropriate for individual missions. Despite the weapon porn on
display in such extravagance, I couldn’t help but notice the dark
haired beauty, bent at the waist as she duteously cleaned her
rifle, her rather supple and round backside presented for my full
inspection.

I couldn’t help but stare, my head lulling to the
side. I tried to quickly glance away and cover my mistake when she
turned to show me my locker, but I wasn’t quick enough. She settled
with giving me another cold look, and hooking her thumb behind her
shoulder to direct my attention towards the only other open locker.
Fate, having a sick sense of humor it seemed, decided to take it
upon itself to place our lockers across from one another. Crossing
to the bench, I sat upon it and accidentally brushed my back up
against hers. I flinched automatically at the contact, but she
didn’t react. All she did was turn her head to glance in my
direction, a slight smile tugging at her mouth.

Great, not only was she stone cold and mean, but
also ambiguously flirty.

Now it really did feel like I was back in
college.

I forced myself to clear my head with a crack of my
neck to work the kinks out, and began a cursory inspection of my
gear. With a task so familiar and enjoyable, it was almost easy to
put the woman out of my head and focus.

Everything seemed to be in order. All of my
camouflage uniforms were present, as well as two pairs of boots,
one black, the other coyote tan. My Navy dress uniform hung neatly
to one side, with my wet suit opposite it. All of my other gear was
present and accounted for as well, placed neatly on racks, shelves,
or hooks. Helmet with camera and optics lens, rifle magazines,
radio and throat microphone, night vision goggles, mobile PC,
combat knife, medical kit, glow sticks, zip ties, combat notebook,
pen, Escape & Evasion kit, and a plethora of other tools. Last
but not least, placed on top of my foot locker was my MOLLE combat
rig.

Besides my rifle, my rig was the most important
piece of gear I had. MOLLE, or Modular Lightweight Load-carrying
Equipment, was a system for attaching compatible pieces of
equipment together via webbing and snaps. Without it, I would be
unable to carry the heavy amounts of gear essential for a
successful mission. The vest was festooned with numerous pockets
and pouches that were scattered around the stomach area, chest,
sides, and back.

The back of my rig held a CamelBak water filtration
device that made hydration far more convenient than a canteen.
Alongside it was a small computer cleverly tucked away near the
CamelBak to keep it out of the way and ventilated. It was
wirelessly connected to an eye piece that hung in front of my left
eye. The eye piece, which was no more than a thin, translucent lens
operated as a GPS device, a screen to view videos, a compass, and a
rudimentary targeting reticule amongst other things. The computer
was synced to my teammates’, so I could intercept data updates such
as grid coordinates and targeting data.

In order to send and receive these updates, a thin,
long touch screen interface would be attached to my left forearm.
It was covered by a protective sheath, which could be pulled off at
its Velcro seams so that I could view and interact with the screen.
It had a small, joystick, which had a directional stick and two
buttons. It acted like a computer mouse. I could extend the
joystick into my left hand with a quick flick of my wrist, making
the entire set-up fully functional with my left arm alone and
function just as well as the touch screen. Complete with Blue Force
Tracking Tech III software, updated only a year ago, I could upload
troop positions on a map with a simple touch of the interface,
overlay my own map over satellite imagery, or call in airstrikes
with a single tap of the finger. The possibilities were almost
endless. It was a handy tool, but not one a good soldier relied
upon in combat.