The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) (7 page)

My last piece of equipment lay alongside the back of
the locker, entombed in a solid protective case. As I placed it on
the bench next to me, I accidentally bumped into my companion once
again. I was about to apologize when I realized she ignored my
mistake and continued cleaning her own weapon.

I opened the case and pulled out my closest ally and
true love, my HK416 Gen II assault rifle, Penelope, as I had named
her. Despite being decades old in design, thanks to the veritable
hold on military R&D, mine was manufactured only two years ago
with many new bells and whistles.

Penelope had been the loyal wife of Odysseus in
Homer’s
The Odyssey
, my favorite epic. Despite her husband’s
absence for twenty years, and dozens of hopeful suitors hoping to
take his place on the throne, she remained faithful, waiting
patiently until he finally returned. I was a sucker for a good love
story, and I hoped that like the woman of myth, my weapon would
remain just as loyal.

The weapon, based originally on the design of the
M4A1 carbine, had been a common sight amongst the American military
for the past half century. It was always a favorite, due to its
ability for customization, reliability, stopping power, and ease of
use. Few M4s and other variations of said gun, such as the HK416,
looked the same in the hands of U.S. Special Forces, as each
carried a unique mark of its owner.

I reached for a cloth and rubbed its exterior,
wiping away the subtlest pieces of dust and lint. “It’s been awhile
Penelope,” I said to the gun, “I hope you’ve kept yourself out of
trouble while I’ve been away.”

I only hoped Strauss didn’t overhear me. My theory
was that if you love and respect your equipment like you do a
person, it will in turn treat you with the proper respect and never
let you down. Although, some inferred it to mean you were a crazy
person, although I had no idea why.

After field stripping and cleaning the rifle, as
well as inspecting the ACOG-II Scope, SureFire flashlight/laser and
bi-pod, I finished wiping down the exterior and gently put it back
in its case. “Goodnight,” I said quietly, hoping my companion
didn’t hear me. “Sleep tight.”

I placed the case back in the locker, gave the
entire enclosure another look, tossed my Hawaiian shirt inside,
nodded in satisfaction, and shut the cage.

Donning a more appropriate duty jacket from my
locker, I announced, “I’m done here. Everything checks out. I’m
ready to go when you are.”

Her reply was to barely even glance in my direction,
as she continued cleaning her rifle’s barrel with a long pipe
cleaner brush.

What was her problem anyway? Even I couldn’t have
done anything to offend her.

At least not yet.

I sighed. It was always the pretty ones.

“Excuse me, but are we going to have a problem here?
You’ve barely grunted a word in the fifteen minutes we’ve known one
another, and I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t like me,
which, you know…” I gave her a Hollywood, teeth sparkling smile,
“…is kind of hard to believe.”

She continued to ignore me.

I was really getting annoyed now.

“Look, sweet cakes. I’ve had just about as much
trouble as I can stand with pretty girls in positions where they
think they…”

I never got the chance to finish. She was on her
feet like a cheetah, and again staring icicles upwards into my
skull.

I gulped. It was the only thing I could do as I
returned her stare, gazing into her overwhelmingly beautiful, but
currently frightening, eyes.

“So?” I asked, trying to stay brave. “Got something
to say?”

The words were barely out of my mouth when her fist
connected with my right eye socket, pitching me backwards into my
locker. Stars flashed in my vision and the rest of the world went
black when my head slammed into the locker behind me. When my mind
cleared seconds later, I shot my right hand to my face, wishfully
hoping to delay the inevitable swelling and darkening.

Speechless, I just stared at her, completely
confused and taken aback by her assault. I wanted to yell at her
and hit her right back, but it was probably a good thing that I
kept my mouth shut and my hands to myself. She might kill me.

I checked my hand to make sure my face wasn’t
bleeding, which thankfully came back clean. Risking one last look
at my attacker, I turned for the door and beat my retreat from the
crazed woman who had hit me for seemingly no reason. She was
already back at work cleaning her gun, oblivious to our
encounter.

Despite the pain, I couldn’t help but smile.

***

The multiplex was eerily silent when I returned to
the common area. Everyone, save McDougal, had gathered in the mess
area and was in the midst of socializing and chow. Noticing my
approach, they all stopped what they were doing mid motion and
turned to look at me. Santino had a glop of noodles hanging from
his mouth, while Bordeaux had paused as he sipped a steaming
drink.

I stopped in front of their table, hands on my hips,
and looked each man in the eye. Each wore a passive expression and
for a few moments the five of us did nothing but stare at each
other before all of a sudden, the four men at the table burst out
in playful laughter. In the midst of their laughter, I couldn’t
help but noticed Wang pass a few Euros to Vincent.

“Something I should know, gentlemen?”

Santino was the first to stop laughing, but he had
to catch his breath before explaining the situation.

“Jake, man, it’s nothing personal, but before you
got here, all of us, including Little Miss Van Strauss,” he said
the name, emphasizing it in a haughty and disrespectful manner,
“had lunch. Chit-chatting. She told us how she had just broken up
with some longtime boyfriend of hers or something because he’d
cheated on her when her time in the service kept them apart. Sad,
right? Well, here’s the funny part. She said she’d kill the next
guy she saw that even remotely pissed her off. I guess it doesn’t
help that you kinda look like how she described him. Tall, wavy
brown hair, broad shoulders, dashing good looks, as soon as I saw
you I knew there would be trouble, especially considering your
awkward way with pretty girls,” he paused. “I’ll never understand
how that works by the way.”

I continued to stare at him stoically.

“Vinnie over there won the bet.”

I glanced over at the aging priest accusingly, who
smiled, raised his fork in a toast and continued to eat.

“He said she’d throw a punch. I said she’d knee you
in the balls, and the boxing twins over there thought she’d go easy
on you, but I knew you’d do something stupid to get her all worked
up. So what happened? Strike out swinging?”

My response was delayed as the group noticed our
female comrade exit the armory and head directly towards another
set of doors, opposite the ones she emerged. She spared a single,
distant look in our direction, glowering.

“Didn’t even make it to the on deck circle,” I
reported as we all watched her leave.

Santino stood up, placing a hand sympathetically on
my shoulder while some of the other guys snickered at me.

“Don’t worry, my friend. Maybe it’s still the off
season.”

***

Grabbing a tray of food, consisting of Salisbury
steak, tater tots, and an unknown gelatinous substance, I joined
the rest of the team at their table. Needless to say, I was
famished. I hadn’t eaten a proper mean since I left for Washington,
at least twenty four hours ago. I continued receiving jeers from my
teammates, but took them in stride, knowing that the “Strauss”
situation had been a good ice breaker.

The guys were conversing as I ate my meal, but I
started growing restless not knowing a thing about them. Popping a
few tater tots in my mouth, I decided my stomach was full enough to
start a conversation.

“So, Wang,” I started, mumbling with my mouth full,
“what’s your story? How long has your family been in England?”

Wang waited until he finished chewing his food
before answering. It may have seemed like a culturally insensitive
question to, but those in the military didn’t take such things
personally. In the American armed forces, any given unit may be
comprised of an African American from East Harlem, an upper class
white guy from New England, and the product of illegal parents from
south of the border. In these units, each of those men became
brothers, trained to care for and do anything they could to protect
each other. While it was true racial slurs and ethnic jokes ran
rampant, but everyone shrugged them off, fully aware that they were
only meant in good fun.

If only the rest of the world was so culturally
accepting we wouldn’t be here.

Mouth clear, Wang leaned back in his chair, and
spoke in a heavy Welsh accent.

“My grandparents fled the Great Cultural Revolution
in 1966 and made their way to England with my father. My
grandfather ran a dojo in a quiet countryside, but when local Red
Guard members came to the area, he knew it was time to leave. My
grandparent’s life was a quiet one, and they despised the
Communists and their hope to wipe any memory of old China from the
history books. So they took up residence in Cardiff, Wales, and
opened a new dojo. My father took over when my grandfather died a
few years back.” He paused, and took a quick drink from his mug.
“And, aye, before you ask, my father married a local lass and I was
but a wee product of both worlds.” He smiled. “And a jolly good
product at that.”

I chuckled at his intentionally overdone accent, and
quickly determined I liked Wang. He seemed level headed and
dedicated, but a little cocky, typical for elite operators. A good
man to have at your back.

I glanced over at the large Frenchman. “What about
you, big guy? Any interesting stories?”

Bordeaux put a hand over his chest in a sarcastic
gesture. “
Moi
? But, of course. I have many stories. Besides
McDougal and Vincent here,” he said pointing at the aging priest
who was sipping a cup of tea, “I almost have more years on me than
any two of you combined, with plenty of stories to go with
them.”

I inspected the man’s face, but couldn’t find any
evidence to prove he was any older than thirty five. Remembering
what he looked like with his shirt off, if he was as old as he
claimed to be, he must be immune to aging. Hopefully, he wouldn’t
mind sharing his secret.

“But what about you,
mon ami
?” He continued.
“We’ve all had some time to get to know one another, but we know
nothing of you.”

“Me?” I asked, as I realized pathetically that there
wasn’t much to tell. “I’m just a country boy, I guess. Born in the
Midwest and raised by hardworking but well off parents, I enjoy
very bad movies, long walks on the beach, and love good 80s
music.”

The guys smiled at the lame and cliché attempt at
humor.

Wang coughed politely into a fist. “I hate to break
it to you, Hunter, but there’s no such thing as ‘good 80s music’ as
you call it.”

Santino leaned back in his chair and pointed at me
like a child. “See, Jacob, even the Brits don’t like it. I’ve been
telling you that since I’ve known you” He turned back to Wang. “He
even likes Duran Duran. Who likes them?”

Wang turned to look at me and shook his head very
slowly and completely deadpanned.

“Who’s Duran Duran?” Vincent asked.

“A rock band from the 80s,” I answered quickly
before Santino could bash them. “They’re good.”

Santino rolled his eyes and laughed to himself.

“I’m partial to the Beach Boys myself,” Vincent
commented.

“Really?” Santino asked skeptically.

Vincent looked hurt. “And what’s wrong with that?
Can’t an old man enjoy quality music as well?”

Santino smirked. The Beach Boys were about as
classic as music came in his opinion. I always enjoyed them
though.

“Of course, sir,” Santino replied as he held up his
hands near his shoulders, and raised and lowered them like a scale.
“It’s just that when I add together European and Priest, the Beach
Boys isn’t exactly the answer I get.”

It was my turn to smirk. Santino generally came off
as dimwitted as a retarded donkey, usually in one of his ridiculous
attempts at humor, but I knew better. The guy was Delta, the most
hardcore of them all, next to my SEALs, of course.

They were trained not just to infiltrate, but to
completely immerse themselves in a society, blend in, and
systematically take it apart from the inside. You wouldn’t know it
by looking at him, or especially speaking to him, but Santino was
one of the smartest guys I knew.

He spoke Russian, Arabic and Spanish fluently, and I
knew he had been in the process of learning Mandarin Chinese in
preparation for possible future operations in the area. The guy was
a ghost, able to slip past borders on a whim, mingle amongst the
natives, get the job done, and get home safely, making it all look
easy.

“I just thought,” Santino continued, “a guy like you
would stick to Mozart or Beethoven.”

Vincent leaned back in his chair, and grinned. “Ah
yes, I enjoy them as well, although Vivaldi is my personal
favorite.”

“The
Four Seasons
is one of my favorite
classical pieces,” I offered, nodding appreciatively.

Vincent smiled at my recognition of his favorite
composer’s most well-known piece, while Santino dropped his head
and shook it. Wang and Bordeaux chuckled at the interchange, and
the conversation quickly broke down into banter and debate about an
assortment of topics. I followed passively as I finished my
meal.

I was working on my so called dessert when Vincent
checked his watch.

“Okay, briefing room in five. Hunter, eat it or
leave it.”