The Last Roman (The Praetorian Series - Book I) Read online

  ***

  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 meal since I had 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, perhaps wondering if he too should hit me for what some might consider an insensitive question, but I suspected he wouldn’t. Mouth clear, Wang leaned back in his chair and spoke in what I could now confirm was a Welsh accent.

  “My grandparents fled China’s Great Cultural Revolution in 1966 and made their way to England with my father. My grandfather ran a martial arts school 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 of wiping any memory of old China from the history books, so they took up residence in Cardiff, Wales and opened a kung fu academy. 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, quickly determining that I liked Wang. He seemed level headed and dedicated, but a little cocky – typical for elite operators – 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 parents, I enjoy very bad movies, long walks on the beach, and love good 80’s 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…”

  Wang turned to look at me and shook his head very slowly and completely deadpanned, before saying, “Jesus, Hunter… Duran Duran? What year were you born in?”

  I smiled knowingly. “None of your business, but I think it’s fair to admit that my soul is perpetually stuck in the 80s.”

  Santino rolled his eyes and laughed to himself.

  “I’m certainly familiar with Duran Duran,” Vincent commented, “but I’m more partial to the Beach Boys myself.”

  “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 too 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 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 through borders on a whim, mingle amongst the natives, get the job done, get home safely, and make 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.”

  “Yes, sir,” I mumbled around the goo in my mouth.