The Last Roman p-1 Page 4

  I nodded, suspecting as much. I’d guessed I was here to participate in some form of anti-terrorism outfit. That suited me just fine.

  “Thank you. You have answered many of my questions, except for one. Who are we?”

  The man smiled once again. “You have no official unit designation, but to me, you are known as Praetorians. Do you know who they were?”

  “They were once the elite bodyguard of the Roman Caesars during the days of the Roman Empire.”

  “I thought you would know. You have inquisitive eyes, always open to learning new things. You are correct. You are Praetorians, a tribute to the men of antiquity who once protected the leaders of this great city. Now, since you have no further questions, allow me to introduce you to Major Dillon McDougal, formally of His Majesty’s SAS. He will be your commanding officer. King William was kind enough to lend him to our efforts.”

  McDougal nodded, which I returned in kind.

  “Now, my son, this is where we must part ways,” the man said, standing and raising his ringed hand once again.

  I rose to kiss his ring, and was once again surprised, in this day of surprises, as the man rotated his arm, offering a handshake instead. Tentatively, I gripped his hand, surprised at the strength he possessed, and shook firmly.

  “Thank you. It will be an honor to serve as so many have before me.”

  “The honor is all mine, young man,” Pope Gregory XXI replied. “You also have my thanks and my prayers.”

  I nodded and released his grip. McDougal started for the door and I quickly fell into step behind him.

  On my way out I heard Pope Gregory quietly whisper under his breath. “God be with you, my son, and God speed.”

  Following behind McDougal, I asked, “Where to, Major?”

  “Where else?” He replied. “To meet your squad.”

  II

  Praetorians

  Rome, Italy

  July, 2021 AD

  McDougal led the way towards the elevator from which I had just arrived. Once inside, he pressed his thumb against a pad on the elevator panel, activating the car to descend rapidly into the bowels of the Vatican. The ride didn’t last long, and soon the doors opened to a long, white hallway, not the tunnels I had expected. We must have arrived on another subterranean level. The hallway was well lit and had the metallic sheen and sterility normally associated with some sort of military or medical complex.

  New ones.

  At the first door, McDougal again pressed his thumb against a pad and the door slid open. As I followed McDougal inside, I took in my surroundings in a glance, focusing briefly on as many details as I could. The immediate area consisted of a few benches, lockers, and doors to a shower facility. To my right was a complete weight room facility, equipped with cardiovascular machines and a boxing ring. To my left was a mess hall and recreation area. Directly ahead was a small arms firing range and obstacle course fit for training with weapons and gear.

  I was impressed.

  Most training facilities possessed all of the present amenities, but never in such a single, vast area, obviously specialized to serve two purposes. First, to conserve space as an underground facility would need to be as compact as possible. Second, to produce a more familial atmosphere where everyone present can interact with one another regardless of what they were doing. It was the perfect environment for assimilating a team of strangers who did not have the luxury of going through a rigorous and lengthy training process meant to build bonds of friendship and trust.

  I spotted five figures scattered throughout the facility. The first two were easily found as they were prominently displayed sparring in the boxing ring. One man outweighed me by at least forty pounds and had a few inches on me as well, while the other man was short, built like Bruce Lee, ripped and wiry. A third man was using a bench press machine behind the boxing ring, but only his calves and feet were visible.

  The fourth figure I noticed was a woman. She was facing away from me and all I could see was black hair, tied up in a short pony tail that didn’t quite reach the nape of her neck, and a lithe body covered by a tight tank top and BDU pants. She was at the other end of the facility, sitting at the long range rifle section of the shooting range, her eye buried in the lens of scope.

  The final figure was sitting at the mess hall drinking a vanilla-looking smoothie, leaning back in a chair with his legs crossed atop the table, one of his boots lying on the ground next to his chair. His relaxed demeanor surprised me. Most soldiers, even when off duty, portrayed slightly more poise and discipline while on station, but what really shocked me was that I knew him, and his lackadaisical attitude immediately made sense.

  “Well, well, well…” I called out cheerfully with a smile on my face. “If it isn’t the sexiest man this side of the Air Force. Johnny Santino.”

  The man turned, nearly falling out of his chair in surprise.

  “Jacob? Is that you? Damn, it’s been forever,” he said, pulling me into a friendly bear hug and lifting me off the ground. “How long has it been? A year? Since that op over North Korea?”

  I rolled my eyes. He knew damn well it hadn’t been that long. “You mean the time when you and your little ninja buddies couldn’t make the extraction because your little tootsies got all cut up, and my SEALs had to come bail you out?” Santino must have been that member of Delta that had transferred earlier. He’d started his Special Forces career as a Green Beret, a clandestine team that specialized in tactical instruction. Back in Vietnam, they were so sneaky that many theorized they executed their missions barefoot, making them targets of both easy jibs and respect simultaneously. “I see you’re still putting your feet at risk,” I joked, pointing at his bootless foot after he finally put me down.

  “I take it you two know each other,” McDougal said as he approached quietly.

  “That’s correct, sir. Although, I am a bit surprised to see his pretty face here at all.”

  Santino sneered at me. Born to an Italian family who called Hell’s Kitchen in New York City home, his childhood was filled with broken noses and shattered eye sockets, which left his face looking like a boxer with a poor KO record. During basic training he took some shrapnel from a grenade accident, leaving him with a rather nasty web of scars on the right side of his face. It wasn’t that bad, and it kind of gave him a dashing, heroic look that the ladies he found always seemed to enjoy.

  “We’re both Catholic, Jacob. I guess they just wanted another Italian around here, and called me in first.”

  “When I first heard they had recruited from Delta, I had my suspicion it was you, but I figured your patriotism would outweigh your faith. Guess I was wrong.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m not sure how I feel about you thinking so much about me, Jake, kinda creepy, but it’ll be good to work together again. This time on a more permanent basis. And, hey,” he said pointing at the rank insignia on my uniform jacket that I was carrying in my arm, “you’ve been promoted. Looks like I’ll have to start saluting you from now on.”

  Before removing his hand from my shoulder, he pinched at my Hawaiian shirt and pulled on it slightly. “Nice shirt,” he commented.

  I smiled. “Thanks, and don’t worry about saluting, the only thing I care about is the bigger pension.”

  His smile faltered and he cupped his chin between thumb and forefinger in thought. “I wonder why I wasn’t promoted when the President sent me off…”

  “I hate to break up the reunion, but now would be a good time to clear up a few things,” McDougal interrupted, looking at me. “First of all, ‘Captain’ Santino is no longer a captain as you understand it, but a lieutenant once more.”

  “Sir? He was demoted?”

  “No, not demoted per se, but merely realigned into a new chain of command. In fact, you are now a lieutenant as well.”

  Figures. I knew it would only last a few days before I was at the bottom of the food chain again, but at least my bank account would still reflect my old rank. I
sighed, feigning disappointment with a lazy shrug while McDougal continued.

  “We did not want to strip any member of the team of their rank, but we needed to consolidate our system, so as to avoid confusion. The chain of command is simple and you would most likely recognize it from your American Army. I’m team leader and highest ranking officer as a major. My second in command is a captain, and the rest of you are of equal rank as lieutenants. Any questions?”

  “No, sir,” I responded. “Sounds straight forward to me.”

  “Glad I was able to clear that up, mate. Now, would you like to meet the rest of your squad?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Follow me.”

  Leaving Santino to finish his smoothie, we started towards the boxing ring when I heard the distinct crack, crack, crack of a high powered rifle firing in rapid succession. I glanced over at the young woman sitting at the shooting range as she summoned her paper target from far down range. Considering the amount of time it took for the target to reach her, I estimated that it began its journey from pretty far out. When the woman pulled off the target and held it to the light, I noticed a neat smiley face in perfect formation on the target’s head.

  The woman was a fantastic shot, and the smug smile at the corner of her mouth indicated she knew it, and had an ego about it.

  Figures.

  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 and mobility.

  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, 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 the attackers 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.

  After a few heartbeats of an intense stare down, 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 goofy 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 short hair, and scruffy facial hair gave me the impression he was pretty successful at pic king 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 if I learned 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 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.

  They were mesmerizing.

  I found myself starring 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 ful
l, but perfectly proportionate with her face and angled chin. However, her dark olive skin, as though she were permanently 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.

  Which was exactly why I spent so much time analyzing her looks. Attractive servicewomen were not an uncommon sight in the armed forces, but this woman was the kind of beautiful one would be very hard pressed to find anywhere. 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 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 gorgeous, even if the look she was offering me in return was as fierce as they came. 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 mere attempt at walking; however, as my left foot tangled over my right and I nearly fell right into the stoic woman.

  Just like high school all over again.

  I had little luck with girls as a teen, except for my neighbor Suzie Lu, of course. Dates usually ended with an awkward kiss on the cheek and a couple of stumbles down the porch stairs just to ensure she wouldn’t call me back. Even in college after I started working out, and grew in height and into my features, I still found myself mumbling and tripping around girls. Luckily at that point most girls found the whole routine somewhat cute and charming and ensured the night would end on a good note. Over the years, the whole process became ingrained in my “game,” as my friends called it, and even though I wasn’t intimidated by pretty girls anymore, I still got the butterflies and stutters.