The Last Roman (The Praetorian Series - Book I)

by Edward Crichton

  III

  Preparation

  Vatican Undergrounds, Rome

  July, 2021 AD

  I awoke after ten hours of uninterrupted sleep, having dreamt of nothing but floating green eyes.

  When I was a child, sleeping had been a tumultuous affair. Even after nine hours of restful sleep, I still awoke every morning drowsy and my fatigue would continue throughout the day. Thankfully, years of military service easily kicked that habit. I was still a light sleeper, but as soon as my head hit the pillow these days, I was out like a rock and rarely remembered what I had dreamt about.

  Glancing at the wall clock, I noticed it was only six in the morning, but as for what day of the week it was, I had no idea. After hours in transit, jet lag, more time zones than I could count, and extended sleep deprivation; I had no clue what week it was, let alone what day. Pulling myself out of bed, I felt the calling of a long, hot shower, a shave, and a fresh change of clothes.

  I found the shower almost immediately, noticing it was “male-only” and wondered where the ladies room was. I gave up wondering as soon as the steaming water began to scald my face, and twenty minutes later, I felt fresh, rejuvenated, and ready to start the day.

  Before leaving, I synchronized my watch with the wall clock and decided to head to the mess. On the way out, I noticed four sleeping bodies in the racks and figured the last was busy in the large multiplex outside. McDougal or Vincent could be anywhere. I also noticed another dozen or so empty racks and immediately wondered if we shared this facility with the first Praetorian team, and also wondered when we’d cross paths. It seemed like I’d find out sooner or later, so I pushed it from my mind and left the barracks. It wasn’t long before I wandered my way into the large training facility and started my way toward the food.

  A few steps in, I heard the crack, crack, crack sound of the same high powered rifle I had heard before. A quick glance toward the shooting range revealed my lovely swim buddy carefully firing down range once again. Five full magazines stood in a neat row on the table next to her, awaiting their chance to fire.

  I decided it was probably a good idea to ignore her for the time being as I understood the Zen-like peace snipers experienced when shooting. I knew I hated it when someone disturbed me while I was shooting, and considering her obvious temper, I made sure to give her a wide berth as I passed by.

  Instead, I followed my nose.

  Not that there was an actual aroma wafting from the cafeteria so early in the morning of course. In most modern training facilities, at least the ones that housed the kind of Special Forces units that required around the clock feeding due to their erratic schedules, traditional cooks and cooking facilities were no longer up to snuff. Instead, new technology was developed that took orders, processed them, and finally, cooked the meals before delivering them to a serving tray. They were quite expensive, but the casual food consumer could hardly tell the difference from a flesh and blood cook and an automatic food processor.

  I stepped up to the machine and punched up an order of bacon, scrambled eggs, wheat toast, a bowl of cereal that looked like fruit loops, and hot tea, and waited while the machine worked its magic. A few minutes later, it dispensed a sectionalized tray that held extremely generous portions of my selection. Armies were run on their stomachs after all, as Napoleon’s disaster in Russia had proved, so the machines were designed to serve more than double of a normal serving, a detail I definitely approved of.

  Even so, I called up an extra order of bacon.

  Sitting with my back to the ever diligent Lieutenant Strauss, I put spoon to mouth and dove into my breakfast. I ate slowly, listening to the meticulous sounds of rifle discharges behind me. I’d barely made it through my first serving of bacon when the shooting abruptly stopped. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Strauss gather her rifle and spent magazines and carry them to the armory, emerging minutes later empty handed, undoing her tight pony tail.

  I watched as she continued to ignore me, making her way to the automatic food dispenser. A few minutes later, tray in hand, she turned and walked straight toward my table, seating herself directly opposite me.

  I put down my spoon, loaded with circular, fruity goodness, folded my hands on the table, and waited. Unsurprisingly, I found myself staring once again into those lovely green eyes.

  “You know,” I said, breaking the silence. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this. I’m beginning to think that you actually like me, what with the way you keep staring and all.”

  After what seemed like an eternity, she finally broke her gaze, shook her head, and spoke.

  “To begin with,” she began, apologetically enough, “I would like to apologize for hitting you yesterday. I let my anger get the best of me. I’m sorry.”

  Her voice was just as lovely as her face, with a crisp German accent behind it that made me think of my childhood crush on Heidi Klum rather than, say, Hitler. I was less than happy, however, with the reminder of her punch. I touched my eye socket and grimaced as the pressure caused a fair amount of pain.

  “Yeah,” I said. “That one hurt more than just the pride.”

  Her mouth tightened upward, but just slightly. “Again, I am sorry. As I’m sure you’re well aware of by now, my… situation…” she sighed, “…well I had my reasons for what I did, but I suppose they were the wrong ones. I shouldn’t have punched you.”

  Instead of pressing her for clarification on her ‘reasons’, I decided to move on.

  “I’m just glad Santino didn’t win the bet.”

  “Why?” She asked curiously.

  “Never mind,” I added, quickly glancing down at my tray, trying to push the thought from my mind. “Look, I accept your apology wholeheartedly and want to reassure you that I didn’t take it personally. In fact, I’m glad we were able to push through this. It isn’t every day you meet someone as attractive and deadly with a sniper rifle as you seem to be. How’d you manage such a combination?”

  “Seem?” She pointed her fork at me threateningly. “That was a pretty risky statement… especially from someone like you.”

  “Like me?” I joked. “Whatever do you mean?

  She smirked at me. “You’re just lucky we’ve been assigned as swim buddies or else I’d have to finish what I started with your face.”

  I shrugged. “I’m told my curiosity gets me into trouble.”

  “Well, you seem harmless enough. Fine. I was born outside of Regensburg, Germany where my family has been for generations. My ancestors were wealthy merchants who dealt mostly in Eastern goods with Turkish traders, so much so that some of them married their Turkish counterparts, which is probably where I get some of my features, and it has been a business my family has been in ever since.

  “But I have no doubt that you will be more interested in the fact that the very first thing my father ever taught me was how to shoot a rifle. It was a tradition so that I could accompany him on his many outlandish hunting trips. And I loved it. I practiced with my father whenever I could during school vacations and qualified for the Olympics as soon as I was eligible. I’ve even medaled in the Biathlon, a rather difficult event.”

  “The biathlon, huh?” I smirked, always considering the event something of a joke. “Ever think of becoming a Bond villain?”

  “A Bond villain?”

  “Never mind.”

  She gave me a wry look. “I’d just graduated from Oxford, leading our marksmanship team to an international championship, when I decided to spend a year in America to further my education – a very interesting country, by the way.”

  I shrugged. “We try.”

  “Well, when I returned to Germany after the war started, I debated joining the military, but it wasn’t until just a year ago that I decided to finally do just that. Papa was not happy, but I signed up despite his disapproval. He lives in a fantasy world with no idea what is going on outside his estate. He wasn’t even afraid for my li
fe, just upset at my decision. I didn’t care. My life was without direction and I wanted to do something important. The war was just getting worse and worse, and I needed to do something.

  She leaned away and crossed her arms as she looked away, the gesture implying she was frustrated by what she was going to say next. “My shooting scores propelled me into sniper school. I worked alone, never given a spotter, probably because they wanted me to wash out, but I still graduated at the top of my class. I’m a great shot, so your job should be pretty easy.” She turned back to me and offered me a sly look. “But I’m sure I’ll appreciate the company, at least.”

  “Well, it’s my pleasure,” I said honestly, even if there was something to her story that didn’t add up. “I’ve done plenty of shooting over the years, and killed my fair share. I have no problems spotting.”

  “Perhaps we could arrange a little friendly competition later?”

  I held up a hand. “Yeah, I don’t think so. My competitive streak ended a long time ago. I have no desire for showmanship or impressing anyone. I’ll shoot with you, but I’d rather not turn it into a competition.”

  She gave me another odd look. “You are a curious man, Lieutenant Hunter. You don’t meet very many men, let alone snipers, who aren’t interested in seeing whose is bigger.” She leaned back and smiled, and she suddenly looked better than ever. “And, please, call me Helena. Such formalities are unnecessary considering our partnership.”

  I smiled, wondering at the ambiguity of her word choice. “You know what? We’ve never been properly introduced.” I held out a hand. “My name is Lieutenant Jacob Hunter, but my friends call me Jacob.”

  She smiled and lightly gripped my hand, hers not being nearly as soft as I thought it would be. It was heavily callused from years of shooting, more so than even mine. “It’s nice to meet you, Jacob.”

  I smiled back, “It’s nice to meet you too, Helena.”

  As we sat there, smiling at one another, hand in hand, Santino emerged from the barracks. He grabbed a cup of coffee and came to sit at our table.

  “So?” He pondered, as he glanced at our clasped hands. “You two married yet?”

  Just as he was about to take a seat next to me, I responded by kicking his chair out from beneath him. He fell hard on his ass with a loud thump and he glared up at me, rubbing his rear.

  I crammed an overloaded spoonful of fruit loops into my mouth and looked down at him.

  “Nope.”