had worked outside the rules at certain points, yet most of the
really good agents did, he thought, because some of the Bureau rules were just plain stupid. That was also something Percy
Bates had taught him.
Web parked, got out of the car and headed into HRT’s building, which would never be termed beautiful by anyone who could actually
see. He was welcomed with open arms, and tough, hardened men, who had seen more death and danger than the average citizen
could possibly imagine, broke down with him in private rooms. HRT was not a place where anyone rushed to show his vulnerabilities
and emotions. No man wanted to be firing guns and risking his life next to the shy, sensitive type. You left your warm fuzzy
aura at the door and just brought your alpha male kick-ass side to work. Everything here was based on seniority and ability;
those two attributes usually, though not always, paralleled each other.
Web returned the flag to his commander. Web’s chief, a lean, muscular man with salt-and-pepper hair and a former HRT operator
who could still outwork most of his men, accepted the flag with dignity and a handshake that dissolved into an embrace in
the privacy of the man’s office. Well, thought Web, at least they didn’t hate his guts.
The HRT’s admin building had been built to hold fifty personnel, yet now a hundred people called it their home away from home.
There was a two-holer for all those folks, so the pee lines were long even for elite crime-busting Feds. There were small
offices behind the reception area for the commander, who was at the rank of an ASAC, or assistant special agent-in-charge,
and his down-the-line chain of command that consisted of one supervisor for assaulters, and one for snipers. The HRT operators
had honeycomb cubicle areas across the hallway from each other, split between snipers and assaulters. There was only one classroom
in the building, which also doubled as a conference and briefing room in the space-challenged complex. There was a line of
coffee mugs on a shelf on the rear wall of the room. Whenever the choppers landed here, the force of the blades would make
the mugs vibrate. Somehow that sound had always been very soothing to Web. Team members coming home safe, he supposed.
He stopped by to see Ann Lyle, who worked in the office. Ann was sixty, much older than the other women who worked in administration,
and could be truly termed the matriarch and unofficial mother hen of the hardcore lads who called HRT home. The unwritten
rule was that you did not curse around Ann or use any other sort of uncouth language or gestures. Both rookie and veteran
operators who ran afoul of this policy quickly found themselves the target of retribution ranging from glue in their helmets
to taking a particularly hard shot during a training drill, the kind that left you wondering if one of your lungs had fallen
out. Ann had been with HRT almost since its inception after working at the WFO for many years and had become a widow during
that time. Childless, she let her entire life revolve around her work, and she listened to the young, single agents and their
problems and doled out sensible advice. She also served as HRT’s unofficial marriage counselor and had on more than one occasion
prevented a divorce. She had come to Web’s hospital room every day while he was waiting to get his face back, far more often
than his own mother had bothered to. Ann regularly brought home-baked goodies to the office. And she was known as the primary
information source for all things having to do with the Bureau and HRT. She was also a whiz at navigating the Bureau’s requisition
morass, and if HRT needed something, no matter how big or small, Ann Lyle made sure they got it.
He found Ann in her office, closed the door and sat across from her.
Ann’s hair had been white for several years now, and her body had lost its shape, but her eyes were still
really good agents did, he thought, because some of the Bureau rules were just plain stupid. That was also something Percy
Bates had taught him.
Web parked, got out of the car and headed into HRT’s building, which would never be termed beautiful by anyone who could actually
see. He was welcomed with open arms, and tough, hardened men, who had seen more death and danger than the average citizen
could possibly imagine, broke down with him in private rooms. HRT was not a place where anyone rushed to show his vulnerabilities
and emotions. No man wanted to be firing guns and risking his life next to the shy, sensitive type. You left your warm fuzzy
aura at the door and just brought your alpha male kick-ass side to work. Everything here was based on seniority and ability;
those two attributes usually, though not always, paralleled each other.
Web returned the flag to his commander. Web’s chief, a lean, muscular man with salt-and-pepper hair and a former HRT operator
who could still outwork most of his men, accepted the flag with dignity and a handshake that dissolved into an embrace in
the privacy of the man’s office. Well, thought Web, at least they didn’t hate his guts.
The HRT’s admin building had been built to hold fifty personnel, yet now a hundred people called it their home away from home.
There was a two-holer for all those folks, so the pee lines were long even for elite crime-busting Feds. There were small
offices behind the reception area for the commander, who was at the rank of an ASAC, or assistant special agent-in-charge,
and his down-the-line chain of command that consisted of one supervisor for assaulters, and one for snipers. The HRT operators
had honeycomb cubicle areas across the hallway from each other, split between snipers and assaulters. There was only one classroom
in the building, which also doubled as a conference and briefing room in the space-challenged complex. There was a line of
coffee mugs on a shelf on the rear wall of the room. Whenever the choppers landed here, the force of the blades would make
the mugs vibrate. Somehow that sound had always been very soothing to Web. Team members coming home safe, he supposed.
He stopped by to see Ann Lyle, who worked in the office. Ann was sixty, much older than the other women who worked in administration,
and could be truly termed the matriarch and unofficial mother hen of the hardcore lads who called HRT home. The unwritten
rule was that you did not curse around Ann or use any other sort of uncouth language or gestures. Both rookie and veteran
operators who ran afoul of this policy quickly found themselves the target of retribution ranging from glue in their helmets
to taking a particularly hard shot during a training drill, the kind that left you wondering if one of your lungs had fallen
out. Ann had been with HRT almost since its inception after working at the WFO for many years and had become a widow during
that time. Childless, she let her entire life revolve around her work, and she listened to the young, single agents and their
problems and doled out sensible advice. She also served as HRT’s unofficial marriage counselor and had on more than one occasion
prevented a divorce. She had come to Web’s hospital room every day while he was waiting to get his face back, far more often
than his own mother had bothered to. Ann regularly brought home-baked goodies to the office. And she was known as the primary
information source for all things having to do with the Bureau and HRT. She was also a whiz at navigating the Bureau’s requisition
morass, and if HRT needed something, no matter how big or small, Ann Lyle made sure they got it.
He found Ann in her office, closed the door and sat across from her.
Ann’s hair had been white for several years now, and her body had lost its shape, but her eyes were still
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