The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) by Edward Crichton

mid
stride, and I nearly fell right into the stoic woman.
    Just like high school all over again.
    When I regained my composure, straightening my
Hawaiian shirt as I did so, I smiled at her awkwardly. Her
expression remained stoic and she fixed her eyes to mine like twin
ice boring lasers drilling into the back of my skull in
response.
    Yikes.
    McDougal clearly pretended to ignore my antics as
though he knew something I didn’t.
    “Lieutenant Strauss, if you would be so kind as to
show Hunter here the armory so he can inspect his gear? Report to
the briefing room in one hour.”
    “Yes sir,” she responded with a salute.
    Without another glance, or word, she turned on her
heel, rifle in hand, and marched through a doorway off to the side
of the range. I glanced at McDougal whose stone hard expression
twitched ever so slightly. I continued staring at him as I passed
by in the direction of the armory, still wondering if there was
something he knew that I didn’t. Reaching the door, I glanced out
at the complex and noticed every member of the team, save McDougal,
had gathered near Santino, and were watching me expectantly. It
wasn’t until I passed through the armory door that I heard the soft
drone of laughter.
    And I had no idea why.
     
    ***
     
    The armory was an impressive sight.
    The rows of gun shelves were lined with numerous
weapons from all sorts of countries and manufacturing companies. At
the end of the racks were explosives and other more destructive
types of weaponry. Beyond were ten lockers, wide enough to hold a
single soldier’s plethora of gear. Most operators had multiple sets
of gear, swapping out mission essential items, but only using what
was appropriate for individual missions. Despite the weapon porn on
display in such extravagance, I couldn’t help but notice the dark
haired beauty, bent at the waist as she duteously cleaned her
rifle, her rather supple and round backside presented for my full
inspection.
    I couldn’t help but stare, my head lulling to the
side. I tried to quickly glance away and cover my mistake when she
turned to show me my locker, but I wasn’t quick enough. She settled
with giving me another cold look, and hooking her thumb behind her
shoulder to direct my attention towards the only other open locker.
Fate, having a sick sense of humor it seemed, decided to take it
upon itself to place our lockers across from one another. Crossing
to the bench, I sat upon it and accidentally brushed my back up
against hers. I flinched automatically at the contact, but she
didn’t react. All she did was turn her head to glance in my
direction, a slight smile tugging at her mouth.
    Great, not only was she stone cold and mean, but
also ambiguously flirty.
    Now it really did feel like I was back in
college.
    I forced myself to clear my head with a crack of my
neck to work the kinks out, and began a cursory inspection of my
gear. With a task so familiar and enjoyable, it was almost easy to
put the woman out of my head and focus.
    Everything seemed to be in order. All of my
camouflage uniforms were present, as well as two pairs of boots,
one black, the other coyote tan. My Navy dress uniform hung neatly
to one side, with my wet suit opposite it. All of my other gear was
present and accounted for as well, placed neatly on racks, shelves,
or hooks. Helmet with camera and optics lens, rifle magazines,
radio and throat microphone, night vision goggles, mobile PC,
combat knife, medical kit, glow sticks, zip ties, combat notebook,
pen, Escape & Evasion kit, and a plethora of other tools. Last
but not least, placed on top of my foot locker was my MOLLE combat
rig.
    Besides my rifle, my rig was the most important
piece of gear I had. MOLLE, or Modular Lightweight Load-carrying
Equipment, was a system for attaching compatible pieces of
equipment together via webbing and snaps. Without it, I would be
unable to carry the heavy amounts of gear essential for a
successful mission. The vest was festooned with