HRT Headquarters was a large, multi-level building. Built to house 90 operators along with their support staff, it contained briefing rooms, offices for team-leaders and subordinates, storage rooms for assorted types of gear, and training facilities. Most of the training facilities were confined to the basement of the building – a huge, single-room floor that was half-exercise room and half-practice arena.

Eight of Red Team's thirty operators were gathered around the practice arena on this day, watching two of their teammates – 'Hank' Foster and Cameron Saunders – sparing. The two men were very different both in appearance and in fighting styles. Hank Foster was tall with blond hair, blue eyes, and a bright smile. With the ease and energy of youth, he moved quickly around and around his opponent just out of reach, rushing in quickly when he saw an opening before lunging back out of reach. Cameron Saunders, on the other hand, had dark hair and eyes, a shorter and compact build, and grim features. His movements were conservative, wasting no unnecessary energy, as his eyes scanned his opponent's form for any mistakes.

Finally, Saunders – Red Team's close quarter combat (CQB) specialist – found a mistake, a slight one some would not have spotted, but a mistake all the same, and exploited it. In a move so quick those watching had trouble seeing, Saunders tripped Foster, who landed on his back on the padded mats with a crash and oof of breath.

"Good try, Hank! You lasted longer this time," a woman's voice called out from the edge of the ring. Asha Hunter was the only woman not only on Red Team but in the entire HRT. Hunter stood out among her teammates not just because of her gender but also because of her looks. Tall and wiry, she had copper skin that hinted of Indian blood, thick dark hair, and, oddly enough, blue eyes.

"Not long enough," Hank grumbled, crossing the mat to climb over the barrier to stand next to her.

"You're getting much better," she soothed, "It takes time to get as good as Cameron or the rest of us are." Hank was a good hand-to-hand fighter. All the operators were. No one with poor hand-to-hand skills could even get into HRT, since he would be a liability that could endanger the team and those they were trying to save. Yet, Saunders was the CQB expert on the team with a third degree black belt in Krav Maga along with a black belt in another unspecified martial art. Saunders was extremely hard to beat.

Hank didn't reply but leaned his forearms on the railing to watch the next pair: Connor Ross and Aaron Holmes practice. Ross was the second most-experienced operator on the team after their leader, Dan Torre. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair, he usually served as point man on the assault team. Holmes, a former Marine, was at least seven years younger and usually served as the team's pilot when needed. The two were much more evenly matched than Foster and Saunders had been, and their match promised to be an interesting one. Ross was stronger and more experienced, but Holmes was slightly faster and more agile. In the end, the match was a draw after they fought it out to the time limit.

With the last match of the morning finished, the ten operators began to disperse around the room, cleaning up and putting their gear away. As they worked, footsteps were heard on the metal staircase that led upstairs, and after a moment Dan Torre entered the work-out room. Tall, dark-haired, with a craggy face, Dan Torre was Red Team's leader and had been for over five years.

"Lunch call!"

The way Red Team did things two of the team members drove into Quantico (the town, not the base) and brought back food for the whole team on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The only difficulty was getting thirty people to agree on only one or, sometimes, two restaurants out of the six or seven in town.

"First things first," Torre continued, "who is up to go get food?"

"I am, sir," Asha Hunter called.

"Me, too, boss," said Marshall Foster, their bomb expert and back-up point man. He was a physical imposing man in his late 30s with dark hair and eyes; he looked rather scary but was actually a good-natured family man. He was not related, as far as anyone knew, to Hank Foster.

"Where do people want food from then? Try to agree on just one, please! We don't have all day for food runs." The boss was an old hat at keeping the peace when trying to make his subordinates agree on food. Everyone liked to joke that he got to keep up with his negotiating skills by mediating disagreements over restaurant choices. It was that or he was just using the same skills that he used on his children years earlier.

"Dominoes," three people shouted, the way their voices meddled together it was unclear who had voted for this option. "S & G," another called. Christopher O'Connor, our second newest agent, said, "The café." "Sam's," two people called. "Japanese," yet another person called out. "Dominoes," someone called out late.

Marshall and Asha looked at each other and smiled. It was like this most every day they brought food back. Thirty different people, most with vastly different personalities – it was very hard to get to a consensus.

"Four votes for Dominoes, and two votes for Sam's," said Dan, "The rest of the team wants Dominoes with Sam's also the 2nd favorite. Since the temperature outside is just below freezing and since I am quite sure Marshall and Asha don't want to go to the opposite ends of town to get food, I am making an executive decision: Dominoes, it is."

Those who had not voted for pizza gave good natured groans of protest, even though they would not actually complain about actually having to eat pizza. While the other eight tried to decide on what pizzas they wanted, Marshall and Asha left for the locker rooms to change into street clothes. By the time they had returned, their teammates had largely dispersed to attend to other tasks, and only Dan and Hank were waiting for them as they exited the lockers room on the main floor of HRT Headquarters.

The boss handed them the list: pepperoni, veggie, cheese, and Hawaiian. Asha made a face at the last choice on the list. She liked ham, and she liked pineapple, but she was a firm believer that putting the two together on a pizza was absolutely disgusting!

"Hurry back," the boss said, "we have a lot left to do today."

"Yes, sir," replied Marshall and Asha almost in sync.

As they turned toward the main door, Hank asked, "Can I come?"

Asha stopped dead in surprise and then did a 180 back toward her teammate, while Marshall continued on outside to warm up the SUV. "You do know what the temperature is outside, don't you?"

"I do," Hank replied, "though we've had worse out in the field."

"You sure you want to come?"

"Yes."

"Suit yourself," Asha said with a shrug, "you bored?"

"No," he replied with a laugh, "I just like the weather and don't want to stay inside waiting for you two to get back with lunch."

"I grew up in Montana, and I still think you're nuts," she said; a slight smile on her face took the bit out of her words, as she pushed open the main door enough to make sure they could both get out without getting hit by the quickly closing doors. The springs on those doors are too good. Someday someone is going to get smacked in the face, Asha thought. Exiting their nicely heated headquarters, they were hit smack in the face with a blast of freezing air. According to the forecast running on a TV inside, the temperature was just below freezing with a wind chill in the low 20s.

Just as the two got to the edge of the sidewalk, Marshall pulled around a black SUV to save his teammates the walk across the parking lot. "The sooner it warms up the better," he grumbled as they climbed in: Asha in the passenger seat, Hank in the back. Marshall had been born in the Deep South and hated cold weather with every fiber of his being.

"It's December, Marshall," Asha replied, "You'll probably have to wait awhile."

He did not reply but only reached to turn on the radio. The station he finally settled on, after a few minutes, was playing jazz. Asha didn't really like jazz, and Hank wasn't a big fan either, but the music was quiet and would help the 15 to 20 minute drive to Quantico go faster. Lost in thought, Asha starred out the window at the passing scenery.

As the SUV crossed from MCB 1 onto Russel Road, Asha finally stirred, pulling out a cellphone from the hip pocket of her cargo pants and started typing out a message. Her husband, Ian Edgerton, had been grousing earlier that morning as they left their apartment about some of the students in his latest batch of trainees at sniper school. She was hoping that his morning class had gone better than she feared it would from what had been saying.

*Did you manage not to fail those students already?* She texted.

Ian Edgerton was the 4th or 5th best sniper in the United States and a long time removed from being on the level of his students. He was relatively patient and helpful to those who actually tried and worked hard, but there was almost always one or two in each class that tried his temper almost to the breaking point and made him want to reconsider his work as a sniper instructor at the FBI Academy when he was not off tracking fugitives.

Five minutes later as they passed the airfield, her phone buzzed with a response.

*Barely.*

A couple of minutes later her phone buzzed again. *Whoever screened some of these students should be fired.*

Asha half-grinned, half-grimaced, her feelings equal parts amusement and sympathy. A sniper herself, she was not sure whether to feel sorry for her husband, his students, or both. Probably both, she decided after a moment's thought. *Teach the good students. Tolerate the bad ones.*

After a moment, she sent one last text, not expecting Ian to continue on about his students. *Will you get out at the usual time?*

*Plan to.*

As Marshall pulled the SUV into the parking lot of the Dominoes, carefully dodging several snow piles, Asha sent her final text. *I'll see you at home.*

Since it wasn't quite time for the lunch rush yet, the time being just before noon, the Dominoes was mostly deserted as the three FBI agents entered with a blast of cold air. The air inside was pleasantly warm from the heat of the ovens, and the workers greeted the newcomers by name. Red Team was fond enough of pizza that they had been bringing back food at least once every other week for years. Marshall went up to the counter to put in the order, while Hank and Asha sat down at a table in the corner farthest away from the door, giving them a good view of the door and the whole restaurant.

A couple minutes later, Marshall joined them, "20 to 25 minutes."

Hearing this, Asha with a slight sigh climbed back to her feet, "If it will be that long, I think I have enough time to run over to the Bank: I need to deposit a check quickly."

"You want company?" Hank asked, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"No, thanks," Asha replied, pulling her overcoat back on. She zipped her fleece vest up to her chin but left her overcoat unbuttoned so she had quick access to her pistol, "You two stay where it's warm. I won't be long."

Asha left her two teammates watching the TV and headed out the door back into the cold. Pulling on her gloves as she walked, she plodded across the parking lot with her head bent against the slight wind blowing powdery snow from earlier that morning into her eyes. She had spent the first ten or so years of her life in south-eastern Montana, which was on average much colder in winter than Virginia. Yet, too many hours spent behind a scope in open terrain freezing to death while covering her teammates had left the sniper with a lingering dislike for cold temperatures and a much greater appreciation for warm buildings. She spent a minute stamping her feet and blowing on her fingers while waiting for light at the corner of C Street to turn in her favor and then jogged the long block-and-a-half down Potomac Avenue to the bank, which was pleasantly warm as she entered with a blast of cold air.

The bank was quiet that morning. Scanning the room, Asha saw three tellers working the counters, one security guard (near the doors outside), and eight customers including her. The next few minutes passed quietly. Two of the customers finished their business and departed. The line Asha was in (the one on the far left) moved forward: only two people were left in front of her.

Suddenly a woman off to her right shrieked, "GUN!"