8 – The Crescendo
Continuous ringing of a cellphone stirred Brock from a heavy sleep. Who the fuck was calling so damned early in the morning? And why were they calling? Brock grumbled in physical agony. His head felt as though about to split open and his stomach burning from his excessive drinking the night before. He tried to roll over to reach for his phone but was stopped. Something was weighing down his arm. Thinking about it, his whole left arm and down to his hand was numb. The fuck was this?
His groggy eyes looked to the source of the weight to see a young Latino woman. Brock furrowed his brow and blinked a few times to make sure he saw what he was. Then he remembered. It was one of the strippers from last night. What was her name again? Who cares? She was just a convenient piece of ass, anyway. Without a care or concern for the sleeping woman, Brock shook his arm out from under her head full of messy black hair and sat up. He wasn't even in his hotel room! Judging by the pink girly froo froo shit hanging off the walls and around her vanity mirror, this had to be the dancer's apartment. House? Brock couldn't remember anything from the night before. This is why he didn't drink tequila and judging by the present company, she had most likely talked him into taking shots of it.
His phone was still ringing. No, not ringing. It was his alarm! The academy firing range!
A soft hand traced down his back followed by an even softer voice. "Something wrong, Big B?"
Brock's expression instantly turned to wordless surprise. Big B? Was he that shit faced last night? He needed to get out of here. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and his pants off the floor. "I need to take this call." It was a good enough excuse at an opportune moment so why not use it? To keep up the ruse, he pretended to answer his phone. "Yeah?" and quickly left the room. Brock continued talking to himself as though in a phone call as he slid his pants on. "I'll be there in ten."
In record time, he was dressed entirely in what only worsened his headache. His clothes reeked of alcohol, cigarette smoke, cheap cigars and drugstore perfume. Behind him stood the Latino dancer wearing a button down shirt and what he presumed was nothing else underneath. She twirled a strand of her messy hair between her fingers. "Will you be at the club again, tonight?"
Brock studied those long dark legs and instantly remembered why he spent the night with her. He got his keys out of his pants and shrugged. "Depends on work." He opened the apartment door and strode out into the overcast afternoon only to find his truck nowhere to be seen in the parking lot.
The dancer called out from inside her apartment. "You left your truck at the club."
"Where the fuck is that?"
The dancer sauntered to Brock and smiled at him teasingly. "Two blocks down the road. It's only a few minutes' walk." She kissed the man on the cheek and went back into the apartment, closing the door.
"Great."
Tires of a black truck came to a screeching halt in the parking lot of the hotel Brock had been staying at. No time was wasted rushing to the room and damn near ripping off the foul-smelling clothes. A quarter of a bottle of body wash later, Brock was sure he had washed all smells of last night off of him. He dried off, got dressed, combed his hair and was about to shave when a knock came at his room's door.
The door was opened to reveal Clark. The brick wall of an agent started chuckling at his team leader. "How's it going Big B?" Brock rolling his eyes and grumbling only made Clark laugh louder.
"Don't give me that shit, man." The door was left open for the other to enter, Clark doing so.
Clark gave his boss a head to toe look over to notice him dressed nicer than usual. He was wearing a blue and white striped button-down over a white tank top. "You're cleaning up nice. Going somewhere?" Further watching showed he was trying to be quick in finishing getting ready. "In a hurry?"
"Don't worry about it."
Clark smiled slyly. "Going out for the day with Dulce?"
Brock paused in his shaving to stare at the agent. "Who?"
That only made Clark laugh wildly. "You mean forgot her name? That hot little Mamacita who couldn't keep her hands off you last night?"
"Oh…her." The STRIKE team leader finished his task, rinsed out his razor and sat it beside the sink. "Definitely not going out for the day with her."
"Someone else, then?" No response immediately came. "Did you meet someone at the academy?"
Brock dried off his face and scoffed. He collected his wallet, phone and truck keys and stashed them away in his pants pockets. When he stashed his SIG-Sauer in the back of his pants under his shirt and picked up his two spare magazines, Clark arched a brow. "I'll be back in a little while."
Brock left his room and returned to his truck. The first thing he did when he got in was roll down the windows to try and vent out the lingering stench of stripper perfume. Apparently, the smells of his dirty clothes rubbed off onto the upholstery driving back to the hotel. So much for taking a shower. Hopefully, Cadet Jensen wouldn't smell the perfume on him since they were going to be outside.
After a pit stop for some coffee, Brock was on his way to the academy. Wishful thinking kept flooding his mind on all the ways he'd like to say farewell to the brunette. In the backseat of his truck…pinned against a wall in his hotel room…in the shower…but his favorite idea was her on her hands and knees taking it from behind as he pulled her hair. He just didn't want to fuck her; he wanted to dominate her. Such a small girl like Syra Jensen would be easy to pick up and even hold down. He even wondered how flexible she was. Was she one of those types he could fold in half and nail to the mattress? Brock noticed his pants were starting to fit a bit snuggly somewhere and adjusted himself. He knew he should be ashamed of himself for thinking such thoughts, but who the hell was going to know if he didn't tell anyone? He already knew Fredricks had him figured out. Possibly Davis, too. Oh well. What were they going to do to him?
Brock's mind was so consumed with his thoughts that he didn't realize he was already at the academy until he turned onto its drive. He had driven this route so much it had become a thoughtless habit. Around the main complex he drove and to the beige brick building's parking lot he went.
Aside from Fredrick's Acura parked in its usual spot, there was another vehicle; a black Buell motorcycle. No doubt it belonged to that bastard Mikel Jensen. "Son of a bitch," groaned Brock. Any and all excitement swelling in his pants went dead. Well, at least he didn't have to worry about hiding his boner. "Mother fucker…" Brock got out of his truck and stormed around the building to the firing range lanes.
Fredricks was happily blasting away a target with his pistol while Syra was at the far end and positioned behind her sniper rifle. Jensen stood beside her with his AS50 slung over a shoulder. Everyone stopped what they were doing when they saw the STRIKE agent walk up.
The look on Fredricks' face was a mix of pleasantly surprised and shocked. "Wha…what are you doing back? I figured you gone for good!" Fredricks laughed and shook the agent's hand.
Brock had to come up with a damn good reason for being here since Jensen was present. "I figured I'd blow off a few more rounds before flying out tomorrow afternoon."
"Oh. And…them?" Fredricks pointed over Brock's shoulder.
Brock turned around to see Rollins and Clark walk up. "What the fuck is this?"
Clark shook his head. "Man, I was right on your ass the moment you left the coffee shop, and you didn't notice. Usually, you're suspicious of everyone following you and the one time someone was, you're completely oblivious."
Rollins locked gazes with Jensen and clenched his jaw in anger. Brock tapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, killer, stand down."
Jensen refocused his attention on his instructing Syra. "Continue firing. Same target order. Forty-five seconds."
Syra nodded to oblige. "Yes, sir." She repositioned herself and carefully rested her finger alongside her rifle.
"Go."
The safety was flipped off, and the young woman did as instructed. Clark observed the cadet and looked to his boss. He subtly nodded with that scheming glint in his eye. Rollins leaned in closer to the team lead and asked, "Who's the kid?"
Clark asked his question next. "Robbing the cradle, now?"
Brock thrust an elbow backward into Clark's gut. "Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up."
Fredricks ejected his pistol's empty magazine and gestured to the building's door. "Help yourself to what's available on the table, inside, m'boys!"
Brock smirked. "Let's go, STRIKE. Let's show this fossil how it's done."
Target after target was left in shreds. The old ones were discarded, and new ones tacked on their respected target mounts. The three STRIKE agents were absolutely stunning in their accurate shooting skills. So much that Syra had allowed herself to become distracted. Even Jensen gave them a passing glance once in a while. He'd nudge the young woman in the leg to urge her to stay focused on her training.
After her last series of rounds were fired, she got up to take a break. She took a hefty drink from her water bottle when she heard the field agents' phones simultaneously go off. The three men paused in their having fun to check their phones. Seeing how all three of theirs went off at the same time, they knew something was going on.
Fredricks looked to the three men with concern. "Something wrong?"
Brock nodded and answered. "Yeah, code three. All available agents are needed for a hostile emergency situation downtown. So far three reported civilian casualties and several suspected more. Two law enforcement officials are down, too. Enemy snipers are on the spot taking out anyone who tries to infiltrate the building where the hostages are held." Brock looked at Jensen with a bit of reluctance. While this man wasn't one of his favorites, he was still a damn good shot and since most of his STRIKE team was in Washington, D.C. he needed all the best hands he could get for an improvised team. "You were once one of SHIELD's best. I could use that today."
Jensen cocked a sneer. "Well now that I have your permission," was given in curt reply.
Syra leaped to her feet. "I'm going too."
Brock, Fredricks and Jensen quickly barked, "NO!"
Jensen moved the young woman off to the side. "Absolutely not. You're a cadet…not a field agent."
Syra was offended. "I'm a good shot, and you know it! I can do this!"
Brock shook his head. "Nah ah, not with your PTSD. I need people I know can hold up to the stress. Not break under pressure because the boogieman left them fucked up in the head."
"Fuck you!" Syra yelled. She helplessly stood by and watched the men gather boxes of ammunition for their firearms.
Brock strode past the woman with hands full of pistol and rifle ammo. He could see how upset the woman was. "You really want to help?" Syra wiped her eyes and nodded. "Ride with me. You can help load up the magazines." Rollins and Clark exchanged confused expressions behind him but didn't question the order. "STRIKE, with me!"
They went to the black truck, and just as Clark was about to get in the front seat, Brock glared angrily at him. The agent got the point when he saw the cadet.
Jensen saw her, too, and grabbed her by the arm to stop her from getting in the truck. "Where do you think you're going?"
Brock started his truck and yelled out in an answer. "She's going to help my team prep." Bold chocolate brown eyes squared down on lighter brown ones. "Don't worry, Jensen; I won't let anything happen to her."
The veteran sniper wasn't comforted as the woman slipped from his grasp to get in the truck's front seat. Brock backed up and tires squealed as he drove away from the academy. He looked in his rear-view mirror to see the black Buell motorcycle right behind him followed by a red Acura. He really couldn't say he was surprised to see Fredricks invited himself.
Brock fought his pistol out from behind him and handed it to the cadet. "Take care of this."
Rollins stopped filling a clip to his pistol to stare bewilderingly at his boss and then the young woman. Everyone on the STRIKE team knew no one touched Agent Rumlow's baby.
Syra made sure it was on safe, first, then ejected the magazine and cleared the round from the chamber. Her nimble fingers slid new rounds into the clip until it was full. Once the firearm was prepped and ready for use, she handed it back to its owner. Brock handed her his two spare magazines for her to reload, too.
The STRIKE team leader kept his eyes on the road as he spoke to the woman. "When we get there, you will keep your ass in this truck at all times. Got it?" She gawked at him from the corner of her eye. "You're not even supposed to be here. Fredricks, Jensen and even I could get in some serious shit if someone important knew you were here."
"What, you don't trust me?"
"It's not a matter of trust, Cadet. It's a matter of who's qualified and who isn't. You haven't even graduated the academy yet. That makes you unqualified." Brock arrived at a blocked off intersection. Flashing his SHIELD badge to a police officer granted him access to the restricted part of the street a block away from the hostage area. He aimed a finger at the disgruntled young woman and barked, "Stay." She gave him a middle finger. "Maybe later if you're a good girl." He slammed the truck door, leaving a jaw dropped Syra in the front seat.
A moment later, Jensen pulled up on the sidewalk next to the truck. He rushed to Fredricks parking behind the truck and got his rifle case out of the back seat. Without saying a word, both men joined the STRIKE agents and disappeared around the corner.
Syra greatly feared for her husband's safety. She wanted to yell at him to be careful but knew he already would. A gut-wrenching feeling told her today was going to be the third worst day of her life.
