Raylan squinted into the sunlight as he saw the sign up ahead. Looking at the directions this should be it, and sure enough the sign read Federal Law Enforcement Training Center: Glynco next Exit. He sighed and rolled his shoulders. The traffic on I-95 had been heavier once he passed Savannah, and he was tired and tense. He slowed as he approached the exit. There was the usual cluster of gas stations and fast food restaurants at the end of the ramp, and he pulled into the closest station to fill up the car and stretch his legs.
He pulled the papers giving him his assignment out of the glove compartment and read them over for the hundredth time. He was to report to FLECTC today by noon. The intense training would last approximately 17 1/2 weeks. The letter made it clear that he was among the elite to have even made it this far, but that the next four months would prove challenging, both mentally and physically.
In the weeks since he'd received the letter, not long after he graduated and taken the entrance exam, Raylan had started an honest-to-God exercise program for the first time in his life. He'd passed the written part of the exam with an 89% and gotten a superior rating on his shooting, but the best he managed on the physical skills test was 'acceptable'. Now he could run six miles easily, maybe farther if he had to. He'd taken advantage of the UK alumni gym to build up some muscle in the weight room, and done some boxing with Lewis at his gym. He still wasn't sure he was ready, but he was as ready as he was going to be.
The letter also warned of the hot and humid conditions at the Training Center, and advised recruits to begin hydrating several weeks ahead of arrival. He wasn't used to drinking a lot of water, but he'd carried a bottle with him everywhere until it felt like a part of him. He wanted this. He wasn't going to squander the opportunity by collapsing from dehydration.
He took another lap around the station, checked his watch, and got back in the car, turning left out of the parking lot and following the signs. Showing his papers to the guard at the gate, he followed the directions, pulling up in front of a low, grey, cement block building that would be his home for the duration of the training. He hauled his duffel bag out of the trunk and glanced down at the number on the envelope the guard had given him. J7. The room was on the second floor, toward the far end of the building. The door was ajar. He pushed it open.
"Hey, you must be Givens," the voice belonged to an angular man a little taller than Raylan, with close-cropped dark hair and a hawkish nose. He held out a hand. "Dan Grant, USMC."
A Marine. One glance at the tightly made bed against the wall and the neat row of shirts, pants, and shoes in the tiny closet left no doubt that Dan Grant's military training was throughly ingrained.
"You military?"
"No." Raylan shook his head.
"Hair should've given that away," Dan chuckled. "College then. Where'd you go?"
"University of Kentucky." He tossed his bag on the bed by the window. There was a stack of sheets and towels, two pairs of uniform pants, t-shirts, shorts, and a sweatshirt emblazoned with USMS in gold letters.
"Good school."
He figured he and his roommate would have little in common. Dan grew up in the suburbs of Chicago in a big, close, Catholic family of Marines and firefighters and talked to his parents or one of his siblings every other day or so. By the third week, though, he and Raylan had bonded over an intense mutual hatred of their instructor, a grim-faced bald ape of a man named Howard Yancey. He was retired Army, had little use for Marines, and being from the Great State of Tennessee, as he frequently intoned, had even less use for a Kentucky hill boy like Raylan.
"Bastard," Dan muttered late one Friday night, tossing back a third bourbon in a bar not far from the center. "He lets that little Lawson shit get away with everything and makes you run another three miles in this heat. He's an asshole."
"Yep," Raylan said. They'd already run six miles, then spent the rest of the morning doing push-ups, sit-ups, and mountain-climbers until more than one recruit threw up their breakfast. Randy Lawson, an Army veteran and Yancey's obvious favorite, made one smart-aleck hillbilly remark too many. Raylan slugged him and got three more miles and written up for his trouble. His legs felt like Jello and he didn't like the black mark on his record. Yancey had already commented more than once on his temper. As hard as he tried though, he couldn't always reel it in.
Dan set his glass down on the bar with more force than necessary. "Someday, when I'm Chief Deputy, I won't put up with that shit." He motioned to the bartender for another round. When it came, he clinked his glass against Raylan's. "You can come work for me."
He had no doubt Dan would make Chief, probably before he was forty. Raylan grinned. "I'll drink to that."
-o-o-o-O-o-o-o
The bar was too crowded and the music was too loud. He came close to turning heel and heading out to look for someplace else to drink himself into oblivion. The prisoner he was here in Salt Lake City to transfer decided at the last minute to fight extradition and now Raylan was stuck here for the weekend in a cheap goverment-paid-for hotel room in the less than stellar part of town. It was ninety-five at sundown and the only air-conditioning back in his room was a ceiling fan that only worked on high speed. It was like sleeping in a wind tunnel.
A spot opened up at the bar and he leaned in, waving a hand to get the harried bartender's attention. The man held up a finger, grabbed two beers from the cooler and handed them to a waitress hovering behind him. Swinging the towel over his shoulder he addressed Raylan. "What'll it be?"
"Bourbon stra..."
"Bud Light." A soft voice with a Kentucky lilt broke in.
"You two together?" The bartender looked at Raylan.
Raylan turned to the source of the voice and lost his own for a moment. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. "I'll get it," he finally croaked.
"Thanks," she said, smiling. She took a pull on the beer and swiveled on her stool, directing her attention back to another woman standing beside her. After a few minutes of conversation, they hugged and the other woman headed out of the bar.
"See you tomorrow," she called.
Kentucky accent turned back to him. "Sorry, that was rude, but it's her birthday. Thanks for the beer. I'm Winona."
Lashes blinked against the bluest eyes he'd ever seen and his own name vanished in a jumble of unfamiliar jitters. "Raylan," he said finally.
She cocked her head. "That's an unusual name."
His lips curled into a grin. "Says Winona."
"Touche'," she laughed, lightly.
"You're from Kentucky." He was pretty sure he was right, but her stare almost convinced him otherwise.
"Not anymore."
It was his turn to laugh. "Me, either."
"Kentucky is a nice place never to go back to."
"Definitely."
She leaned in closer, and he could smell the scent of her perfume or shampoo, light and citrusy. "So what do you do, Raylan from Kentucky?"
"I'm a Deputy U.S. Marshal."
"You're kidding." She looked at him skeptically.
He dipped his head under the hat and slid his eyes up to hers. "Wanna see my badge?"
This time the laughter bubbled out of her and her whole face lit up. He decided then and there that he wanted to make her laugh that way at least once a day for the rest of his life.
The End of the Beginning