Chapter Eight

Out of the frying pan and…

The team rolled into the underground garage of SSC headquarters twenty silent minutes later. They grabbed their Go bags from the bed of Rios' Ford and made for their designated staging area in the vast basement of the fifteen story building. The Go bags were minimal at best. The men carried them at the request of local law enforcement should they ever need the SSC teams to assist during an emergency. The deal was part of the extensive agreement between Miami-Dade and SSC when the company began filing for the permits to build their huge world headquarters facility.

Pedro was there loading gear, mostly communication gear, both visual and audio, into the specially outfitted Range Rover. The big flat black vehicle was equipped with light armor and heavy gauge expanded steel grate was set on hinges so that all of the windows could be covered to protect the limo black tinted glass from rocks, pipes and clubs. They'd opted for that instead of bullet proof glass. You can't shoot out of bullet proof glass any better than you can shoot into it. Elrod Fitzclover was walking around the truck polishing the headlights and checking the tire inflation. Rios smiled at the short, barrel chested fifty-five year old man and dropped his duffle bag near the front driver's side door.

Elrod Fitzclover had been damned with an awful name but the man could drive like no one else Rios had ever met. Even with only the tippy top of his well-rounded bald head barely above the steering wheel the man could drive a tractor trailer in reverse through the eye of a needle, in zero visibility, at ninety miles an hour while taking automatic weapons fire. He'd saved the team's hide on more occasions than Rios liked to think about. Him and Salem tended to butt heads a bit but Salem was Salem and it often didn't take much to rub him the wrong way. The mere fact the Fitz, as the team called him, and Tyson were friendly, they restored old cars together a hobby Salem had no patience for, was enough to earn Salem's ire.

"We good Fitz? Not gonna run outta gas again are we?"

Fitzclover laughed at the comment. They were only going ten miles south so it was funny now but three years ago in the Congo it hadn't been. He'd neglected his duty, as it were, after a night of self-pity inspired binge drinking over the death of one of his closest friends to Cholera and failed to top the big truck's tanks off. They'd run out while fleeing, with their objective, from about sixty very irate members of Kony's L.R.A. Somehow Fitzclover managed to milk the big truck to the side of the dirt road and negotiate a bounding skid down a steep embankment into a rapidly flowing river. The militiamen couldn't follow in their trucks and the big Range Rover simply floated, bouncing off the bottom with the current until it came to ground on a sand bar fifteen klicks downstream. They called in for extraction and Fitzclover, having spent over a dozen years working in Africa, arranged for a buddy's Huey to snatch the big truck and haul it to safety. Hence the name Rumford Rhino. Rhino for the big mean black Rhinos that hunters sought out and were damned hard to bring down because of their armor tough hide and Rumford which Fitzclover said meant river crossing; further explaining that the alliteration also worked well.

"Ready as always, boss. Just a little weird having to work so close to home. Even at six point eight MPG we'll be good." He replied chuckling.

"Yea seems that feeling's going around." Rios growled out while casting a sidelong look at Elliot who was talking animatedly to Hiram at the cart with all of their weapons. "Good, I figure all we need is old Rumford Rhino here. It's not a far ride so we'll all just pile in with the gear."

"Roger that."

Rios picked up his bag and continued to where the rest of the team now stood donning tactical vests and other assorted pads and gear near their lockers. Each of the SSC teams had a staging area complete with lockers, a small ready room for briefings and de-briefings, parking for their rigs, a work room for making equipment repairs or modifications and a small shower room. The real barracks and lockers were up on the eighth, ninth and tenth floors, but it was here, in the bowels of the modern glass and stone hi-rise that the teams performed final staging and departed from.

As Rios suited up he watched Richard Dalton, Alice Murray and Ernest Stockwell standing a hundred yards away near the elevator bank conferring with a man whom Rios pegged for one of the Miami Dade big wigs. It was already beginning to look like a three ring circus. From the way the bosses were dressed it was apparent that they would be going to the objective to observe. Tyson unzipped his bag and followed the others in getting dressed. As he snugged the final straps of his Kevlar vest he looked across the below ground garage and saw Yarborough exit the elevator with his team. They too were dressed for action Balaclava's and all. Before he could say anything Salem rose to the occasion.

"Jesus Christ and fuck me twice! Can this shit storm go any fucking farther south? I swear to god if that black fucker says as much as one word to me I'll kill him."

"Ignore him Salem and that's an order." Rios snapped sternly. The pre-Valentine's day fight was still a raw memory for both teams and neither Yarborough nor Salem had made an inkling of an effort to settle into a reasonable truce.

The tone of his voice broached no dissent, not even from Salem. He clamped his jaw shut, yanked his Balaclava onto his head after brushing his long bangs back across the top and began to carefully roll the mask up until it sat upon his head like a watch cap. Rios just couldn't wait for Salem to discover that Samantha's father Art was also involved in the op, whatever the op was; Murray still hadn't briefed them.

Just as the team finished their coms check and settling on call signs the quartet of bosses with Yarborough in tow joined them. Salem still hadn't donned his Balaclava so Rios reached over before the Miami detective got there and yanked it down.

"Murray what do we have?" he snapped glaring at Salem who was making faces behind the black mask.

Rios deferred straight to the woman because as far as he was concerned she was their handler. She sighed because she knew the men were not going to like what she had to say.

"You settle on call signs?"

"Roger that, we're using the Cookbook."

Alice nodded and before responding ran the list of names through her memory. Rios and Salem would be Sprout and Green Giant respectively and collectively Team Birdseye. Giddy and Heck were Snap and Crackle and together team Kellogg. Secour was Fruit Pie and Burke, his regular partner who was away on vacation, went by Zinger. Together they were team Hostess. It was simple but in a foreign country your typical simple militiaman had no reference to guess them by.

"First things first. It's been decided that you'll don masks and make sure your Bio links are on and up. Dalton thinks that this is a good way to demonstrate how PMC technology can be used for civilian purposes and give them a heads up of how you work. Pedy's loading extra monitors. The op, I'm not going into detail here. This is Detective Roy Smith; he'll give you a very brief intro. Then once we are on site you will receive a full op briefing from Art Norris. I know you are all familiar with him. Roy meet SSC tactical op team Papa. Sprout," she pointed to Rios, "is the lead and once we are in position the remaining call signs will be addressed."

"Pleasure gentlemen."

Salem guffawed at the greeting and both Murray and Rios flashed him a foul look. Dalton just grinned. He'd always liked Salem. Sure the boy was a handful but he had spirit. He was everything Dalton wished he could have been when he'd first gone into the military. The aloofness and disdain for the rules that made Elliot so brash had been driven from Richard Dalton at an early age first by his father and uncles and then by West Point. He enjoyed watching Salem work as much as he enjoyed watching him misbehave.

Smith conversely eyed the smallest member of the group icily. Compared to rest of team Papa he looked like a little kid. He stared for a moment longer noting the lack of fear or submission in Elliot's hazel eyes then reluctantly broke away and continued.

"We have a hostage standoff. We have a single as in solo, white male holding a family of twelve on a pleasure yacht, a 55 foot Bertram, the Deidra Marie, off the shore of 110 South Point. We have several assets on site. Both on land and water. We are into the sixth hour of what have been futile negotiations. The catch is he's wired eleven of the family members with what our sniper team says is Semtex and has them clumped at the stern of the boat. He's holding a detonator. The twelfth, a sixteen year old male, he keeps dragging up and down to the flying bridge for cover. My problem is that our target is on a moving yacht at a minimum 650 meters off shore with a kid in the way. It's flat out there today but still… My best shooter is good to 800 in perfect conditions. None of my guys are equipped to make that kind of shot and taking him down seems to be our only option. The Feds have a guy but he's in California training. Next nearest guy is Kentucky. We have a twenty four hour deadline. Six have been burned. There is no way the Feds are going to give him what he wants and the negotiator feels that he might not go the full twenty-four hours. It came to me, through the grapevine so to speak, that SSC had a shooter with that skill set so I'm here. We figure the roof of…"

"Stop, Dick. Murray I don't want to hear anything about the site. I'd rather see it and make my own conclusions, ones that aren't clouded by anyone else's observations."

"Dick?" Roy Smith snarled.

"You're a detective right Dick? Detectives are dicks, like I'm a shooter."

"That's your shooter, Dalton."

"The term is Sniper, Detective Smith." Dalton corrected sounding surreptitiously polite. He wanted to make Detective Smith happy, to show off his best team but he'd be damned if the man insulted his people.

"God damned gun's as big as he is Dalton. Really this is your solution! An insolent little ass bitch."

Rios groaned. Giddy and Heckler shuffled their feet and Secour considered flipping the safety off on his Deagle.

"It always fall to my ass." Salem moaned with feigned dejection. "And for your edification it's a weapon, Dick. As for my little ass; you'll have to fight that one," he pointed at Yarborough, "for it."

Yarborough bullied up but held his ground.

"You know you really rub me the wrong way. I'm surprised an outfit like SSC tolerates such insolence. If you were under my command…"

"I rub you the wrong way, Dick?"

"Salem don't. Just…" Rios said quietly into his mic knowing full well where the conversation was headed and that Salem would hear him.

"Well," Salem began with another theatrical sigh, "you know what they say Dick. Rub a dick right, rub a dick wrong; in the end you always just get a bigger dick, Dick."

"Green Giant," Murray cut in rolling her eyes and holding up her hand to silence Salem. "Roy just step off. Sure if that's what you want Green Giant. Let's just load up and get out there. Sprout I don't need to tell you to keep a tight lid on the cook pot do I?"

"I got it Murray." Rios responded with a disgusted look Salem's way which the smaller man merely met with a non-committal shrug.

After the group strode away team Papa started to load up. Salem was still grumbling about Yarborough and Dick and his Balaclava being itchy.

"Kermit can the blabber now and get in the fucking truck." Rios ordered.

"Kermit can the blabber. Fucking shooter my happy ass; fucking Dick wad fucker. I'll show him a shooter; my gun's bigger than me. Dick faced …"

Rios slapped the back of his head hard and Salem turned on the bigger man.

"You better step off Tubby don't push me today!"

"Salem," Rios stopped when Fitz tooted the Range Rovers horn to hurry the duo up. "Load up; shut the fuck up and start figuring out how we're gonna make this shot in front of god only knows how many reporters."

Salem huffed, slid the big Barrett off of his back and crawled into the middle row seat next to Heckler. Rios slammed the door shut, climbed into the front passenger seat, slammed his door shut with a second resounding bang that made Fitzclover flinch and pointed for him to move out.

"Can't believe we have to wear the god damned masks and we ain't even gonna get shot at. Fucking fuckers. You remember to fuel up this time Clover? Fuckin truck gets what two MPG and we're going oh…let me see all a ten miles from home sweet home; stupid fucking can't shoot straight civilian pukes. They bad mouth, bad mouth, bad mouth us; then once they need…"

En-mas the team hollered, as they'd done on countless other occasions when Elliot was caught in a rant, "Salem shut the holy fuck up!"