It was a Dark and Stormy Night when the Lightning’s crashin’ and the Thunder’s Rollin’ and the Rain’s coming down in sheets thick as lead.

“The name is Burton. Jack Burton. Just remember what old Jack Burton does when the earth quakes, and poison arrows fall from the sky and the pillars of Heaven shake. Yeah, Jack Burton just looks that big old storm right square in the eye and He says, ‘Give me your best shot, Pal. I can take it. That’s what Jack Burton says!”

Yeah, my parents probably watched BTLC⁽¹⁾ more than a few too many times. So have I, for that matter. I’ve enjoyed it more than two hundred times, and that’s just in this century. When the world outside is a little too depressing, I pop the DVD in, and it’ll put a smile on my face, and joy in my heart. I can smell the popcorn, taste the Jolt Cola, and feel the love of good ole Mom & Dad; my brothers and my little sister too.

I’m not saying I’ve been everywhere, and I’ve done everything. But I do know this is a pretty amazing planet we live on here. And a man would have to be some kind of fool to think we are all alone in the universe. When I was a teenager I became an Airborne Ranger, and that was barely the start. I’ve fought among the clouds atop the Hindu Kush, alongside the riverbanks of the Fertile Crescent, and in the bowels of Tora Bora! I’ve made a fortune as a Mercenary, and lost at least half of it in the wilds of Bangkok, Hong Kong, Amsterdam, Budapest, Kiev, Frankfurt, Rio, and Vegas.

I grew my first beard while I was a member of an ODA⁽²⁾ deployed to Helmand Province back in 2009. A pencil-dick martinet made me shave it off when I got back to CONUS⁽³⁾ in 2012; reinforcing my decision to not re-up. Too much chickenshit, atop the FUBAR⁽⁴⁾ ROE⁽⁵⁾ caused me to question why I was risking my life for Army pay. I could make three or six times as much as a “Contractor” in other words a mercenary. Quite a few of the guys I had served with had already gone that route, making my decision easier.

I made a bundle Contracting; mostly working for Gabriel Rodgers in Iraq and the Stan. I took a breather in 2017, then spent eighteen months globe-trotting with some ‘Prince’ from the UAE⁽⁶⁾ flitting from Monaco to Miami Beach to Tahiti. Some celebs, and other dudes with cash to burn, get their jollies hiring a former “Operator”⁽⁷⁾ to be their bodyguard, even, or especially, when they probably don’t need one. Achmed bin Dickhead (not his real name, but it shoulda been) was just such an entitled jackass; I was actually happy to get back to the Stan, and getting shot at, with my brothers from another mother.

In the Spring of 2020, I “Pulled the Pin” and bailed from The Stan, after my contract was up. When I first got back to the world, I had gone on a bacchanal and blown a bunch of cash. They say “you can’t buy love.” But you can rent it! While I was living La Vida Loca I walked the stairs up to the top of the Eifel Tower, climbed to the peak of the Matterhorn, took a river cruise down the “Blue” Danube, and continued through straights of the Bosporus; stopping off to play tourist in Constantinople; known for the last few centuries as Istanbul.

When I got back to the “Land of the Big PX”⁽⁸⁾ the “terrors” of the “Wuhan Flu” wracked the land. So, I hibernated in my cabin up in the Rogue River Valley of Oregon for nearly a year-and-a-half. I didn’t have any cell phone service, or internet, “it was primitive as could be” well, at least I had indoor plumbing. In the bunker accessed through the basement, I had stockpiled enough food, vitamins, spices, and ammo to last me a decade. I also had several greenhouses, so I didn’t lack for fresh fruit and vegetables. Nor did I lack venison, or fish.

Most importantly I had more than enough books to last a lifetime; thus, I spent hours each day engrossed and enriched. I didn’t see any human beings for a “coon’s age” and I preferred it that way. I wasn’t fit for human companionship. Sated with purchased female companionship, and perhaps having indulged in a bit too much a good thing in terms of adult beverages and tasty food; I benefited from abstinence and healthy eating. Well, I did enjoy the occasional snifter of single malt scotch, and a Cubano Monte Cristo cigar.

While I was recovering my sanity, and trying to restore my moral equilibrium, I was also getting my body back in shape. In addition to my almost daily yomps, I worked out at least four days a week. Those activities restored me body, mind, and soul. Refreshed, I was fit to engage in week long expeditions to the nearby mountaintops; or to hunt some fresh meat. Nature’s bounty is available here, to those who have the talent, and the will to take it.

If I had emerged from my seclusion just a few weeks earlier, I would have almost certainly been with my buddies over in the Stan, E&E-ing from the Taliban; escorting some decent folks out of the eighth century. “It is what it is.” About mid-October, I was really Jonesing for some authentic Bulgogi; Korean BBQ. It was a “coin-flip” on whether I would head north on I-5 to Lakewood, between JBLM (Joint Base Lewis-McChord) and Tacoma; or south down to San Fran.

So, I was waking up on the sixth day of my week-long rental of a cabin in Pacifica, when my phone rang. Gabe asked me to come visit his mountain retreat, and get together with the guys; some of whom had just gotten back to CONUS. Less than thirty minutes later, I had shit, showered, and loaded my impedimenta, dirty laundry and all, into the cab of my 2020 forest green Ford F350 Ranch King and hit the road. Abandoning an invitation to a Halloween Party up on Russian Hill, in San Francisco, by some little freak I just met the other day at Fisherman’s Warf.

Probably meant I was passing on a fling with a Hot, model-quality young woman. Instead, I was standing her up, because Gabe asked me to get together with some of our comrades who had just gotten out of “The Stan” by the skin of their teeth. Bagram airbase and Kabul international weren’t options, so they drove all the way to Uzbekistan. Escorting more than two hundred “Terps”⁽⁹⁾ and other folks who had aided us over the years, and their families, evading the Jaws of Death.

It had been a trip down “Damnation Alley” and beyond. My Brothers from another Mother are some genuine Bad Asses; Lifetakers and Heartbreakers! They wouldn’t have made it, if it weren’t for the sacrifices made by sons, and grandsons of members of the Northern Alliance who had fought the Soviets since before I was born. Dudes who are “Harder Than Woodpecker Lips” and Hate the Taliban bastards even more than we do!

So, that’s why this particular nasty evening, All Hallows Eve, I am driving my king-cab pick-up truck up a gravel road that reminds me too much of some collections of potholes over in Herat Province, Afghanistan. Typical of many third world Shitholes, in this case, California. According to the GPS I was somewhere west of the town of Weed, and Mount Shasta, when it lost the link to the satellites, all thirteen of them. Glancing at the compass, I noticed it was gyrating wildly. Good thing that I am capable of dead reckoning.

I am peering through the windshield, and my flailing windshield wipers, trying to keep my truck between the torrents overflowing the drainage diches on both sides of a road that seemed to be intended to keep intruders out unless they had a rugged four-wheel drive vehicle; when suddenly a Fucking Bear (or something) appeared in the beams of headlights, standing on his hind legs. Fangs like bayonets gleamed in the glare of my high-intensity headlights as the creature roared like T-Rex escaped from Jurassic Park!

Mister Bruin hasn’t been keeping up with current events; ‘cause he and his kind are no longer the Apex Predators here! Me, and the Human Wolfhounds similar to me enjoy the occasional Bear Steak; along with a loaded baked potato, and tasty brown ale to wash it all down! Putting the hammer down, the Godzilla 7.3L / 445 cubic inch OHV V-8 engine growled right back as my truck surged forward in a rooster tail of mud and gravel. Trusting to my sturdy custom crash bar/brush guard, and one-and-a-quarter of a ton of rigid steel and sex appeal, I charged forward.

Bucking like a bronco it was a challenge to keep my truck under control. Keeping my eyes on the target, and bracing for the impact as I raced forward at Ramming Speed; the impact seemed anti-climatic as the beast disappeared under my truck. Leaping into the air, as if I had slammed into an unexpected wadi, my engine roared and my four-point harness locked me in place. Upon touchdown the truck went into a skid, I counter-steered, and applied a bit of gas. As soon as I had my trusty steed under control, I eased off on the gas. I am an expert driver, and I never drive faster than I can see. Besides that, it’s all in the reflexes!

Taking a chance, I quickly glanced back. I couldn’t see my new bear rug, perhaps marred by some tire tracks. I wasn’t about to stop to get out and look. My long guns that are traveling with me are locked in a custom gunsafe under my back seat. I am confident about my skills, and the capabilities of my Sig-Sauer P229 DAK chambered for .40 S&W in a Close Encounter with a thug; an enraged Grizzly, not as much!

Discretion is sometimes the better part of valor; so, I continued on up the mountain trail to where my friends are waiting for me. This is the “Golden Bear” state, but that beast didn’t look like any golfer⁽¹⁰⁾ I’ve ever seen ... Didn’t seem prudent to lollygag in a primeval forest during a downpour, so through the woods, and up the hill to “Gabby’s” house I traveled. At least I didn’t have to be concerned about sugar fueled Trick-or-Treaters darting out into my path; like that damned pre-historic ursaroid.

Mere moments later, Schloss Schutzengel materialized out of the gloom. The only beacon of light in a howling wilderness; promising safety and security amidst the turbulence. Despite the failure of the GPS, I had been confident I could land navigate my way back to the domain of my friend, former boss, and longtime mentor; never-the-less, I was relieved to detect the rays, as any seafarer off a perilous shore is to sight a lighthouse.

Gabriel and Adelaide’s family home is no “McMansion” it is more of a Chateau than a Schloss, a castle. Designed by Adelaide, his wife, “Heidi” to her close friends; she integrated Gabe’s security protocols with authentic architectural features, embracing the natural beauty of the landscape. Strobes of lightning glinted off the rain glistening on the stonewalls enclosing their estate. Baren limbs of fruit trees flailed like the arms of desperate men drowning; the tops of cedars, firs and pines give the impression of wavetops, held back by the levee-like buttresses securing the perimeter.

As my truck turned onto the driveway leading to the gate complex, blinding lights illuminated a veritable Kill Zone as if I was approaching an Entry Control Point of a major American Forward Operating Base. Schutzengel is German for Guardian Angel. Undoubtedly the family and friends of Gabriel and Adelaide Rodgers would be secure within this edifice. Until this moment, I had not realized that the hair on the back of my neck seemed to prickle, and my heart had been palpitating.

Trumpeting, as if the Herald of God, Gabriel’s voice announced that I was ‘Cleared for Access’ as the outer gates swung towards me. Keeping my speed at around 20 MPH, because I know the inner gates would not open until the outer gates were closed and secure. Since I am aware of what to look for, I detected the location of the steel, actually composite alloy posts, that when activated would pop-up in less than a second to transform the 100-meter three-lane road into a 300-meter chicane; or if they were all locked in place denied access to possibly even an M-1 Abrams Tank. Rivaling similar defenses at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Gabriel is absolutely committed to providing a sanctuary for his loved ones. We have seen manifestations of viciousness and evil inconceivable to civilized beings. His family only had the faintest ideas of the horrors lurking in the darkness; or even in the light of day. Too many people are oblivious to the dangers that abound, not just in a combat zone, a third world shithole, or the streets of any city; even in locations we least expect it.

Forewarned is forearmed. My comrades and I are almost always armed, even in locations where regulations, ordinances, or even federal laws forbid it. Gabe’s children, and other loved ones are well trained in firearms, and other weapons safety; as well as how to employ them against any threat. One of the best ways to defend yourself, and who or what you want to protect, is to prevent exposure to danger. Related to that is to be informed of possible dangers. Awareness, in particular, situational awareness is another key factor.

It is more than a kilometer, sixth-tenths of a mile to the courtyard in front of Schloss Schutzengel, and before driving onto the cobblestones, another battery of arc lights illuminated the area. Not nearly as blinding as at the ECP. Actually, they enhanced my ability to appreciate what appeared to be creamy buttery yellow fieldstone exterior of the three-story Chateau style mansion. I know what few people do, the stones, while real, are only a six-inch deep façade; layers of composite materials provide protection equivalent to Chobham⁽¹¹⁾ armor. Several turrets (round towers) project above the sharply peaked roof.

Looking up I noticed smoke emerging from several chimneys; though it was almost instantaneously blown to whisps that vanished in the rain. I didn’t bother glancing at any of the windows. They appear to be antique leaded glass windows; in reality they are at least three layers of highly resistant laminate composites. You can look through them, from the inside, observers outside see a computer controlled projection. The images of the windows of the “public” spaces usually display what is there, but with a several second delay, and offset just enough that even the best sniper would be nearly certain to miss (at least their intended target).

Whatever could be seen in the windows of the private spaces of the home are “canned” images, and in some cases don’t reflect at all what is actually in that space. It is extremely unlikely that anyone, or anything could enter the grounds; at least not undetected. “Drones” aka RPA (Remotely Piloted Aircraft) could possibly violate the boundary; although passive and active countermeasures and detection are reasonably likely to thwart any foe’s intentions. Technology is constantly evolving, and it is foolish to underestimate potential opponents.

Gabriel and Adelaide own several hundred acres around their estate, and more properties elsewhere. Unfortunately, there is little that may be done against high quality optics; other than deception measures. Lasers could be employed to blind an observer, but if that turned out to be a LEO (Law Enforcement Officer) or other government agent, there could be severe legal consequences. Tonight, the elements conspired against any potential surveillance.

You might think that since I was born and raised in Sedro-Woolley, roughly halfway between Seattle and the Canadian border, and now living in the Klamath Mountains of the Oregon Coastal Range; that I am inured to precipitation. Perhaps I’ve spent too much time in deserts. Or maybe it’s that I’ve endured too much time in “Jurassic Park” (aka the Rainier Training Area of JBLM⁽¹²⁾) and other places where it frequently rains. So, although I am not bothered by the frequent drizzles common to my home climate; I’d just as soon not go out in the pouring rain.

Gabriel too had endured plenty of inclement weather during his career(s). We still occasionally trained in bad weather, because: “Train as you intend to Fight; for surely you Will Fight as you Trained!” Meaning if you are not prepared to train realistically in inclement weather, then you Won’t be prepared to fight well if there is bad weather when you are attacked, or a fleeting opportunity presents itself. That said I was mighty glad to follow the “primrose path” around the Garage Wing of the Schloss.

Similar to the subdued blue lighting on the taxiways of airports; these sequenced lights guided me along the paved drive, and around the back of the Garage Wing. Posted on both sides of the pavement, there are also recessed lights set in the pavement. Following the series of lights led me to the bay designated for me to park in. The garage door rising as I approached. The bays are more than deep enough to fit two trucks, the size of mine, nose to tail. There are plenty of spaces, thus we are all parked so that our vehicles are facing out to the main egress; having driven through our assigned parking bay from the back.

(Professional Drivers will confirm that a high percentage of accident occur while backing. Thus, doing so, unnecessarily, should be avoided. However, we do conduct training exercises requiring backing up various vehicles.)

The floor of the bay is a light gray, textured surface, like that used in some vehicle showrooms or high-end garages. Oil, or other vital fluids that might be dripping, even just a bit, are quite noticeable. Yet the surface is easy to clean, and also provides good traction, even when wet. Since I might have had to get out somewhere with treacherous footing, my Merrell Moab II Gore-Tex boots provide excellent traction, and decent ankle support.

During my various deployments I have learned to dress in “Mufti” in other words, to blend in with the locals if I had to get out somewhere along the route here; I didn’t want to freak the mundanes by looking like a Viking garbed in camo. So, I was wearing Khaki Chinos, and a blue button-down shirt.

When I stepped down from the cab, I grabbed my (woodland) MultiCam Gore-Tex jacket with my left hand. With my right hand I disconnected my cellular phone from the charging station, and tucked it into the pocket on my left shoulder. Then I walked around to the front of my truck.

On the way to San Francisco, I had driven through one of those ‘touchless’ carwashes; I even splurged for the wax for a couple of extra bucks. My truck hasn’t been shiny since the day I bought it, and drove away from the dealership. There isn’t a bit of chrome on the exterior. My rig is customized, heavily; the grill, custom crash bar/brush guard, backs of the mirrors, exhaust pipes, etc. all have a textured black coating to protect them from the elements, and be unreflective. The windows are tinted, and have an ‘anti-glare’ coating, similar to the optics used by bird watchers and snipers.

It’s not perfect, but it’s not easily noticed when I park out in the woods. If I flip a switch, the mirrors fold in, most folks have that option so somebody doesn’t damage their mirror(s) while they’re parked (and it’s usually automatic, not selective). If I toss a camo net over the cab, and I’ve chosen a good location to park, my rig is practically invisible. Thus, I consoled myself that whatever damage I incurred from hitting that bruin would “Just Add Character” to my truck.

I have less than seven thousand miles on the odometer; more than a thousand of them racked up during the last week. The majority of those miles have been over gravel or dirt roads; sometimes I drive off-road, making my own path. While I’ll admit to a bit of vanity, and I do take pride in my truck. It’s supposed to get dirty! Sure, when it needs it, I hose it off; ‘cause mud and gunk may eventually cause rust and/or corrosion. You won’t find me washing and waxing my rig every Saturday afternoon.

My initial inspection didn’t indicate any significant damage. The crash bar/brush guard appeared to have been wrenched a bit to the right, and slightly bent down. There were also four basically parallel gashes in the coating, all the way down to the bare metal I pondered what could have done that? I forgot that when I turn off the headlights, protective covers automatically shield them. I hadn’t noticed any particular change in their beams while driving, so I wouldn’t bother turning them back on to verify that just now.

I set my Gore-Tex rain jacket on the garage floor, and knelt down on it to look at the undercarriage. Simultaneously, I withdrew my Mini-Mag flashlight from the holster on the left side of my belt. Just another item of my EDC⁽¹³⁾ and dang useful for situations such as this. Shining the beam at the suspension, and up into the front wheel wells; there was a lot of mud, not unexpectedly; but no obvious damage. I noticed some sort of black, viscous substance on the front skid-plate, it was dripping slowly, almost oozing, but it didn’t appear to be oil...

My phone rang, I checked it, it was ‘Charlie’ Charles West, a former “D-Boy” like Gabriel, so I answered it; before I could speak, his voice boomed out, “Yo! Dude! Your beer’s getting warm, or your coffee’s getting cold. Whatever. Get your sorry butt to the Den!”

I replied, “What the Fuck, Chuck! You shoulda kept my beer in the fridge, and I don’t drink coffee more than forty minutes old. Unless I hafta. Stop bust’n my Balls. I’m doing an After PMCS⁽¹⁴⁾ on my rig.”

Charlie chuckled, and razzed me, saying, “aw, you drive like my Grandma! You can wash and polish your baby tomorrow, if it ever stops raining. Bring yer Big Boy Toys, Galadriel has a Hot Date tonight, and we gotta put the Fear of God, or at least Fear of the ‘Archangel’ Gabriel inta the Boy!”

Before I could impart some of my driving wisdom, or explain once again, that “it’s All in the Reflexes.” Charlie hung up on me. So, I put my phone back in my shoulder pocket, picked up, and shook out my Gore-Tex Jacket, then hung it over the side of the truck bed. Next, I checked the cab to verify everything was as it should be; I grabbed my empty, insulated travel-mug out of the cup holder, and set both the jacket and mug aside, so that I could grab the other necessities.

First, I opened the back, driver’s-side, door, then I opened up the custom gunsafe concealed in my backseat, and transferred into a “range bag” a Heckler & Koch M417A2R with a Trijicon ACOG sight, a Mossberg 590 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, and three pistols. Several of my favorites, a Heckler & Koch USSOCOM Mark 23 Mod 0, chambered for .45 ACP, a CZ95 “combat” 9x19mm, and a Dan Wesson .357 Magnum revolver; more on those later. Accessories, loaded magazines and speed loaders, cleaning kits, addition supplies, and such also went into the range bag.

Ensuring it was secure, I slung the range bag over my left shoulder. Then I grabbed my RON (Remain Over Night) bag, slinging it over my right shoulder. I verified the gunsafe was closed and concealed, and then locked the cab doors. Picking up my jacket and travel mug with my left hand, I headed towards the mudroom. My right hand was free, just as a contingency; in case I needed to draw my concealed pistol, or some other form of self-defense.

Going through the garage, my head was on a swivel, and I took note of what vehicles were present, and thus who else was likely to be here. Several newer vehicles weren’t a surprise, considering my self-imposed reclusions. None-the-less, I had figured I could guess the owners of those vehicles; well, all except two. Approaching the Rodger’s family vehicles, I noticed that Gabriel had acquired a 2020 Ford Excursion, to replace his 2016 model. Both are the same color; I noticed the older one was parked in Bay-Five.

There were no vehicles in either side of Bays One and Six. Adelaide’s 2018 Lexus RXV, with discrete stencils of her architectural firm on both front doors, and the rear hatch, is parked in Bay Two. As I already noted, the family Excursion is in Bay Three. Gabe’s 2017 Ford F350 Ranch King, his work truck, with his logos on the doors, is parked in Bay Four. I wonder what vehicle they bought in 2019? Perhaps they took a sabbatical.

There are half-set of stairs on each side of the landing to the mud room: but no railings, so exuberant folks may jump down; or up. The notion crossed my mind ... and quickly quashed, cause if I flubbed it and fell on my face, my comrades would play that clip from the security videos until we were all senile in an Old Veteran’s Home. So, like a responsible adult, I used the stairs to the left. At the door, I entered my security code on the panel to the right of the door, then pressed my right palm against the scanner.

Instead of the indicator light above the retinal scanner activating, the deadbolts securing the door ‘thunked’ and I was able to open it. Certainly, because someone was on duty in the Security Center, and decided to not screw with me; tonight. The door swung open smoothly; if I didn’t know better, it would be almost impossible to notice how heavy and thick the security door is. Not steel, but layers of composites and alloys, covered with a teak veneer.

There was no one waiting for me in the mudroom. I was a tad disappointed. Plunking my range bag, RON bag, and other stuff on the bench opposite of where my slippers were waiting. Taking a couple of moments to look around, I then eased onto the bench above my moccasin style slippers. While I unlaced my boots, I pondered if they’ve been here all this time, or if Adelaide or someone put them back out recently.

I am not that foolish, so I checked my slippers, before putting them on. Strangely, there wasn’t a scorpion, nor was there a large dollop of shaving cream in either of them. Shrugging, I put them on, and wiggled my toes. I hung up my Gore-Tex, and grabbed my bags and mug, and opened the door to the hallway, past the pantries, leading toward the kitchen. This was also a security door, but not as robust as the portal to the garage.

I walked past the pantries, then just before I entered the kitchen, I turned left and walked through the “Butler’s Pantry” and into the Den. If you were to see this room, without us in it, you would probably figure this is a “Rec-Room” a recreation room, or “Game Room” it doesn’t really have the vibe of a “Den” like a private office. It’s big, it takes couple of dozen of us, sprawled out, to make it seem fully occupied. We call it a Den, because it’s were we hang out, like a Pack of Wolves; or more accurately Wolfhounds!

Standing in the Butler’s Pantry, in the middle of the wall to my right is a massive stone fireplace with a big cheery fire adding atmosphere to the room, most of the heat comes from the radiant floor under the slate tiles. To my immediate left are bookshelves and trophy cases, fully loaded with an eclectic collection. Dominating the wall to my left is a massive Big Screen TV; opposite the fireplace; more bookshelves are on each side of the TV; the cabinets underneath contain a library of DVDs.

Directly across from where I am standing there is a bank of windows, a bit more than a meter, or roughly four feet above the floor, and perhaps half that distance from the twelve-foot vaulted ceiling. Anchoring each side of the bank of windows are floor to ceiling bays, from which a person could observe what would otherwise be dead space against the walls of the Schloss. In the center of the bank of windows are a pair of French Doors, providing egress onto a patio.

Eight large sofas, each large enough for me to lie down, and stretch out to my full six-foot—four inches, without my feet hanging over an armrest. Six of them form a U-shape to watch TV, or a have a conversation; or more typically with us, several simultaneously. More than a dozen comfortable chairs are positioned around the room; mostly Barca-Loungers. On the side of the room closer to the fireplace are both a billiards table and a foosball table.

At this moment both the billiards and foosball tables have rigid covers atop them, partially shrouded by protective sheets or cloths, with bits and pieces of veritable arsenal laid out upon them. Similar displays are on various coffee tables in front of the couches. Only a few of the people in the room are actively cleaning their weapons. Most of them are gabbing. Upon my arrival, I became the momentary focus of attention. I hadn’t seen these guys since the Spring of 2020, when I “Pulled the Pin” and bailed from The Stan, after my contract was up.

I was beset with calls of:

“Out of Hibernation?”

“You Missed the Boogaloo!”

“Look what the Cat Dragged in!”

“Sink Me! That Beard is Almost enough to Hide yon Ugly Mug!”

Judd Sandage can impersonate Anthony Andrews playing Sir Percy Blakeney in The Scarlet Pimpernel; but he rarely remembers the words accurately. Yet that last particular comment isn’t too far off the mark.

Out of the MultiCam garb I prefer, I look like the lovechild of Grizzly Adams and a Valkyrie. Unruly wavy auburn hair with hints of gold, and a bristling beard garner more attention than my face; other than my icy-blue eyes. I stand just under two meters in my socks, and tip the scales at a hundred kilos; or six foot four, and two hundred and twenty-two pounds, to a civilian. No Tats! I may appear to be a stereotypical Contractor (Mercenary) in many ways; but I am far from typical.

“Charlie” West said, set your range bag down. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen. Then put your Go Bag up in your usual room, across from where I am staying.”