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Authors: Nick Thacker
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save for the occasional flare-up in his shoulder where the ball and socket’s tendons had taken a little longer to heal properly. His security detail tonight had him walking quite a bit. His route through the complex was essentially a circle he shared with two other men, one named Eric Benson and the other a fat lumpy fellow named Behar. Bryce couldn’t remember the guy’s first name — kind of sad, since he was Behar’s boss — so he usually just called him “Behemoth;” only in his head, of course.
He shook his head, laughing internally. He walked up the stairs out of the tall tower encasing the facility’s combustion core unit — the power center for the Whittenfield Research center. Except for his two “recruits,” part of the compensation package Bryce had worked out with Whittenfield two months ago in Afghanistan, his team was a pretty shoddy excuse for a security detail. He’d have been happier with some “rent-a-cops” from the D.C. Police force. “Behemoth” Behar was a nice guy; mid-forties, wife and kids in the city, probably liked long walks on the beach, that sort of thing. He just wasn’t much to write home about when it came to physical appearance or agility. Or target practice, weight training, or anything else related to being a security guard at a high-security research firm.
The other five members of the team weren’t much better. He had only really met one of them, mostly because the kid was out drinking the night he was supposed be on the clock with Bryce. Not well-suited to dishing out tongue-lashings, Bryce had just stared him down when he finally returned from his “night out,” two hours late for his shift. The kid’s conscience seemed to have taken over from there, and he’d caused no more trouble. Bryce thought his name was Adams… Adamson? No, Adam something. Whatever, he thought. The remaining three men didn’t strike Bryce as anything more than the standard career-type guards. At least they were all nice enough, and got along pretty well together, but not one of them was higher than average in any regard. They were all just guys punching a clock, looking forward to quitting time. They all went home at the end of the day, forgetting about work until their next shift.
Only Bryce and his two hand-picked recruits — Privates Wayne and Jeff Thompson — lived at the firm’s headquarters, in the same residence wing with the scientists and some of the other staff. The three of them shared a room, Bryce on one side and the brothers on the other, in a bunk bed unit. Wayne “Ranger” and Jeff “Hawk” Thompson were actually out tonight enjoying the D.C. nightlife, but Bryce expected them back within the hour for the shift change. They were good men, and great soldiers — Bryce had trained with them a few years ago, and they’d been close with Bryce since college.
The Thompson brothers were from Texas, raised on a ranch north of Abilene. They had grown up most of their lives farming, hunting, and wreaking havoc on their sleepy town. Their father was an avid farmer and rancher, and their mother was a housewife. Both the boys enjoyed a comfortable existence living the American Dream.
To outsiders, the family of four seemed to have a normal existence, but their commonalities with the traditional American way of life ended with a home-cooked meal each night.
Their father, Mr. Thompson (Bryce hadn’t ever heard his first name used), was an ex-Marine who had served in Vietnam and the Gulf War, and had a distinguished service record that contradicted his nonchalant farming life. As boys and young men, the Thompson brothers were trained by their father to track, hunt, and shoot like soldiers, and the three of them had even spent weeks at a time on numerous occasions living off the land on camping trips and survival expeditions on their 100-plus acre Texas farmstead.
In college, Bryce loved to listen to their stories, often told by the brothers via intense
He shook his head, laughing internally. He walked up the stairs out of the tall tower encasing the facility’s combustion core unit — the power center for the Whittenfield Research center. Except for his two “recruits,” part of the compensation package Bryce had worked out with Whittenfield two months ago in Afghanistan, his team was a pretty shoddy excuse for a security detail. He’d have been happier with some “rent-a-cops” from the D.C. Police force. “Behemoth” Behar was a nice guy; mid-forties, wife and kids in the city, probably liked long walks on the beach, that sort of thing. He just wasn’t much to write home about when it came to physical appearance or agility. Or target practice, weight training, or anything else related to being a security guard at a high-security research firm.
The other five members of the team weren’t much better. He had only really met one of them, mostly because the kid was out drinking the night he was supposed be on the clock with Bryce. Not well-suited to dishing out tongue-lashings, Bryce had just stared him down when he finally returned from his “night out,” two hours late for his shift. The kid’s conscience seemed to have taken over from there, and he’d caused no more trouble. Bryce thought his name was Adams… Adamson? No, Adam something. Whatever, he thought. The remaining three men didn’t strike Bryce as anything more than the standard career-type guards. At least they were all nice enough, and got along pretty well together, but not one of them was higher than average in any regard. They were all just guys punching a clock, looking forward to quitting time. They all went home at the end of the day, forgetting about work until their next shift.
Only Bryce and his two hand-picked recruits — Privates Wayne and Jeff Thompson — lived at the firm’s headquarters, in the same residence wing with the scientists and some of the other staff. The three of them shared a room, Bryce on one side and the brothers on the other, in a bunk bed unit. Wayne “Ranger” and Jeff “Hawk” Thompson were actually out tonight enjoying the D.C. nightlife, but Bryce expected them back within the hour for the shift change. They were good men, and great soldiers — Bryce had trained with them a few years ago, and they’d been close with Bryce since college.
The Thompson brothers were from Texas, raised on a ranch north of Abilene. They had grown up most of their lives farming, hunting, and wreaking havoc on their sleepy town. Their father was an avid farmer and rancher, and their mother was a housewife. Both the boys enjoyed a comfortable existence living the American Dream.
To outsiders, the family of four seemed to have a normal existence, but their commonalities with the traditional American way of life ended with a home-cooked meal each night.
Their father, Mr. Thompson (Bryce hadn’t ever heard his first name used), was an ex-Marine who had served in Vietnam and the Gulf War, and had a distinguished service record that contradicted his nonchalant farming life. As boys and young men, the Thompson brothers were trained by their father to track, hunt, and shoot like soldiers, and the three of them had even spent weeks at a time on numerous occasions living off the land on camping trips and survival expeditions on their 100-plus acre Texas farmstead.
In college, Bryce loved to listen to their stories, often told by the brothers via intense
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