Good times.
Everyone on the team carried at least one blade. Most of them had moved away from the more tactical-looking black knives to knives with wooden or Micarta scales. Ryan carried a wood-handled Benchmade called a Crooked River. It looked like a folding hunting knife, arguably not as sexy as a black knife, but the razor-sharp blade performed the same function. Knife fighting was a misunderstood tactic, anyway. Knives that were small enough to put in a pocket made for barely adequate defensive weapons — if they could even be accessed in time. Violent attacks were most often like car wrecks, out-of-nowhere surprises, ambushes, that left the victim stunned and staggering — or dead — before he or she knew what hit them. Sure, there were times when a push dagger would come in handy if some thug had you up against a wall or down on the ground, or a karambit if you were going kinetic and quiet. But mano-a-mano knife fights where opponents squared off with blades were practically nonexistent.
Knives as offensive weapons — now, that was a different story. That was the reason to carry one — not to mention the fact that there was always a bunch of shit that needed to be cut. So everyone had a blade.
Flashlights, butane lighters, and SWAT-T tourniquets rounded out the pocket litter everyone had in common. Each of them carried enough stash-cash to bug out on their own if the need arose, along with an open credit card that was akin to a fire extinguisher behind a glass door — used only in case of emergency. Gone were the days when an operator could trade a high-end watch for a ticket out of a hot spot — though Chavez had a sneaking suspicion that a good many of those stories were just rationalizations Special Ops guys used to get their wives to let them buy a Rolex Submariner or Breitling Emergency.
Caruso carried his FBI badge. Midas and Jack Junior each toted their favorite set of lock picks. Ding was partial to a small Leica monocular. Clark, who was old-school, always had a handkerchief, grousing all the time that they’d gone out of style. The small square of white cloth could be used for first aid, as a makeshift head cover in the sun, or, among other things, a hand towel — anything but a surrender flag.
Some years back, a Russian thug had given John Clark’s gun hand a severe beating with the business end of a hammer. Talented surgeons, months of painful physical therapy, and a gut full of grit had allowed him to start shooting again, but the nerves and tendons would never be what they once were. He’d carried a double-action SIG Sauer P220 for a number of years, but the crisp single action of the 1911 Wilson Combat .45 was much less painful for him to keep up the practice he needed to shoot well.
Caruso customarily carried his FBI-issue .40-caliber Glock. When they did carry, the rest of them were armed with Smith & Wesson M&P Shields and one extra seven-round magazine. An infantry soldier turned special operator, it went against Chavez’s grain not to have a vest full of magazines. Ammunition left at home was no good at all. But intelligence work was a different mission. If you had to resort to gunfire, you’d screwed up bad and were probably hauling ass. There were heavy weapons in the form of Heckler & Koch MP5s and MP7s behind the bulkheads of the Gulfstream, along with a Winchester Model 70 in .308, should the mission require them to take a more offensive posture.
Holsters and carry method were a personal preference and ran the gamut. Everyone had a favorite, and there was little use in trying to convince another that your choice was better than theirs. Chavez wore an inside-the-pants single clip called the Incog by G-Code. It was specifically designed for appendix carry — in front of the body, just off the centerline of his belt. Chavez preferred to wear his at four o’clock, unwilling to leave the muzzle pointing at little Ding and the boys on such a regular basis. Some of his friends, all talented operators, were fine with appendix carry, their differences in opinion about firearms, holsters, and methods of carry resulting in countless good-natured arguments over pizza and beer around the fire ring. Clark said little during these discussions, but carried the 1911 at four o’clock in a leather Milt Sparks inside-the-pants holster, contending God had made that little hollow below a man’s kidney specifically so it would fit a .45-caliber pistol.
The smallest member of the team, Adara often carried the biggest loadout, stuffing cargo pockets and day packs with Israeli bandages, clotting agent, and three-inch chest-decompression needles. She cajoled everyone constantly to carry their SWAT-T tourniquets wherever they went and whatever they were doing, noting that they had all been in hairy situations that required some level of self- or buddy care.
Deciding what to take was always a balancing game. Newbies always tried to bring the kitchen sink. Old hands got by on a lot less, improvising in the field. They might not admit it, but nearly everyone wanted to carry more shit than was possible or even practical. Absent a sixty-pound ruck, a lot of things had to be left behind. They had to stay nimble, and yet still have the necessary tools when the time came.
Thankfully, smartphones had consolidated about five pounds of bulky tech gear into one multifunction device.
This mission would entail covert entry into a business, the kinder and gentler term for burglary. They would have to get past several layers of security — guards, outer doors, inner doors, and, in all likelihood, a safe. Everyone on the team knew how to pick tumbler locks, though Jack Junior and Midas had that little extra touch that made it appear easy.
Two of the duffels on the seat in front of Ding contained small backpacks with assorted breaching devices — crowbars, Halligan fire tools, hammers, and bolt cutters. Advancements in technology had rendered conventional locks the exception, so most of their kit leaned heavily toward devices used to defeat electronic security measures. Multitools, rolls of insulated wire to bypass circuits, gaffer’s tape, a lineman’s test set, and extra headlamps all saw frequent use. Gavin Biery had put together a kit with Midas — arguably the most tech-literate of the team. The hard Pelican case contained assorted computer dongles, cables, cameras, slap-mics, and a couple of Arduino microcontrollers for attacks on hotel room locks. In a case all their own were a half-dozen Raspberry Pis. These simple, single-board computers cost a whopping twenty-five bucks apiece and could be used as the basis for any number of technical applications Gavin Biery could dream up and walk them through over the phone.
When Chavez thought about it, having Gavin on the phone was like bringing two hundred and fifty pounds of tech gear and encyclopedic knowledge along on the job.
Commo was key to any mission, and often the first thing to fail. Each team member was responsible for their own earbuds, extra batteries, near-field neck-loop mic, radio, and charger. The batteries that powered each radio were small, flat packs that fit in the liners of their belts, removable for the times they had to go through airport security. There were two spare sets of everything on the Gulfstream. Ding stuffed these in his bag. A good leader kept a load of spares in his case — just in case.
He ticked off the rest of the gear from the list he kept in a battered Moleskine notebook, checked his G-shock (sadly, no Rolex for him…), and gave a thumbs-up to Clark.
Satisfied that they were ready, Chavez leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and thought of his kid eating that giant turkey leg all those years ago…