Free The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) by Edward Crichton Page A

racks and figured the last was
busy in the large multiplex outside. McDougal or Vincent could be
anywhere. I also noticed another dozen or so empty racks, and
immediately wondered if we shared a facility with the first
Praetorian team, and also wondered if we’d ever cross paths. It
seemed like I’d find out sooner or later, so I pushed it from my
mind and left the barracks. It wasn’t long before I wandered my way
into the large training facility and started my way towards the
food.
    A few steps in, I heard the crack, crack,
crack sound of the same high powered rifle I had heard before.
A quick glance towards the shooting range revealed my lovely swim
buddy carefully firing down range once again. Five full magazines
stood in a neat row on the table next to her, awaiting their chance
to fire.
    Girl was on a mission, or something.
    I decided it was probably a good idea to ignore her
for the time being, as I understood the Zen-like peace snipers
experienced when shooting. I knew I hated it when someone disturbed
me while I was shooting, and considering her obvious temper, I made
sure to give her a wide berth as I passed by.
    Instead, I followed my nose.
    Not that there was an actual aroma wafting from the
cafeteria so early in the morning of course. In most modern
training facilities, at least the ones that housed the kind of
Special Forces units that required around the clock feeding due to
their erratic schedules, traditional cooks and cooking facilities
were no longer up to snuff. Instead, new technology was developed
that took orders, processed them, and finally, cooked the meals
before delivering them to a serving tray. They were quite
expensive, but the casual food consumer could hardly tell the
difference from a flesh and blood cook and an automatic food
processor.
    I stepped up to the machine and punched up an order
of bacon, scrambled eggs, wheat toast, a bowl of cereal that looked
like fruit loops, and hot tea, and waited while the machine worked
its magic. A few minutes later, it dispensed a sectionalized tray
that held extremely generous portions of my selection. Armies were
run on their stomachs after all, as Napoleon’s disaster in Russia
had proved, so the machines were designed to serve more than double
of a normal serving, a detail I definitely approved of.
    Even so, I called up an extra order of bacon.
    Sitting with my back to the ever diligent Lieutenant
Van Strauss, I put spoon to mouth and dove into my breakfast. I ate
slowly, listening to the meticulous sounds of rifle discharges
behind me. I’d barely made it through my first serving of bacon
when the shooting abruptly stopped. Out of the corner of my eye, I
noticed her gather her rifle and spent magazines and carry them to
the armory, emerging minutes later empty handed, undoing her tight
pony tail.
    I watched as she continued to ignore me, making her
way to the automatic food dispenser. A few minutes later, tray in
hand, she turned and walked straight towards my table, seating
herself directly opposite me.
    I put down my spoon, loaded with circular, fruity
goodness, folded my hands on the table, and waited. Unsurprisingly,
I found myself staring into those lovely green eyes, but managing
to keep my cool this time.
    “You know,” I said, breaking the silence. “We’ve got
to stop meeting like this. I’m beginning to think you actually like
me, what with the way you keep staring and all.”
    After what seemed like an eternity, she finally
broke her gaze, shook her head, and spoke.
    “To begin with,” she began apologetically enough, “I
would like to apologize for hitting you yesterday. I let my anger
get the best of me. I’m sorry.”
    Her voice was just as lovely as her face, with a
crisp German accent behind it that made me think of my childhood
crush on Heidi Klum rather than say, Hitler. I was less than happy,
however, with the reminder of her punch. I touched my eye socket
and grimaced as the pressure caused a fair amount of