“Well,” Cowboy said with a drawl, “did you at least pass the exam?”
With it all behind him, Danny could finally laugh about the insane scenario that had been his check-ride. “Yeah. They didn’t have criteria for not getting the examiner shot.” The thought of getting back in the helo after the emergency landing unsettled him. His mind was already made up—he’d never fly again. He could’ve killed his passenger... and himself. They’d been damn lucky.
“Hell,” Cowboy said, “I’ve jumped out of many birds as a PJ, and I must say that none had been because of an aircraft emergency. I’m damned thankful for that.”
The HIS teams consisted of men and women with both military and law enforcement backgrounds. As the only former DEA agent, Danny brought network contacts to the table.
Granted, like every agent joining HIS—even the special operators—he completed the training put together by some of the special forces’ warriors. Nothing compared to those weeks. They still ranked up there as the worst of his life. HIS called it GIN training. Their humor sucked, because it didn’t involve alcohol. The agency’s ‘Got It or Not’ program brought everyone up to snuff, especially law enforcement agents like him who’d never fast-roped from a helo, learned serious survival skills to include eating bugs—not the worst thing in the training—to keep the team elite.
Much to the special operators’ desire, HIS had evolved to accept more covert missions. Their previous relationships—especially with the FBI—had grown to an increased number of government jobs.
The report of a single rifle shot echoed through the air. Pulling his binoculars to his face, Danny grinned. He held out his hand to his fellow teammate and closest friend, Mike Vaughn, who went by the callsign Cowboy. “Looks like you owe me twenty bucks.”
Instead of reaching into his BDU pants pocket for his wallet, Cowboy—always up for a challenge—countered, “Double or nothing he misses the kill shot on a moving target at a half-mile.”
With a shake of his head and chuckle, Danny dropped his binoculars and knew he’d win once again. “Okay. Double or nothing that Jason hits the target.” Jason had been sneaking into training when his dad was deployed on an op. The team gladly worked with him and kept it quiet as the teenager wanted to surprise Jesse. How he’d slipped the absences and training past Kate—Jason’s adoptive mother, who was also a HIS agent—Danny had no idea. At some point, the Old Man—Jesse’s callsign from the teams—found out about their secret, and the team survived his heated lecture reminding them their job was to protect the children, not put them through HIS training. After he’d cooled off and observed his son on the field, Jesse allowed Jason to join some of the basic training scenarios. Some. Jason had to go to college, not become an agent immediately.
They’d found a future sharpshooter in Jason. He had a knack for the patience of the job. Pity he wasn’t an agent because the teams needed more snipers.
Danny’s grin stretched wide across his face as Cowboy immediately picked up on the change to the bet. “No, Ball Park. The bet is… misses the kill shot at half a mile on a moving target.” He emphasized each word Danny had dropped.
The smile on Danny’s face faded and he grumbled at the callsign Cowboy insisted on using for him. The remainder of HIS called him “Franks.” He’d been a DEA agent after all. Not some special forces hero who earned a callsign. Such as Mike had been dubbed Cowboy by his fellow PJs while on active duty. At least Cowboy called him Franks on an op. Whether for brevity or continuity, Danny didn’t care. The Ball Park Frank thing needed to be blasted from Cowboy’s thoughts.
Instead of refuting Cowboy’s callsign for him, Danny nodded in agreement for the bet. “I’ll go with it because there are many times we want the tango alive.”
Chuckling, Cowboy turned back to where the target was being changed to a dummy that’d move for the simulation. Pulling the binoculars up to his face, he scoffed. “I bet you’d prefer that. Then you can get your claws into the asshole.”
With his background, Danny seamlessly eased into the role of interrogator for the team. While the skills he’d learned in the DEA were tough, the interrogation techniques taught to him by the former Army Rangers and Navy SEALs on the teams had thrown him for a loop. He hoped he’d never have to use them, but that wishful thinking was wasted. With the deeper roles HIS undertook, the tougher the adversaries. Also, the greater the risk to their lives. Someone had to do it, and if the government needed them to be the ones because their hands were tied, HIS would rise to the challenge without hesitation.
When the teams split into separate branches within the organization—investigation and security—he’d expected to be moved to the investigation team due to his background. Surprising everyone, the Hamilton brothers took over the investigative branch, leaving the security to the agents under the direction of two team leaders—Ken Patrick and Rob Grimes. In Danny’s mind, it had something to do with the brothers marrying and having children. With the exception of Boss, Danny’s team leader, and Joe Stone, the agents were unmarried. That made him wonder if it had been a secret qualification to join the organization.
Sliding a sideways glance to Cowboy, Danny figured the other agent would be the last to marry. Cowboy had grumbled about not wanting to settle down. He also remained vocal about not wanting kids. One day, Danny figured a woman would nail him down. And, to make Danny smile again, she’d have kids of her own.
Danny, on the other hand, desired a home that included a loving wife and children. Maybe four of them. Children, not wives.
“I wouldn’t complain about it,” Danny responded
