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we’re good there. As far as the attack on the vice president and first lady, I’m not sure yet. Figured something will probably break in the Secret Service’s case. The president promised to keep us in the loop.”
    “You have a team on standby?”
    “We were heading over to see Gaucho after talking to you.”
    Gaucho was one of SSI’s most battle-hardened team leaders. A short Mexican and former Delta operator, Gaucho won the award for most eccentric man at SSI. He wore his long beard tightly braided in twin strands. Anyone who underestimated the squat soldier soon found out that the Hispanic hard-ass was smart and ruthless.
    “Why don’t I come with you? I haven’t seen my little Mexican in a couple days,” said Trent. Gaucho and Trent were two of the biggest pranksters at SSI. More often than not, their pranks targeted or involved the other.
    Cal checked with the company switchboard and found out that Gaucho and his team had the urban assault house booked for the day. Trent dismissed his sweat soaked pupils and the three Marines hopped in Trent’s jacked up Ford 350. It was a short drive on well-worn dirt trails. Trent pumped the latest country chart topper as they drove.
    Ten minutes later, the rhythmic staccato of machine gun fire welcomed them as they approached the isolated training facility on the fringe of the compound. There was a red flag hanging flaccidly from a metal pole outside the building to indicate that the area was ‘hot.’ Trent turned down the radio and shut off the engine.
    “Nothin’ I like better than the sound of machine gun fire in the morning,” said Trent as he stepped out and stretched his large frame in the crisp morning air.
    As Cal led the way to the two-story structure, a voice came over the loudspeaker.
    “Cease fire, cease fire.”
    The machine gun fire had already stopped, but it was customary for the range officer to make the announcement just as they would have done on any American military base around the world. SSI’s founder, Marine Colonel Calvin Stokes, had insisted as much, and the rules still stood.
    Masked and clad in black, SSI operators streamed out of the first floor entrance. Gaucho was easy to spot as the shortest of the bunch. He waved to Cal and motioned that he’d be over in a minute.
    Two minutes later, Gaucho joined the small group. He’d put on an oversized black field jacket.
    “Whadya say, boss? Stayin’ outta trouble?”
    Cal shrugged and shook Gaucho’s hand, which turned into a brotherly hug. “As much as I can. You got a minute to talk?”
    “Sure. What’s up?”
    Cal gave Gaucho the same report he’d given Trent earlier.
    “So what’s the plan?” Gaucho asked.
    “Neil should have enough to release to the media soon. We’ll see how that goes. As far as the other stuff, I want to make sure you and your boys are ready to jump if I need you.”
    “You know us, boss. Always ready.”

Chapter 7
    FBI Local Office,
Birmingham, Alabama
    12:16pm, December 16 th
    Special Agent Steve Stricklin stepped out of the stuffy interrogation room and cracked his neck. The day was only half over and he was already tired of talking to the tight-lipped agents of the Birmingham office. He knew they were hiding something. It was in the way they looked at him with their smug eyes. It never crossed Stricklin’s mind that maybe they just hated the fact that he was an Internal Affairs officer and a prick to boot.
    Stricklin came from a modest upbringing and an above average high school education in Virginia. After college, he’d joined the Marines to see the world and get one step closer to his goal of running for public office. Along the way, he’d become an infantry officer and, in his mind, served honorably and faithfully. Former Marine First Lieutenant Steve Stricklin didn’t stay in touch with any of the Marines he’d served with. He’d had a lofty vision of what an infantry Marine looked like: tall, muscular, square jawed and ready for war. It