part0007

The rangemaster orchestrating the drill was none other than FBI legend and ex-Delta commando, Kyle Laramie. Kyle was one of the founding members of the FBI's elite HRT, or Hostage Rescue Team, the unparalleled tactical element created by ex-special forces operatives.

The two newest members of the team, Laura “Babz” Babiarz and Medina, were present among the seven members evenly spaced across the shooting line. A hushed intensity washed over the group of veteran agents.

Laramie had their attention. "You have twenty seconds to fire eight rounds, four standing, four kneeling. You must complete one combat reload during this course of fire. On the command of ‘gun,’ you will engage the target in your lane and your lane only. Shooters, on my mark. This is the last course of fire, so make them count."

The years away from his hometown of Evans, Georgia, had done little to diminish his thick southern twang or his habits. A mouthful of sunflower seeds bulged his right cheek, making him look like a chipmunk storing nuts.

The final instructions were followed by silence as each of the seven agents stared out at the CM5 target, a cartoon version of a killer with his gun pointed out from the center of his chest. It was the one most used by the Bureau's state and local counterparts. The rules were simple enough. Keep the bullets inside that area. Of course, simple didn't mean easy.

The cartoon bad guy was sighting down a loaded revolver in his right hand. His left hand was squeezed into a fist positioned in the center of his chest. The top knuckle of the left hand was where Special Agent Laura Babiarz focused. It's where she'd been taking aim since the fifty-round qual course began, and it was peppered with holes from her issued Glock 22 .40 caliber semiautomatic pistol. Her hits were grouped tight, making a golf ball sized hole visible from twice her current distance. She had eight more rounds to prove her nickname, Zero, was a compliment. The operator to her right, a twenty-year veteran of HRT named Teddy Johnson, liked to say that ‘zero’ was the amount of business a woman had on HRT, but Babz was used to being an underdog. Zero to her meant her sight was dialed in for a perfect shot.

Pushing all thoughts of failure from her mind, Babz controlled her breathing and awaited the final command.

"Gun," Laramie barked. A blast of sunflower shells flew from his mouth like buckshot as the range erupted in a volley of gunfire.

Johnson cursed as he fumbled with his draw. Babiarz blocked him out of her peripheral by focusing on her target. She pressed down on her holster's release button with her left thumb. With one swift movement, she shoved the plastic hood forward and drew her weapon from the level two retention holster clipped to the right side of her hip. As soon as the front sight came into her line of sight, she engaged the trigger with the pad of her index finger, squeezing it and feeling the kick of the Glock against the web of her hand.

Holding steady, she released the tension on the trigger, allowing it to reset before firing again. Babiarz had been trained not to slap the trigger. Her finger, once engaged, didn't come back out of the trigger housing until she was either done or in positional transition. She guided it back and forth, forward progression, then squeezing firmly. The slide locked to the rear as the last of her four-shot volley left the barrel. Her magazine was empty.

Keeping her weapon pointed at the hairy-knuckled cartoon aggressor, Babiarz dropped to her right knee. She took a moment to re-balance in the kneeling position. She fired using the same fundamentals to keep her aim true.

Laramie's wisdom looped inside her head.

Babiarz continued to sight down her weapon at the target, canting her wrist inward, her palm toward her face. With her left thumb, Babiarz pressed the mag release. The hard plastic magazine clanged to the ground near her knee. Keeping her eyes on the target and the front sight post in line with the top knuckle, Babiarz grabbed her spare—and final—magazine from her mag carrier.

Without moving her weapon hand or looking at the gun itself, Babiarz maintained her focus on the target while sweeping upward with her offhand containing the replacement magazine. She seated it firmly, feeling it lock into place with a click. Her thumb engaged the slide release. The Glock slide rocked forward, putting it back in battery by chambering a new round. The entire combat reload only took her a matter of seconds.

She squeezed off four more shots, completing her kneeling four-shot component and ending the course of fire. Babiarz scanned the target area, moving her head from left to right before returning to a standing position. This threat scan had been instilled in her by her father and further ingrained by her first range master at Quantico. It was a tactic she still used today.

Harold "Hal" Babiarz handpicked Laramie when HRT was in its inception. The two served in the military together and reconnected when the FBI created a tactical element capable of handling domestic critical incidents with military precision.

Babz had been trying to walk in her father's footsteps ever since he'd pinned the badge to her chest six years ago. The meteoric rise she'd envisioned for herself had been elusive, though. Instead of landing a big field office gig in Boston, New York, or L.A., she had wound up in Denver's satellite office in Lander, Wyoming, covering much of the least populated state in the continental United States. She put in for a transfer to the big time three times, and all three times she'd been denied. Her father had offered to grease the wheels for her. Put in a good word. She'd thought of taking him up on it, but she hadn't yet given into the temptation. The easy road was better left untraveled. Everything she’d achieved, she had earned. It was a source of pride for her, and she had every intention of keeping it that way.

Gunshots from her neighboring agents continued for another several seconds while they finished up their eight-round volley. The last to finish was Johnson, who completed a moment before Laramie called, "Cease fire." Johnson finished the qual the same way he started, with a muttered curse of frustration under his breath. Babz eyed his target and counted seven misses on the outside edges of his paper, five of which had come in the last stage.

The twenty-five-yard distance was challenging for a handgun and was typically the longest shot made during a qualification run. Under stress, the difficulty ratcheted up a hundredfold. Today's qual course proved to be just that for Johnson. Not for Babz, though. Today was just another day on her favorite proving ground.

"Shooters, holster your weapons and make sure your lane is clear," Laramie ordered. "Range is no longer hot. I repeat, the range is no longer hot. Shooters, walk your lane, police up your brass and magazines. After that, head to your targets and stand by."

All agents did as instructed.

Once close to the targets, Babiarz analyzed hers carefully. She was always most critical of herself. All fifty rounds were packed into the same hole, no bigger than a silver dollar, but there was always room for improvement. She realized they could’ve been tighter. She bit the inside of her lip, a painful quirk and immediate punishment to the disappointment she felt. Perfect practice makes perfect; a quote her father stole from Vince Lombardi, floated into her mind. He’d used it on a near constant basis while she was growing up. Now it was part of her own inner monologue.

“Nice grouping, Agent Babiarz,” Laramie offered, as he walked by.

In the group setting, Laramie always referred to her in the formal, using her title and last name to address her. She had gotten used to it over the last year since he'd arrived. But if she had her druthers, she preferred the nickname her father had given her. The one she used when introducing herself. Babz.

Laramie made his way over to Johnson's lane. The seasoned rangemaster marked each missed round with a flick of his marker, annotating the two holes outside of the acceptable target area. "If you missed one more, you'd be reshooting the qual."

"A pass is a pass," Johnson grunted.

"Maybe it'd serve you well if you'd come out here more often or else hang it up. HRT shooters maintain."

Laramie shot a glance over at Babz. She pretended not to be eavesdropping. But she caught enough of Laramie’s expression to know he was hot. Agents assigned to HRT had a near limitless supply of ammunition and access to ranges to use it. There was no excuse for Johnson’s sloppy shots.

"Not in the unit I founded. Rank was earned. The standard never wavers. Want to run it again?" Laramie offered to Johnson.

"Nah, I'm good. Got a hot date." Johnson dusted off his knees and gave Laramie a look. The two had butted heads since Laramie took over the range responsibilities over after Ben Hughes retired. Hughes had let some things slide and allowed range time to become more of a social setting than a training ground.

Laramie took the position at the request of the team commander, Cal Roe. His marching orders were simple. Get HRT back to the gold standard envisioned by its founders. Johnson was not a fan of the change and showed it.

"Your prerogative. I'll document the scores and forward them on. You're free to go." Laramie then turned to the group. "Anybody want to stick around and do some target work? We've got plenty of daylight and rounds to burn."

Babz nodded, but the other operators clustered together and joined Johnson with their grumbled excuses. The idle chatter stopped the moment Roe exited the double-wide range trailer the team used for classes and range admin details. He walked directly over to Laramie. Their exchange occurred outside of earshot and was further obstructed by the collective grumbling. When Roe showed up, it always meant more work, putting everyone in a foul mood. Everyone but Babz. Even from a distance she could read Roe’s lips and took a deep breath to prepare her mind for what was coming.

Babz walked over to a canopied row of metal tables and benches. She was already reloading her mags when she heard Johnson snark, "Looks like our rookie hotshot's taking some extra time on the range."

"Maybe that's why she puts all fifty in the hole," Laramie fired back. Satisfied he’d silenced the gruff operator, Laramie called his team to attention. "Commander Roe has something he'd like to share personally."

Laramie stepped aside, giving Roe the floor. Roe stood at a modified parade rest as he waited for silence. When he had it, he got right to the point. "Parker, your request to transfer over to Bravo Team has been approved. Effective immediately, you'll be under Darren Roberts. That means we have an opening for one of our new operators to move up from perimeter to entry team."

Babz looked over at Kevin Medina. His mouth curled into a smile. He gave Babz a playful wink, to which she cracked her knuckles. The two had joined up at the same time and had been facing off from the beginning. If Medina wasn’t always pitted against her, Babz could see them being friends. But then she reminded herself he wasn’t really her competition. Her only real competition was herself.

Roe’s sharp gaze landed on Babz. "Everything in HRT is earned. Time for you to earn your first promotion." He nodded at Laramie, who took over.

"Medina, Babiarz, get a full duty loadout with two spare mags and get back on the line. I hope you're ready, 'cause we're about to do some shooting."

Babz spent a few minutes loading up her mags. Her thumb ached at the effort. The last few rounds were tough to get in place with the resistance offered by the tightly coiled springs. A little extra umph forced each mag to its fifteen-round capacity. She then shoved a mag inside the empty gun and brought the slide forward, chambering a round. She ejected the magazine from the Glock and topped it off again before seating it back into the weapon. Fifteen in the mag and one in the pipe. A full duty load.