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Wordy had mixed feelings about the summer. He loved that his girls were off from school and he got to spend every moment he wasn’t at work playing outside with them. They went on hikes together, took long evening walks to get ice cream, went swimming in pools and lakes, stayed up late making s'mores and camping out in the backyard, and so many more big and small moments of joy. But the summer at work meant new challenges. The heat made people more irritable and on edge. There was a clear correlation: the higher the temperature rose, the faster people’s tempers did, too. Wordy hated being hot, and having at least 30 pounds of gear on most days, he was always hot. He hated feeling the sweat pool between his shoulder blades and the cleft of his lower back. He hated how, despite applying copious sunscreen, there was always a spot left exposed to the sun's harsh rays. Most recently, the tops and backs of his ears burned after he provided cover for Greg during a three-hour negotiation. At the time, he was glad the sun was at least on his back and not in his eyes. He didn’t realize how red and raw his ears were until he went to take off his earpiece.
When Ed announced that the team would be training in the shoot house today, Wordy inwardly groaned. The team enjoyed the shoot house; it was usually a treat to try and out-tactic each other as paintballs flew and friendly competition ensued. But it was the hottest day of the year so far, and it was almost noon. The heat was oppressive as they walked out of the blissfully air-conditioned headquarters and across the large field, no shade in sight, towards the concrete building. The shoot house wasn’t built with weather or comfort in mind; it was built to be sturdy, easy to clean, and provide tactical challenges. So, as they stepped into the building, the heat felt even more trapped and stagnant. Even the short walk made Wordy sweat profusely as he wiped his forehead with his uniform sleeve.
“Okay,” Ed started to speak as the conversation among the team quieted. “I know it feels like the bowels of hell outside today, but just like we train for muscle memory to get our bodies used to acting without hesitation, we need to train for the days where the heat makes everything harder.” He looked around at the group to make sure they were understanding. Other than Sam, who had spent much of his life in a desert, they all seemed pretty miserable already. Three members of Team Four walked in as Ed continued, “So, we’re going to clear the shoot house in teams of two, rappel from the roof, run the quarter-mile loop on the track, and end at the outdoor shooting range. Ten bullets, ten targets. We’re aiming for under 10 minutes.” There were groans from the team as they did the quick math: as a team of two with three subjects, they could probably clear the shoot house in close to five minutes; the rappel would be fast, less than a minute, but getting the harnesses on and off would add another precious minute; a quarter mile run in full gear could be done in two minutes at a quick pace, leaving them maybe a minute and a half for the shooting range. It was possible, but it wouldn’t be pleasant. Ed nodded towards the volunteer subjects from Team Four.
“You guys go get yourselves ready. You’ll have two minutes between each group to reset. Me and Jules first, Sam and Spike next, Wordy and the boss last.” Ed smiled as Team One left the shoot house to wait for their start signal. Wordy wasn’t sure if the stagnant heat of the concrete structure was preferable to the blinding sun beating down on them outside. As Ed and Jules began their trial, Wordy leaned against a wall of the shoot house, trying to make himself as small as possible to be in the foot-wide sliver of shaded shadow the building provided. As grateful as he was for his Kevlar vest, which had saved his life several times, he wished that it weren’t so heavy. Usually, the weight and tightness across his chest and torso were something of a comfort: both a mental sense of protection and a physical sensation of a weighted pressure keeping him grounded. Today, though, the weight of the vest pressing against his uniform shirt, on top of his undershirt, was just another layer being soaked through with sweat.
Greg approached Wordy and similarly tried to duck into the thin shadow to hide from the sun. Neither were very successful. They heard the friction of carabiner clips on rope and, a moment later, heard Ed and Jules’ feet hit solid ground as they unhooked their harnesses and ran towards the “track” that circled the perimeter of the training grounds. Track was a generous characterization of the rough dirt path; there used to be grass, but it was trodden too many times by SRU officers looking for a quiet jog or Team Leaders looking for novel ways to remind their team members of the consequences of being late to shift or, worse, coming in hungover.
Greg glanced at his watch, then removed his black hat and wiped sweat from his brow and scalp. He grimaced as he replaced his hat, also drenched in sweat, back on his head.
“Sam, Spike, 45 seconds!” He shouted toward the two young men, who were strategizing how they would approach and sweep the building. They quickly finished their planning and Spike ran around to the other side of the building before Greg shouted out, “Go!” They watched Sam disappear through a window barely a breath later before returning to their small square of shade. Wordy knelt in front of the bag he’d packed his gear into and found two water bottles he’d thrown in. They were cold barely 20 minutes ago, but now the bottles were sweating almost as much as the men. The waters were no longer cold, but they hadn’t equalized to the ambient temperature yet, and it was better than nothing, Wordy thought. He offered one of the bottles to Greg, no words exchanged, just a raised eyebrow and a questioning expression. Greg shook his head, and Wordy stood, downing one of the bottles with big gulps in a few seconds. He put the empty plastic bottle back into his bag, not feeling as refreshed as he had hoped but at least grateful that he was staying hydrated.
“Give me snow any day over this,” Wordy gestured vaguely towards the field in front of them as they saw Jules and Ed finish their run and approach the shooting range. “At least when it’s cold out, you can wear layers and feel a little warm. There’s no escape from the heat.” They heard twin gunshots go off from the shooting range, either Ed or Jules a second behind the other as targets pinged. Stepping out of the shadow they had claimed, they saw Spike and Sam quickly working their way down the side of the building. “So, how do you want to do this, boss?” Wordy asked as Spike, then Sam landed.
“Make a reverse entry back into HQ and hole up in the briefing room? You think Ed would notice?” Wordy couldn’t help but laugh.
“Too risky, we’d have to walk right past him.” Wordy nodded his head in the direction of Ed and Jules as they put the guns and ear protection back onto a table for Sam and Spike. Greg sighed and rolled his eyes before focusing. “How do you want to approach this one?” Wordy usually liked thinking tactically but his brain felt slow and lazy from the heat. He forced himself to take a breath.
“We split up to cover more ground quickly, but stay on the same floor so we have some backup if they try and gang up on us. I’ll go around to the other entrance, you enter from here, we meet in the hallway and I take the rooms on the east, you take the west.” Wordy spoke with assured confidence. The downside of the shoot house and how often they trained in it was that there were only so many ways they could configure the layout. If a team were serving a warrant at a tactically tricky location, they could, to an extent, mimic the floor plan, but at its core, the shoot house would be a square, the stairwells would remain tactical choke points, and the roof hatch would remain where it always had been. Greg nodded as he checked his watch.
“Thirty seconds!” he called out, mainly to the benefit of the men inside, resetting themselves. With a final nod, Wordy jogged around to the other side of the shoot house and positioned himself against the wall next to the metal door. He took a few steadying breaths before he heard Greg’s voice echo, signaling that it was time.
Wordy quickly opened the door, sweeping his paintball gun side to side to make sure no one was hiding along the wall, hoping to sneak up behind him. The narrow hallway he started in had a room on the right before it opened into the central hub of the shoot house near the stairwell. Balancing stealth and speed, he approached the room and checked what he could see and hear before entering. The angle didn’t give him much sight, but the room seemed quiet; no shuffling, whispering, or breathing he could detect. Granted, the subjects were SRU officers, and just like Wordy stealthed along the corridor, they could also be quiet when they needed to. Wordy moved partway into the room and scanned it before entering, then checked behind some crates and trash cans meant to provide cover and obstacles when needed. Satisfied that the room was empty, he continued his trek to the central area. Greg was approaching from the other direction so Wordy quickly signaled silently with his hand for Greg to sweep right, and he would sweep left. He counted down from three on his fingers before they both emerged from their cover and checked the walls and corners of the room. They avoided getting in front of the stairwell in case one of their subjects was trying to shoot down it, but Wordy checked under the stairs before motioning to Greg that they should continue down the remaining hallway and clear the other rooms on the ground floor. They were in sync as they moved down the hall, each clearing rooms as they went. As they turned to head back to the central area and upstairs, Wordy estimated that about a minute and a half had passed since they entered.
Stairwells were always a tactical challenge; a choke point known as a fatal funnel. There wasn’t any cover for them to hide behind, the passage was narrow, forcing one person at a time to climb, and, most challenging, their opponents knew that they would be coming here. The stairwells and the immediate landings around them were where Greg and Wordy would be most vulnerable. Ed had assured that Team One trained very regularly at choke points such as doorways and staircases; Wordy wouldn’t be surprised if he’d spent well over 100 hours in some cramped stairwell with Ed drilling them again and again to keep their movements tight and coordinated, to cover all the angles, and move with swift confidence. They were grateful for all of those hours and training as Wordy and Greg looked at each other, Wordy again issuing hand signals, before they moved up the stairs with him in the lead. Almost as if it were second nature, Wordy checked his angles as he climbed the stairs, sweeping his paintball gun to the right and then behind him as he saw his first target.
Waiting to shoot them from behind as they crested the stairs, one of the men from Team Four already had his gun raised as Wordy’s head popped into view. Quickly, Wordy ducked back down as a paintball landed on the floor a few inches to his right. He signaled to Greg that there was one subject as he moved next to Wordy. It was a tight fit and would limit their mobility but they had a better chance of getting a shot off if they moved together and split the subject’s focus. Wordy counted down again and then raised his head for the quickest of seconds, ducking out of the way as a shot went off in his direction. In that moment that the subject focused his attention and squeezed off a shot, Greg popped out and shot twice with no hesitation, both pink paintballs hitting the subject on the left side of his chest, just over his heart. The Team Four officer, who they could now see was their rookie, Matt Rose, groaned and shook his head, disappointed that even with his superior position, he still got hit, but Wordy and Greg continued their sweep of the shoot house.
The rest of the second floor was clear, and they repeated the same process they had used the first time they climbed the stairs, but this time, no one was waiting for them. Wordy had to use his sleeve again to wipe the sweat from his brow, worried that it would drip into his eyes. As they cleared each room and found no one they realized that the two remaining officers had likely partnered in the final room where the ladder to the roof hatch was. It was a long, narrow room that, at one point, was set up as a mock office floor. There were old desks and tables, folding and rolling chairs, and trash cans scattered throughout the room, with lots of places to hide. Wordy spent a few seconds getting his tactical mirror out and peering into the room while he and Greg were sheltered by the hallway wall. He was unsurprised that he couldn’t find the two officers; they also knew the angles and where they would be the most hidden. Wordy and Greg quickly made a plan and Wordy swung right while Greg swung left, both crouching against desks for cover as they inched their way into the room. Wordy’s eyes scanned the room constantly, looking for a foot under a desk or the edge of an arm behind a bookcase. He listened for movement and was rewarded when he heard the slightest scuff of a boot against the concrete floor ahead of him. He looked under the desk he was crouched beside and saw a foot quickly pull back behind a tall file cabinet. He waited for a moment, trying to lull the subject into thinking he wasn’t heard, and just as he was about to round the corner and take him out, he heard three quick shots from the other end of the room. His instinct was to turn around to see if Greg was hit, but that was also the instinct of the other officer as he popped his head ever so slightly from behind the cabinet. That moment of distraction was all Wordy needed as he stood, turned, and fired off two shots. Both hit their mark on the man’s upper chest as he threw his head back and rolled his eyes, being shot for the third time that day.
“Boss?” Wordy asked, needing no further words as Greg responded.
“No harm.” They didn’t have time to gloat as they met at the ladder leading to the roof hatch. Greg beat him by an instant and mounted the ladder, swinging the hatch open. Wordy was seconds behind him but was momentarily blinded by the bright sun after the dim setting of the shoot house. He kept walking towards the rappelling gear, even as he tried fruitlessly to shield his eyes. Both men donned their harnesses and clipped into their rappel and safety lines.
“Ready, boss?” Wordy asked as they approached the edge of the rooftop. Greg was doing a good job hiding it, but his fear of heights was well known among the team. It never stopped him from climbing up a bridge or standing at the top of a building with potential suicide calls, but he didn’t enjoy the process. Wordy watched Greg take a breath before giving a single nod. At Greg’s signal, Wordy sprang back, letting himself glide over the edge of the rooftop as he bent his knees to brace them against the building. The instant feeling of weightlessness and falling never dissipated, no matter how many times they climbed over the edge of a building, but they trained so they could push past the panic that most people felt at the sensation. Where most people would be overtaken by fear and an instinctive need to grab hold and stop their fall, they were trained to embrace the feeling smoothly and let their momentum carry them swiftly to the ground. It felt like no time had passed before Wordy’s feet touched the ground and he started removing his harness. Greg was a few seconds behind him and, though there was the slightest shaking in his hands, he was able to undo the lines and unclip himself before they both took off towards the track.
Running wasn’t Wordy’s favorite form of exercise, but he didn’t mind a casual jog around the block or getting his heart rate up on the treadmill. Running was Greg’s least favorite form of exercise, though. Greg could run. He passed the physical requalification every year, and on the rare occasions the team needed him in the field doing something other than negotiating, he was just as fit and skilled as any of them. But it didn’t mean he had to like it. Wordy did the mental math as he glanced at his watch and set the pace for them so they’d be able to eke out just under two minutes at the shooting range. He felt sweat drip down his back and tried to pull his vest away from his body slightly to let some air circulate through the soaked layers beneath it, but the vest did its job well and didn’t shift much, staying tight against his body. Greg lagged a handful of steps behind him as they rounded the last turn.
“Come on, Sarge…20 more seconds…push,” Wordy called out to the man behind him as he increased his pace slightly, hoping it would encourage Greg to do the same. Greg didn’t respond verbally, but he kicked up the speed until he was only a step behind Wordy. They were both breathing hard, harder than they would have if they weren’t being boiled by the sun, as they finished the loop and kept up their run to the shooting range. The entire team had finished now and stood to the side of the range chatting as Greg and Wordy approached.
“About time,” Ed called out while looking at his watch, but nothing else was said as they put on the heavy ear protectors and safety goggles. Each picked up the waiting handgun and stabilized it with both hands as they lined up their shots. Wordy took a breath to steady his hands before firing off seven quick shots, all of them hitting center mass in a tight grouping. When he went to shoot the eighth, though, his gun didn’t fire. He heard Greg finish his ten shots as Wordy looked to Ed.
“It’s jammed,” Wordy explained with a shrug. Ed’s stern expression didn’t change as he kept his eyes on his watch.
“Then unjam it, you’ve got 65 seconds.” Wordy wanted to roll his eyes, but he knew Ed was serious, and he couldn’t waste any time as he began taking the gun apart to find the problem. In a fluid movement, he unloaded the gun and slid the slide back to check for any jammed rounds, but found none. That would have been the easiest, quickest problem to fix, but he kept disassembling and investigating his gun. Wordy was grateful to see Greg disassembling the gun he’d just been using because, as he went to remove the barrel, he found the problem: a broken spring. He took a step to where Greg had laid out his handgun and quickly pried the functioning spring free before swapping it with his broken one. He risked a glance towards Ed as he put the gun back together, a process that was almost second nature at this point. “Twenty seconds,” Ed updated as Wordy refocused. The slide clicked back into place as he took his previously discarded magazine, loaded the gun, and, in one fluid motion, aimed and fired his last three shots, tearing the paper target where they hit on top of his previous ones. He put the safety on the gun, unloaded it, and put it on the table before turning to Ed and removing his earmuffs. Ed’s expression remained stern, but there was a hint of a smile.
“Only four seconds to spare, Constable Wordsworth. You’re a lucky man.” Ed couldn’t contain the smile now as Wordy dramatically rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, so lucky to be out here on the surface of the sun with a jammed gun and a TL who doesn’t stop the clock.” They were both smirking and holding each other’s eyes. They were joking, like they often did, but there was a subtle edge to his words. The team knew that if Wordy hadn’t made the shots on time or accurately enough, Ed wouldn’t have hesitated to make him run the drill again (likely with an even more intense pace), even with the weapon malfunction. Greg stepped in before things could escalate.
“Play nice, boys.” He lightly chided. “I think everyone can use some water and a shower, if we’re done having fun in the sun today.” He looked towards Ed as his Team Leader broke eye contact with Wordy.
“Hydrate, shower, hydrate some more, and then I think we’re due for a little negotiation practice.” There was a collective sigh of relief that, barring any calls, they would be able to stay in air-conditioned HQ, mostly sitting, for the rest of the shift. “Briefing room in 20!” Ed called out to the team as they started to walk away. Wordy hung back as Ed collected the guns and spent magazines. Greg hovered for a moment, trying to see if the heat was making either of his friends too on edge, but with a subtle nod from Ed, he relented and began his walk back to HQ. Wordy gathered the broken spring and the still partially disassembled gun while Ed threw the rest of their supplies into a bag.
“Hey, you did good.” Ed offered with a genuine smile. “Don’t get me wrong, five more seconds and I would have made you rerun the drill, but you’re great at adapting and rolling with the punches. It’s good for the team to see that the standards don’t change when something goes wrong.” Wordy sighed, but his expression softened as he saw Ed’s point and heard the compliment.
“I hear you, Eddie.” They each slung a bag over their shoulder as they left the shade of the shooting range and began their walk back to the building.
“To make up for it, how about you be the practice subject for Sam to negotiate? I’m thinking drug deal gone bad, nothing left to lose, me as a junkie hostage looking for his fix?” Wordy smiled and laughed. Sam had grown significantly as a negotiator, but they’d never let him live down the practice they’d led him through in his second week when he lost his temper and called Lou a jackass for demanding cocaine.
“Turn the tables? Just as he thinks he’s talked me down, you take the gun and he has to start all over again with the hostage as the subject now?” Ed smiled widely as he patted Wordy on the back.
“It’s like you’re reading my mind.” They laughed as, finally, they made it to the building's doors. They expected a refreshing blast of cool air, but looked at each other when they felt nothing. Spike walked into the briefing room with a large box fan under each arm. His hair was still damp from his shower and his uniform shirt was unbuttoned.
“The damned air conditioning is out again!” Wordy groaned and Ed laughed as Spike plugged in his pilfered fans. It was going to be a long afternoon.