Chapter Twenty-Two – Time For Us To Grow
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Time for Us to Grow
F rom the outside, it looks like an old federal facility, low and solid, all poured concrete and steel, built into the land like it’s trying not to be found.
The main structure is a long, rectangular building. A high fence circles the perimeter, lined with security cameras. There’s a gravel courtyard out front, and a garage bay sealed with a roll-up door.
There’s no sign, no flag, no unit badge or nameplate. If you didn’t know what it is, you’d think it’s just an abandoned government bunker rotting in the woods.
The SUV stops, and we park behind it. One of the aegis steps out again and gestures toward the front doors. “Inside. Orientation starts now.”
We follow him. The first thing that hits me is how quiet it is. Very different from a PD, with the hum of conversations and taps of computers. The lighting’s low, all overhead LEDs recessed into the ceiling. The walls are the same poured concrete as outside, sealed with a matte-gray finish.
It smells like steel, dust, and something chemical I can’t place, maybe oil from the reinforced doors we just passed through. Cold air hums through overhead vents, and our boots echo across polished concrete.
The entry hall opens onto a hallway that runs along the spine of the building.
To the left, wide glass windows reveal a gym.
Not the kind with treadmills and mirrors; the kind with weighted sleds, incline rigs, climbing towers and harness setups.
To the right, there’s a sealed door with a digital lock. A sign above reads: SENSORY TRAINING.
We keep moving. There’s no furniture. Just steel benches welded to the walls and sealed crates stacked waist-high, probably filled with equipment.
We pass a few aegis, silent and focused as they move between rooms. Not one of them stops to look at us. No curiosity. No welcome. Just the sense that this place runs on its own current, and we’re about to get dropped into the middle of it.
Ahead, the corridor splits. The aegis leading us gestures left.
The room’s door is open. It looks like a place that handles everything, like someone compressed a whole administrative wing into one space.
A long table dominates the center. Three desks line the far wall, each wired into comm terminals, and a wall display cycles through schedules and MAB briefs.
Three aegis are already inside, and they stand when we enter. They’re light- skinned, with short black hair and dark brows. Their faces are sharp and symmetrical, with long noses and strong jaws. They are so alike that, for a second, I think I’m seeing triple.
The one in the middle steps forward.
“Larsen pack,” he says. “Welcome to Southern Connecticut Special Ops.” His voice is calm. Not warm, but not cold.
“I’m Josh Solomon,” he says. “These are my brothers, David,” he gestures to the one on his right, who acknowledges us with a quick tilt of his chin, “and Samuel,” he adds, indicating the aegis by the desk quietly watching us with his arms folded.
We shift our weight instinctively. We’re used to being the biggest ones in the room. Tallest and broadest. It’s part of how we move through the world. But here, every aegis we’ve seen so far is Tier-One, and they all tower over us.
For the first time in my life, I feel small.
Josh continues. “Special Ops garrisons run lean. Here in Southern Connecticut, we’ve got five packs total, including yours. That means no brass, no admin staff, just the chain and the work.”
He gestures around the room. “This is the command room. We’re the Leader pack. That means we manage what a precinct would usually split between a captain, a watch commander, and a logistics supervisor. Scheduling, tasking, gear distribution, agency coordination, it all runs through us.”
David steps in, voice more clipped. “If you’ve got a problem, you don’t take it up the ladder; you bring it here. The chain of command starts with us.”
Samuel finally moves, walking over to a cabinet and pulling three folders from a drawer.
“You’re about to start T1P,” he says, handing them out to us. “Tier-One Progression training.”
I take the folder and feel the weight, literally and otherwise.
“The goal is to speed up your development, so you hit full Tier-One capacity,” Samuel says. “Naturally, that shift would take up to a year, but you’ll be pushed through in months. The protocol’s aggressive, but if your body holds up, it works.”
Jay glances down at the packet. Shane opens his immediately.
Samuel continues. “Inside, you’ll find the lifestyle protocol: nutrition, hydration and sleep. You’re expected to eat clean. The protein target is 1.6 grams per pound of body weight per day. You miss that, you stall out.”
“No drinking and no drugs,” David adds. “Minimum eight hours of sleep unless you’re on assignment. Hydration’s set at 0.53 ounces per pound. If you fall behind, your system crashes, and you’ll feel it.”
“The physical work starts in the gym,” Samuel says. “The details of the training sessions are inside your folders.”
“Then there’s sensory development.” Josh says.
“You’ll train to isolate scents under interference.
Target identification through buried scent markers.
Visual tracking. Micro-expression drills.
Heartbeat rhythm recognition. Voice stress testing.
You’ll be expected to detect fear, attraction, deception, aggression. ”
I swallow hard. It’s not just the physical load, it’s the precision. The expectation that everything about us can be honed into a tool.
Josh continues. “You’ll be on a six-day rotation.
Three days here for training, evaluation, and desk duty.
The other three, you’re embedded with your assigned agency, DEA Bridgeport, in your case.
Once you move to T1M — maintenance training — you’ll only be required to show up here once a week. The rest is fieldwork.”
“You report here by 0600 on your scheduled days,” he continues. Then he steps aside and taps a door marked EQUIPMENT. “Inside here, you’ll sign for your gear and your Bronco XL. It’s already tracked and registered to your pack.”
“Come,” he says, then glances toward Samuel. “Sam, call the team. Let’s do the welcoming briefing.”
Josh opens the equipment door, and we follow him inside. It’s a smaller adjoining room, with concrete walls lined with heavy-duty storage. A small desk sits near the front, fitted with a digital sign-out terminal and a fingerprint scanner.
“Touch ID to verify, then sign the digital release. That’ll activate your assigned locker. You retrieve your bag directly,” Josh says.
We step forward one at a time. Jay goes first, presses his thumb to the scanner, taps through the digital form, and signs. One of the huge lockers behind him clicks and flashes green. He walks over and opens it. Inside is a large black tactical bag with his name stitched onto a Velcro patch.
Shane’s next. He follows the same process, and another locker unlocks with a click. Another bag retrieved.
Then me. The screen pings after I sign, and the locker directly in front of me releases with a soft thunk. I open it and find my bag inside, just like theirs — black, reinforced, with my name stitched in white block letters across the front.
Inside I find body armor, black tactical boots, a harness rig, gloves, a hydration setup, and a folded uniform sealed in plastic.
All our lives, we’ve had to make do with whatever the humans had in their station, none of it meant for us. But here, it’s our first day, and they already have our lockers assigned and our names stitched into the gear.
Josh checks the terminal one last time, then glances toward us.
“Your vehicle is parked in Bay 3,” he says. “If anything’s off, you bring it to me.” He nods toward the command room. “Let’s go. They’re waiting.”
When we exit back into the room, the large table is now crowded. Josh gestures toward the empty chairs at the end, and the three of us sit.
He takes the seat beside his brothers. “So, we owe the honor of having everyone in the same building for once to our new pack,” he says.
“As you all know, since the Jones pack retired four years ago, this garrison’s DEA post has been empty.
Two months ago, MAB finally notified us they’d scored another Prime bond.
The Larsens have now reached Tier-Two, so they’ll be covering the DEA slot from now on. ”
He turns to me. “Stand and introduce yourselves.”
I stand, not sure what to say beyond the basics. “Kory Larsen,” I say. “My brothers, Shane and Jayson.” I point left, then right.
The other packs only watch, assessing.
I sit, and Josh faces the room again. “Everyone else, go around. Pack name, agency, case focus. Keep it tight.”
The first pack to stand is the one that met us at the gate earlier. All three have light skin and square jaws. One has ash-blond hair, but the other two are strawberry blondes. They all share the same piercing blue eyes.
“Bielke pack, Homeland Security Investigations,” the ash-blond says. “We track transnational trafficking: humans, narcotics, weapons. If it crosses borders or ports, it lands with us.”
They sit, and the next pack rises. They’ve got a striking look with olive-toned skin but light blond hair and pale green eyes.
“Zervas pack, ATF, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.” The leader’s voice is firm. “We handle cartel weapons, illegal gun trades, explosive seizures. Mostly raids and supply chain disruption.”
They sit, and the third pack stands. All three have dark brown skin, dark eyes and shaved heads. They stand still as stone.
“Harris pack, FBI,” their leader says. “Organized crime, gang networks. RICO strategy, asset dismantling, surveillance. We’ve worked joint ops with just about every federal agency.”