Page 97 of Strays
Inside the restricted zone, the forest thickens. We follow the SUV for nearly ten minutes as the road climbs, twisting higher into the ridge.
Then, we see it, set back in a wide basin of flat earth carved into the slope: the garrison.
SECURE MESSAGING THREAD
— WILL HARRIS: You think this is the Board sending us a message?
— JOSH SOLOMON: It’s not a message. It’s math. We’re understaffed, the DEA slot’s been empty too long, and they hit Tier-Two ahead of projection. Politics or not, they’re qualified on paper.
— WILL HARRIS: Strays don’t belong here, Josh.
— JOSH SOLOMON: Doesn’t matter what you think. Or what I think. They’re ours now. Not worth fighting it.
— WILL HARRIS: None of the packs here will stand for it. You know that.
— JOSH SOLOMON: Everybody will work with them. Don’t care if you like it. Keep this garrison clean. No bullshit. They’re Special Ops now. That’s the line.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Time for Us to Grow
From 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.”
