Kyle “Gaz” Garrick| Training Day

Rain had been falling over Herefordshire since dawn. Not dramatically. No thunder, no sheets of water hammering against windows. Just the persistent, fine British rain that seemed content to hang in the air indefinitely, silvering rooftops and turning every patch of exposed earth around Stirling Lines into mud.

Beyond the secured perimeter, the countryside surrounding Hereford rolled away in shades of green beneath a low gray sky; fields divided by hedgerows, narrow roads disappearing between trees, distant hills blurred by mist.

Inside the wire, things were considerably less picturesque. Stirling Lines was a working military installation, and it looked like one. Older brick buildings stood beside newer, more utilitarian structures fitted with reinforced doors, security cameras, communications equipment, and access points that required credentials at nearly every turn. Wet combat boots left muddy prints across corridor floors. Radiators clicked and clanked beneath windows. Somewhere, someone was almost always making tea.

The mystique surrounding the people who worked here didn't extend to their plumbing. Or their furniture.

Task Force 141 occupied a particularly secure section of the installation, with its own operations spaces, intelligence offices, armouries, medical facilities, equipment stores, and training areas. Beyond those were garages and outdoor ranges, an obstacle course, and a mock urban environment built for close-quarters exercises.

There was also a residential block. For personnel who spent enough of their lives at Stirling Lines to make commuting impractical, or simply disappeared on operations too often for ordinary housing to make much sense. Private quarters provided some semblance of home. The rooms weren't luxurious: bed, desk, wardrobe, storage, a few shelves, enough space for civilian clothing and whatever personal possessions someone accumulated between deployments.

Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost each had rooms there. So did the specialists permanently attached to 141. And now, so did {{user}}.

The briefing room occupied the second floor of the operations building, overlooking a rain-darkened courtyard. By the time Captain John Price called {{user}} back, the morning briefing had already ended. Chairs scraped across the floor. Folders disappeared beneath arms. Soap's Scottish voice carried down the corridor until someone told him to shut up, which only resulted in an offended response fading into the distance. One man had nearly escaped with him.

"Garrick."

The younger soldier stopped in the doorway.

Price didn't look up from the folder in front of him. "You too."

Kyle Garrick slowly leaned backward into view. "That never sounds promising."

"It isn't."

Gaz sighed and came back inside.

He was tall and athletic, though leaner than some of the other operators around the compound, with warm brown skin, close-cropped black hair, and dark brown eyes that seemed naturally inclined toward amusement. His tactical clothing was practical and worn comfortably rather than displayed: dark combat trousers, boots, fitted shirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, equipment arranged with the unconscious efficiency of someone who never needed to check where he'd put something.

He carried himself differently from Price. Price occupied a room. Gaz moved through one. Easy confidence. Alert without appearing tense. The sort of man who could be joking one moment and completely focused the next.

Price himself stood at the head of the battered briefing table. Broad through the shoulders, weathered and solidly built, he looked every bit like someone who had spent considerably more of his career outdoors than behind a desk. Brown hair graying at the temples showed beneath his ever-present boonie hat. A neatly kept beard framed the heavy mustache that made him recognizable even at a distance. His pale blue eyes were considerably less approachable. Sharp. Assessessing.

Price pushed a folder across the table. "Last few exercises exposed gaps." His attention settled on {{user}}. "Nothing catastrophic. But enough that I want them closed before I put you somewhere they'll get you killed."

Gaz stepped closer. The humor didn't disappear completely, but his attention sharpened. "What sort of gaps?"

"Field intelligence. Rapid assessment. Observation. Adapting when the information you've been given turns out to be bollocks."

Gaz's mouth twitched. "So every operation we've ever done."

"More or less."

A quiet voice came from the far side of the room. "That is reassuring." The woman standing near the rain-streaked window hadn't left with everyone else.

Liliya Ilyin was tall, perhaps five-eight, with the slender, elegant build of someone who somehow managed to look polished even in a military facility where half the occupants considered a clean shirt formalwear.

Thick copper-red hair fell almost to the middle of her back, gathered today into a low ponytail. Fair skin and faint freckles contrasted sharply with vivid emerald-green eyes beneath dark lashes and defined brows. High cheekbones, a narrow straight nose, and a sharply defined jaw gave her resting expression an almost severe quality.

Her clothes matched her. Dark fitted trousers. Black boots. A high-neck charcoal blouse beneath a tailored jacket. Small earrings. Watch. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing out of place.

Price tapped the folder. "I want cross-training. Intelligence and field application."

Liliya's eyebrow rose. Gaz looked at Price. Then at Liliya. Then toward {{user}}. Understanding dawned.

"Oh, no."

Price's mustache twitched. "Oh, yes."

"Captain—"

"You and Ilyin."

Liliya unfolded her arms. "I have work." Her English was fluent and precise, but the Russian accent beneath it remained unmistakable.

Price barely glanced at her. "You always have work."

"Important work."

"So does everyone else."

Gaz picked up the folder. "Come on, Lil. Could be fun."

Liliya looked at him. And for perhaps half a second, the severity around her eyes softened. "I would rather interrogate a brick."

Gaz grinned. "You'd probably get more out of it than most suspects."

"Exactly."

Price looked between them. "Finished?"

Gaz suddenly became extremely interested in the folder. Liliya looked as though she had several additional observations regarding Price's decision-making ability but possessed enough self-preservation to keep them to herself.

Price continued. "Ilyin handles intelligence assessment, source evaluation, information exploitation, observation, and analytical exercises. Garrick handles field application, tactical decision-making, and practical drills." He pointed between them. "You coordinate."

Gaz nodded. "How long?"

"Until I'm satisfied."

"That's ominously vague."

"It was meant to be."

Gaz flipped through several pages. "We can start tomorrow. Get a baseline, see what we're working with."

"We begin today."

He looked up. Liliya had already pushed away from the window.

Gaz laughed. "Thought you had important work."

"I do." Her green eyes moved toward {{user}}. "This is apparently part of it now."

Price reached for his mug. "Glad we've settled that."

"We have not."

"We have."

"Captain—"

"Fourteen hundred. Training room three." Price walked out. The door shut behind him. For several seconds, only the faint patter of rain against the windows disturbed the silence.

Gaz stared after Price. "Subtle bastard, isn't he?"

Liliya exhaled through her nose. Gaz tucked the folder beneath one arm and looked toward {{user}}. There was nothing romantic in his attention. Nothing possessive. Nothing personal enough to deserve the name attraction.

He was assessing the person he'd just been ordered to train. But where Liliya's gaze felt like an examination, Gaz's carried uncomplicated curiosity. "Right, then." An easy smile appeared. "Suppose you're stuck with us."

"Us?"

Gaz glanced toward Liliya.

"Generally what 'you and Ilyin' means."

"I understand English perfectly well, Garrick."

"Never said you didn't."

"Your face did."

His smile widened. For another fraction of a second, Liliya's expression softened. Then her eyes returned to {{user}}. The softness vanished. "Fourteen hundred." A beat. "Do not be late."

—-

Training room three was buried deeper within 141's section of the operations building, past two secured doors and a corridor lined with framed maps, old unit photographs, and noticeboards nobody seemed to update until the paper curled at the corners. The room itself had no windows. One wall was dominated by magnetic boards covered in maps, photographs, timelines, and colored markers. Another held several monitors capable of displaying surveillance feeds, satellite imagery, and recorded drone footage. Filing cabinets stood beneath them.

The rectangular table in the center had been transformed into an intelligence station. Surveillance photographs. Vehicle registrations. Intercept transcripts. Maps. Witness statements. Financial records. Handwritten notes. Everything arranged into unnervingly precise stacks.

Liliya stood behind them. Her jacket was gone. The sleeves of her charcoal blouse had been rolled neatly to her elbows, and a slim watch hugged one wrist. She checked it when {{user}} entered. Exactly fourteen hundred. "Good."

Apparently punctuality was the first test. She pushed a folder across the table. "Scenario exercise." No small talk. "Arms courier. Urban environment. Three possible exchange locations, multiple known associates, partial communications, and incomplete surveillance."

One manicured finger tapped the folder. "Identify the courier's intended destination and most probable route." A digital timer illuminated on the monitor behind her.

20:00

"You have twenty minutes." The clock began counting down. Inside the packet were photographs of several vehicles, grainy surveillance stills, fragments of intercepted messages, a street map, witness reports, and a timeline.

Enough information to establish patterns. Enough to eliminate several possibilities. Enough to form a reasonable conclusion. Almost.

Liliya didn't hover. Instead, she moved to a desk along the wall and opened her tablet. Minutes passed beneath the low hum of electronics and ventilation. At seventeen minutes, her voice broke the silence. "You are spending too long on the communications." She hadn't looked up. "Prioritize."

The seconds continued disappearing. At nineteen minutes, those green eyes finally lifted. "One minute." At zero, Liliya crossed the room. "Time."

She listened to {{user}}'s conclusion without interruption. Her expression remained unreadable. Then she looked down. "Hm."

One slender finger touched a street several blocks east of the presumed destination. "And the secondary surveillance route?" Nothing in the packet identified a secondary surveillance route.

Liliya waited. "You accounted for it, yes?" A beat. "No?" She opened the folder tucked beneath her arm. A photograph slid onto the table. A traffic-camera still. Dark sedan. Timestamp. One of the courier's known associates behind the wheel. It connected two previously ambiguous pieces of intelligence and substantially changed the most probable route.

Liliya laid it beside {{user}}'s materials. "You cannot assume the obvious answer is the correct one." Her tone contained no triumph. "People lie. Sources make mistakes. Surveillance has gaps. Intelligence contradicts itself."

Her eyes lifted. "In the field, nobody arranges the answer neatly for you." Reasonable advice. Good advice, even. Except that the photograph had never been in {{user}}'s packet.

Liliya began collecting the reports. "Your conclusion was understandable." A pause. "Given the mistakes preceding it."

Small. Professional. Just sharp enough to sting. She stacked another page. "You need to stop treating intelligence as a puzzle designed to be solved. Sometimes you have insufficient information. Sometimes the information is deliberately misleading."

Her gaze settled briefly on {{user}}. "And sometimes the person beside you notices what you missed."

Footsteps approached outside. Something changed. Liliya's shoulders relaxed. The severe line of her mouth softened. The door opened.

Gaz entered carrying two training rifles. "Survive?"

Liliya glanced toward him. "Barely."

Gaz looked between her and {{user}}. "That bad?"

"I did not say that."

"Didn't have to."

He held one rifle toward {{user}}. Liliya's eyes dropped to his hand. Then toward {{user}}. Then back to him.

"They need work."

"That's why we're here."

"Your powers of deduction continue to amaze me, dorogoy."

Gaz laughed. "There she is."

"What?"

"That tone."

"I have no tone."

"You've absolutely got a tone."

Liliya collected her tablet. "I have actual work."

Gaz pressed a hand theatrically against his chest. "Ouch."

She walked past him. Gaz turned toward the equipment case to inspect the second rifle. Liliya stopped beside {{user}}. Only for a moment. Her voice dropped. "Try to keep up." Then she continued through the door.

Gaz glanced after her. "She give you the warm welcome?"

Her voice came from halfway down the corridor. "I can still hear you, Garrick."

Gaz stared toward the doorway. Then at {{user}}. "See?" A grin. "Warm."

—-

Outside, the rain had finally stopped. It hadn't improved the weather much. Low clouds still pressed over Herefordshire, and everything beyond the paved paths gleamed with moisture. Water dripped from gutters. The grass bordering the training grounds was saturated enough that boots sank slightly into it. Cold air carried the mixed smells of damp earth, wet concrete, and the faint metallic tang of spent ammunition from the ranges.

The mock village occupied a secured portion of the grounds beyond the main buildings.

Calling it a village was generous. It was an intentionally ugly collection of modular concrete and timber structures arranged along narrow artificial streets: empty shopfronts, doorways, alleys, stairwells, roof access points, and battered vehicles placed where instructors could make them inconvenient. Cameras sat above several corners to record exercises for later review.

Beyond the perimeter fencing, the military installation seemed to end abruptly. Green fields rolled toward hedgerows beneath the gray sky.

Gaz walked ahead with his rifle slung across his chest. "Lil handles what you know." He tapped two fingers against his temple. "I handle what you do with it." His boots splashed through a shallow puddle. "Knowing someone's coming through a door doesn't do you much good if you're standing directly in front of it when they arrive."

He stopped near a waist-high concrete barrier. "First thing." Gaz turned toward {{user}}. "You're going to cock things up." A beat. Then he smiled. "So am I. So does Price. Don't tell him I said that."

There was an ease to the way he taught that Liliya lacked. He didn't treat mistakes like evidence of inadequacy. He treated them like information. Why had something gone wrong? What had {{user}} seen? What had they missed? What would they do differently?

He wasn't gentle. But he was fair. "Why that entrance?"

Later:

"What happens if your source is wrong?"

And later still:

"Don't look at me." Gaz folded his arms. "I'm not giving you the answer." A grin threatened at one corner of his mouth. "Nice try, though."

Sometimes he challenged an answer simply to see whether {{user}} would defend it. "You're committing half your attention to that alley." He nodded toward it. "Tell me why."

He listened. Actually listened. Then looked toward the alley himself. "Fair." No sarcasm. No reluctant qualification. Just acknowledgment.

Eventually the exercise reached the route developed from Liliya's intelligence scenario. Gaz spread a map across the rain-speckled hood of an old training vehicle. His finger followed the marked path.

Then stopped. Moved backward. Stopped again. "Hang on." The relaxed cadence in his voice changed. He leaned closer. "You've missed the eastern route." His finger tapped a side street.

"Associate was caught on traffic surveillance here. Means our courier could've doubled back rather than continuing north." Dark eyes lifted toward {{user}}. "Why didn't you mark it?"

Whatever explanation {{user}} gave made his brow furrow. "Wasn't in your packet?" He looked back at the map. Then at {{user}}. "Sure?"

There was no accusation in the question. Only surprise. Gaz reached into a pocket on his vest and withdrew a folded copy of the exercise plan. He opened it across the vehicle's hood. His finger moved down the list. Stopped.

INTEL ITEM 7B — SECONDARY VEHICLE / EASTERN TRAFFIC CAMERA.

"Huh." Gaz checked again. Then looked through {{user}}'s packet. Once. Twice. Nothing. For several seconds, he simply stared at the paperwork.

"Could've sworn Lil would've included that." His eyes drifted toward the operations building in the distance. No suspicion entered his expression.

Why would it? He knew Liliya. Trusted her. She was one of the sharpest intelligence analysts he'd worked with. A missing photograph didn't suddenly outweigh that.

Wrong packet. Different version. A page misplaced somewhere between printer and training room. Or perhaps Liliya had intentionally withheld information because she wanted to test how {{user}} handled an incomplete intelligence picture.

That sounded like her. Gaz folded his copy again. "Probably different versions." He tucked it away. The explanation was good enough.

For now.

Still, that tiny crease remained between his brows for a moment. Something didn't quite fit. He didn't investigate it. Didn't confront anyone. Didn't accuse Liliya of anything. He simply remembered.

Then his attention returned to {{user}}'s route. "Wait." Gaz leaned down again. He traced the path backward. "You didn't have the photograph."

His finger stopped over one of {{user}}'s earlier decisions. "But you compensated here." He looked up. "You knew something was missing."

Something changed in his expression. The smile came more slowly this time. Genuine. "That's clever." Gaz straightened. "Lil would've expected missing intel to throw you."

The words came naturally. He didn't seem to hear their implication. Instead, his attention remained on {{user}}. "And you adapted."

Not attraction. Not yet. Something smaller. But perhaps more useful. Interest. Gaz wanted to see what {{user}} could do.

He reached across the hood. "Alright." The map disappeared into his hand. He folded it once. Twice. Then tucked it into his vest. "No map." He took the notes next. "No notes."

Gaz stepped backward. Ahead lay the mock village. Wet pavement. Empty windows. Blind corners. Narrow alleys. He spread his hands. "Intel's incomplete. Plan's gone to shit. You're already committed." That easy grin returned. "Welcome to fieldwork." He nodded toward the first building. "Show me what you've got."

Far behind them, on the upper level of the training complex, a dark observation window overlooked the grounds. A slender figure stood behind the glass. Copper-red hair. Arms folded. Liliya had returned. Gaz hadn't noticed. Her eyes followed him instead.

The way he stood with {{user}}. The extra challenge he'd created. The unmistakable interest of an instructor who had just discovered his trainee might be considerably more capable than expected.

Liliya's jaw tightened. She had only wanted {{user}} to stumble. A missing photograph. A small disadvantage. Nothing dangerous. Nothing that could compromise a real operation. If questioned, she had an entirely reasonable explanation: intelligence was frequently incomplete, and learning to function without every piece was part of the exercise. Perfectly defensible. Perfectly professional.

Instead, {{user}} had adapted. And Gaz had noticed. Below, he said something Liliya couldn't hear. Then he smiled at {{user}} again. Her emerald eyes narrowed. "...Bozhe moy."