Sean Parnell Quotes

He stuck his left arm through the loop of a bungee sling and stretched it across his back. At one end there was a magazine
pouch; on the other hung a Brügger & Thomet MP9. The machine pistol weighed less than three pounds and even with the built-in
suppressor was only ten inches in length. It fit perfectly beneath his arm, but Steele knew that it wouldn't slip the notice
of the security guards at the door

The center console rattled when it hinged open, and after futilely pawing around for a bottle of
aspirin, Steele settled on the FN Five-seven instead.


Most of the time Steele carried a modified Colt 1911. The .45 was an old gun, and the only thing his father left at the house
before he disappeared. It was Steele's most cherished possession, but not the right weapon for what he had planned

The infantryman's way of life has a knack for distilling a man's character down to its most essential elements. If he measures up, nothing else matters.

Heroes. I'll never see them that way again. I've seen who real heroes are. And they don't wear cleats on game day.

The FN, on the other hand, was designed in Belgium around the SS190 5.7x28mm round; hence the name. Its sole purpose was to
punch through body armor, and it was the cartel favorite. Steele press-checked the pistol and after ensuring it was loaded,
screwed a suppressor onto the threaded barrel. When it was snug, he pressed a wireless earpiece into his ear, stepped out
of the vehicle, and eased the door shut behind him.


In the darkness the only sound came from the raindrops on the roof and the gentle swishing of traffic that drifted from the
highway. Steele let his eyes adjust to the darkness

The sight of every man rising to the occasion generated a wave of pure love in me. A good leader is supposed to inspire his men. But great men inspire their leader.

Steele yanked on the pistol, but the front sight got snagged on the Frenchman's belt. Jean-Luc's right arm hit him in the
wrist, a painful bone-on-bone collision that wrenched the Five-seven out of his grip. Steele could make out Burrows's bodyguard
posted up ahead, faithfully guarding his boss's booth.


Jean-Luc shouted a warning while trying to dodge the server who seemed to appear out of nowhere. The bodyguard turned to his
left, reached into his jacket, and squared up to the threat. Steele's instincts told him that he was too far behind the eight-ball
to get the MP9 into action fast, so he improvised.


He launched a kick at Jean-Luc's ankle that would have made an NFL punter proud. His leg muscles pistoned his foot toward
its target like a hot rod on a quarter-mile track. The impact snapped the fleeing Frenchman's puny ankle, causing him to tumble
into the server.


Now.

Steele was an Alpha - a clandestine operative assigned to a unit known simply as "the Program." It traced its lineage to World
War II and existed because there were enemies that the President of the United States couldn't handle with diplomacy or all-out
war. In these events the Commander in Chief needed a third option, and that was why Steele was in Beirut

Algiers was on the brink.

Before being recruited by the CIA, she had been a member of the ISA, known as "the Activity," one of the last truly dark units
within the DOD. Her job was to collect actionable intelligence for Special Operations units like Delta and SEAL Team 6.


Her decision to leave the Army was the only time Meg hadn't listened to her father, General "Black Jack" Harden. Not only
did he want her to stay in, but he was willing to call in some favors after she got passed over for major.


"I appreciate it, Dad, but I don't take charity," she had told him.

"All you have to do is keep your mouth shut and play the game. How hard is that?" he'd demanded. The Army was his life and
to this day he still didn't understand why she'd left

It is easy to be a virtuous man in good times. It is easy to be judged a success when luck runs with the fortunate son. But when adversity strikes, the true measure of a man percolates to the surface. That is why combat became the great sifter--it tested our mettle. Not once but again and again...

Eric Steele was strapped in and rubbing a rag over his father's 1911. Demo had brought the pistol with the rest of Steele's
gear on board the C-17. In the cockpit, the pilot pushed the throttle forward, shoving Steele back in his seat. He barely
noticed because he was thinking about the first time his father let him hold the pistol. It had felt so heavy in his hands
back then.


So much I never got to ask him.

He ran his thumb over the spot where the serial number should have been. It was silver and all traces of the file marks were
smoothed out by years of use. The pistol was one of John Moses Browning's masterpieces, the same design that the American
infantryman had carried in the Battle of Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima, Korea, and Vietnam. It was the only thing he had to remind
him of the father he never really knew.


Steele had made the pistol his own by modifying it to shoot 9mm, adding a threaded barrel, and installing suppressor sights,
which were taller than the factory ones. It was his gun now, and he slipped it away before taking an amphetamine tablet out
of his pocket and downing it with a sip of water.

Some of the guys said he's been macking on this little brunette who works in operations."

"What, are you jealous?"

Oh my God, why did I say that?

As the SOG, or Special Operations Group, team leader, Colt was one of the few men who knew what Meg really did for the CIA.
He'd been around the block a few times, and with multiple tours in Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan, he had a disarming manner
that Meg found sexy. It didn't hurt that he was good-looking and believed she was an asset for the Algiers station.


The only problem was that he treated Meg like she was his little sister.

"Why would I be jealous?" he asked with a confused look that annoyed the hell out of Meg

Sir, it smells like bananna's...maybe you should get that looked at. Quiet down soldier....get your shit together and prepare for attack.

In combat, those who are willing to fight follow only those who are willing to lead, and lead competently. When bullets fly, rank does not matter.

Some men are born warriors. Their spirit and their character are forged for the fight...Others pick up arms because they see no other solution. They wield their swords to protect those they love, spurred by their sense of purpose and idealism but taking no pleasure in it. When the threat is defeated, they return to their homes, shed their uniforms, and return to their lives...Together, they formed the yin and yang of my platoon: the born soldier and the born citizen soldier.

Eric Steele utilized the Mark XI's voice command function by saying, "Nav," and a map appeared in the upper-right quadrant
of the visor. The yellow blinking arrow told him that he needed to come left, so he lowered his shoulder and banked gently
until he was locked on the correct glide path.


This thing is legit.

Steele had grown up on James Bond and thought being a spy was all about the gadgets. But in the real world batteries failed
and an operator lived and died by making a plan and sticking to it. One of the main reasons Steele was still alive while so
many of his friends were dead was because he didn't leave anything to chance.


He carefully brought his left arm up to eye level and double-checked the Mark XI's readings with the GPS/altimeter combo strapped
to his forearm. Once he was sure that he knew exactly where he was, he snapped his arms tight and accelerated to 200 miles
per hour.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead and bent to look out the window. It was amazing how heavy a 1.6-pound pistol could get
if you weren't relaxed. He knew better and chided himself, but forgot the pain the moment he saw the target building.


The neon dragon dancing on the roof glinted off the puddles in sparks of yellow and red. Outside the Dragon's Door the line
stretched back around the block. Steele set the pistol on the ledge and checked the Rolex Submariner on his wrist. It was
11:25. He pulled a magnifier from the inside pocket of his Manning and Manning jacket and pressed it to his eye.


"I'm on target," he said.

"Uploading the feed, stand by,

Courage is a fleeting commodity and can be crushed effortlessly by a single fond memory of home. A backyard barbecue, a fragmented flashback to a moonlit dance with a beautiful girl--those are psychological bullets in combat. One glimpse of what has been makes a soldier yearn for what can be again. That yearning can be as caustic as acid. It burns away the resolve you need to get the job done.

One stray thought can paralyze just as effectively as a bullet in the spine.

Like many in the intelligence field, Rockford had heard of the Program during his time as Director of the CIA. No matter how
deep you tried to bury a special missions unit, there was no such thing as a vacuum. Eventually bits and pieces of the unit
made their way out of the shadows. The Program was no different. Once Rockford was sworn in as Vice President he was granted
access to the Program, but most of what he knew about Eric Steele came directly from President Cole.


Rockford knew that the Program did their own recruitment and assessment of the men and women they wanted. The recruiters had
watched Steele for seven months, and while he was everything the Program was looking for, it was originally determined that
after only ten years in Special Forces he was still too untested for consideration