Grissom appears to be Cuban by the flag he has on his lower right leg. He also used to be part of a elite squad known as Shadow Strike.
Grissom is unlocked after reaching standing level 10 with Ty Durrant.
There's a lot of legal protection running round in Havalynd. There's a lot of things to protect. Money is only a part of the jigsaw. The gods of Hayalynd are collectors; they like to accumulate information, contacts, talent; all the major currencies. They watch WP like everybody else does, but they don't need the TV to tell them the SPPD are losing the war, and that maybe they should take out a little protection of their own. Each corporation has its own local arrangements, but the street gangs weren't just snotty kids anymore - they were organized, well-armed - it seemed only natural that the business landscape might benefit from the evolution of a unified response. The gods met, decrees were issued. Thus was born Praetorian, a bespoke urban response unit, as far from any television camera as it was possible to be.
The core of the team are jungle vets, ex-special forces operatives. It was not unusual for corporations to exploit their networks within the defense administration to service their own private security requirements. The deal worked for everyone. For the administration, it gave them the illusion of parity with the corporations. For the ex-militia, it meant access to better hardware than the military, and remuneration way beyond even the shadow-budget salaries evanescing from the public purse. And for the businesses themselves, they had field-trained and officially-sanctioned combat troops. Yes, it was expensive, but accountancy is a black art, and when the taxpayers are paying, who's counting?
Grissom met most of his crew working in Laos for Shadow Strike. They were a team of 8, search and destroy, months of insertion, barely afloat at the bottom of a deep well of danger; the percentages said they were already dead men walking. When he looked around him now, he saw the survivors. Templeton. Defries. They should be ghosts. Someone must have died out of time. They were all lucky, and Grissom had seen enough to know that lucky was a good thing to have around.
The rest of the men were from the same stock, special forces turned guns-for-hire. War, its hallucinatory horrors, had stripped them of any rags of morality. There was no slender lining of hope to be extracted from the things they had seen, no good fight to be fought. What they did was work.
These men, they could respect civilians, but they were beyond understanding those passive and disengaged consumer drones who shuffled past them on the street. Years of razorpin discipline had tuned their scanners to a different set of frequencies, the infinite complexities of the environment polarized at nerve level into threat and non-threat, a network ceaselessly pinging for response. When they moved, they moved with perfect economy, their minds and bodies shooting through the trees of possibilities, selecting and rejecting in nanotime, like chess AI constantly calculating the fewest moves to mate.
Praetorian worked out of low-key basement office up near the bus station. They didn't need much, they were used to travelling light. Grissom took Night Company while Charkov scored the deals, fielding mission briefs from upstairs or swapping kit for knowledge with some rich piece of ass from Prentiss: Akiko, was it? Monteith took Day, him and that crazy bastard Dragon. Kind of soldier Grissom didn't want on his shoulder. Too many chances, too many wild rolls of the dice. Yeah, Dragon was lucky, but he was pissing it quickly and it wouldn't last forever.
They set to tapping the networks. Fed intel was complacent about the threat, weirdly so, just about dismissed it as teen hormones. On paper it was 8Mils, handguns, nothing they hadn't face a thousand times; nothing they hadn't neutralized. So on their first incursion, a home sweep deep on Gresty, just to say hi, Grissom was surprised when he lost three men and had to pull the plug. It wasn't the takedown he was playing in his head.
The punks - what did the fuckers call themselves? The G-Kings? - they had something going on. Grissom had seen this before, fighting tree to tree in the green hells of the Yuandong Delta and Ko Han. You attack people on their own turf, you better be sure you want it, because they got nowhere else to go.
He got a better angle from the detective, Blackwood. She'd been casing these kids long enough to know the picture. And it was a simple picture. They came out of the slum estates, Gresty and Border, came from nothing, were given nothing, were going nowhere. They looked out of the filthy windows of their shitty little apartments, at the towers of glass and steel rising over Havalynd. All they could see, money, other people's money, blotting out the sky. And they were left to fight for whatever pathetic scraps were falling from the table. Lean years. They were really pissed off.
Grissom couldn't find it in his heart to hate these people. In fact, a part of him liked them, liked the way they kicked out against the world even while it was shitting in their faces. They didn't run, they didn't beg; you cornered them, they fought like fucking demons. What other choices did they have? In another life, it could have been himself. But Grissom and his men got paid to do a job, and that job was to hunt these punks, kill them. That's what he was going to do.
Grissom and his crew are special, existing outside the normal command structure of the Praetorians, bypassing Saul Linklater's authority completely and reporting directly to Danko and, on a few very special occasions, Justin Teng himself. Linklater's uniformed corporate cops and Hea Choi's progressive social and recruitment policies are the preferred public face of the Praetorians; a public service, paid for by private enterprise.
Grissom and his crew of ex-Special Forces operators are its dirty but very lucrative little secret.
Personal bodyguard details. Intel gathering. High-level corporate security. Target elimination. These are the exclusive and very confidential services that the Praetorians are able to offer to select private clients, all those services provided by Grissom's unit.
Saul Linklater pretends not to even know of their existence, and more than one Praetorian press briefing he's been holding has been abruptly ended by an unscheduled question containing the words 'Shadow Strike'. Hea Choi isn't supposed to know about them, but does anyway. Kaspar Danko brought them to San Paro in the first place, at Justin Teng's request. Danko's no innocent; he's used men like Grissom before, and knows they have a place in war. They're a weapon, best used in surgical strikes on selected targets. The key to using men like this - weapons like this - is knowing where and when they can be safely deployed under controlled circumstances.
Danko knows the limits of those controlled circumstances, and he keeps the Shadow Strike boys on a tight leash. More and more, though, he's been getting word that Grissom and his crew are running their own private ops out of that basement they're holed up in. He suspects that Justin Teng has opened up his own channels of communication with them, and that the Shadow Strike snake-eaters are running black op errands for Teng that have nothing to do with the Praetorians' stated mission.
The thought of a Teng-controlled Grissom is, to Danko, an especially troubling one.