Chapter 4
Let's Get Physical
The first five minutes of every training session were the worst. Jake hated stretching. He felt so vulnerable. He was on his back with his right knee pulled to his nose.
He could feel the stretch, which was good. As soon as he released, he could feel the blood in his head and the feeling that if someone would come up to him right now and administer a swift kick in his ribs, he would be a dead man.
He rolled to his side and he was staring right at Violet's tight bottom. He looked away, embarrassed. Violet was interesting. Complicated. Ambitious. Calculating. He imagined that she had taken that very place on the floor on purpose. He had almost fallen for the trap.
Jake was still trying to wrap his mind around the contents of the file. Why had Lars lied? Was his office tapped? Were they being pursued by the government?
He had been assured that the nightly cleaning by the janitors included a thorough de-bugging. In addition, it was his understanding that the walls and windows of the Galbraith Tower were practically soundproof.
Normally, it would not seem odd, all this secrecy. They were, after all, an organization that was committed to terror and assassination, white collar crimes and embezzlement, money laundering and protection of criminal assets. Secrecy and clandestine behavior was the norm.
However, his conversation with the Director this morning had been odd in that there seemed to be no overt reasons to conceal the nature of his assignment. He could only speculate.
Perhaps it was client-related. Sometimes they were hired by entities larger than themselves. Once, a small African nation had come to them wanting arms consultation and the assassination of a tribal leader. It had taken them weeks to discern that every communication and meeting they had held was merely an attempt to infiltrate their organization and recruit individual talent. To the chagrin of the Deputy Director, Lynn Smith, the entire computer network had been hacked, and a malicious worm embedded.
When dealing with criminals, it was wise to ensure your friends were vetted.
Sergei stalked around the room, pacing the perimeter with his hands behind his back as various Galbraith employees stretched, grunted, and complained. His regimen was famous throughout the company. It was a mixture of Krav Magra, Spetznaz Systema, Russian military Sambo, and several other forms of close quarter combat methods and movements. The focus was on using the environment, employing no-nonsense tactics designed for survival, and performing with a high level of aggression. There was little room for spins, kicks, and fancy leaps. This was not Hollywood, it was life-and-death.
The gym was crowded today. There was barely room to do the next stretch. Sergei called out the movement. Each of the students pulled their torsos up to sitting upon their knees and put their right leg straight back behind them, knee down. Their left feet were planted under their backsides. Sergei instructed them to move the foot back until it was under their other knee.
It was an awkward movement, but effective at stretching the hip flexors, hips, and glutes. These were typically some of the tightest muscles in the body and with muscle tightness came slowness of movement.
The stretch required that they tilt their pelvis outward slowly just a few inches on the fulcrum of their foot placed under the knee of the right leg. They repeated the same procedure by tilting to the inside and then did the same stretch with the other leg.
Jake glanced ahead of him at his fellow employees. They all were lost in the exercise. Soon, they would be paired up and throwing each other all over the room, pounding each other with training sticks and attacking each other with rubber knives.
Jake enjoyed this part of his day almost as much as the sauna time after the workout. Mostly, it was because he excelled at martial arts and so success at defeating his opponent was as satisfying as the relaxation he felt winding down in the heat and steam.
He caught Violet glancing at him as they transitioned to the final stretching move. He tried to ignore her. She was likely just trying to distract him. She had been trying to get paired with him during training for almost a month now. She was determined to beat him and prove her skills and prowess. Perhaps it was simpler than that. Maybe she just wanted a chance to seduce him by demonstrating her physicality.
He was not unaware at how he was viewed by the female employees. He was sought after as if he was a prize to be won, a land to be conquered, a mountain to be climbed, or a bridge to be crossed. It was not an uncomfortable position to which to be subjected, but he honestly found it more amusing than alluring.
He supposed that sexual exploitation was a two-way street and that women were as welcome to flex their considerable prowess as men were. As the object of these attempts, though, he found that he was progressively astounded at the brazen and shameless methods being employed by women that he normally found demure, professional, or quite independent.
Of course, the normal man's pursuit of the opposite sex was rarely a sophisticated, low-key, or classy example of courtship or allurement. Men were such klutzes at seduction, it was almost embarrassing. Women on the other hand were more creative, had more control of their own position, and, frankly, had more to offer in the long run than their male counterparts.
Jake found himself smiling just thinking about it. It was good to get his mind off of the upcoming "secret" mission. He hoped he would get a partner to spar that outweighed him considerably or had some high-level training in the martial arts. He was in the mood for a challenge.
He licked his lips thinking of some of the more aggressive Krav Magra moves to put an enemy on the ground quickly. When it came to fighting, he found he was instinctive, but fought better if he planned the fight in his head prior to engaging. He was certainly flexible, but since many of the encounters for which they trained were over in a matter of seconds, planning the first move and the first counterattack were often the only considerations needed.
Sergei called them into line and paired them off. Couples would then find a spot and begin the slow sparring, flitting jabs and uppercuts, blocking with slaps, forearm shivers, and elbows.
Jake was paired with Violet. She smirked and then winked at him. Jake was aware that Violet was very adroit, but he did not imagine she would be much of a match. He fought the urge to be overconfident.
Sergei, normally staid and humorless, revealed an uneven set of small teeth as he crossed his arms in front of himself and watched as the combatants paired off. His mirth was short-lived as he corrected and pushed students who did not meet his high standards of combat.
"No. Not like that! No one moves like that. Get your feet under you, closer together. You aren't wrestling like an American. You are in no Sumo match. Turn, turn! That's it! Grab his belt! Grab it!"
He would yell like that, short staccato bursts of cursing, counsel, and coaxing for the entire ninety minutes. Jake looked forward to hearing his broken English and his demanding regimen.
Violet was putting on her sparring gloves. She had already donned her head gear, her hair tucked neatly into the padded straps. She wore tight spandex work out pants and a grey tank top already stained with perspiration.
Jake put a heavy chest pad over his head and strapped on his head gear—a combination of a mask meant for a catcher in baseball and a fencer. He grabbed a knife and began making some feints and jabs, ducking and keeping his elbows out from his sides.
He lunged, keeping the blade of the knife flat in a modified saber grip. Alternatively, he would bring his elbows down to protect his body and then bring his knife arm up to sweep in. He switched the knife to a backwards grip. The training knife handle was too big for his hand, so he compensated by keeping the blade out and his grip on the outer quillion. He missed the finger ring on his custom knife. It was designed for using in his off-hand so that he could draw and attack with his knife while holding his pistol.
He sliced the air with a forward punch, bringing the knife edge out as he brought the punch across his body and collapsed hi
s chest. The Krav Magra technique of blocking while punching, commonly called "bursting," was designed to propel a defender's force from their legs in a simultaneous defensive and offensive move. This is what he expected from Violet.
She had chosen to be the defender first because of that technique. At least, that was his guess. His plan was to attack high in a common mugger's move—go for the jugular. That would be his feint, forcing her to block high and punch high. This would leave her exposed at her middle, and more importantly, at her legs.
"You ready, Monday?” Her grin was seductive. She was confident. Jake understood that she had worked out an agreement with Sergei.
He shrugged and returned the smile.
He glanced across the room at Sergei. Sure enough, he was watching them intently with a smug look on his face. Jake suddenly wanted a chance to spar their instructor.
"I am as ready as ever. You spend much time in martial arts over at Yale?"
She raised her eyebrows at that and punched her sparring gloves together, sending talcum flying in the air.
"Studied Tukong Moosul for five years under my grandfather's friend from Korea," she said proudly. Jake did not miss the intent. She meant to give him a sense of false security. Although Tukong Moosul was a deadly art, it incorporated many twists, kicks, and quick forward punches as well as more subtle throws, grabs, and pressure point exploitations.
Jake knew she would go for a more aggressive, quick attack meant to embarrass him or send him to the floor in one or two moves. He was even more certain than before that she would use a bursting attack.
He decided to use his first move to set her up.
"Alright. Let's do this," he said.
He stepped in quickly, the padded armor around his body constricting around his neck as he brought his knife hand high in a jab from shoulder height. Violet was six inches shorter than him, so the angle was awkward, but he knew that this would work to his advantage for his counter.
He expected the block. She intersected his forearm with hers and brought it down at an angle away from her body. What he did not expect was her next move.
He had been anticipating her heavy blow to his chest or neck region, as per the bursting technique. He had planned to counter by collapsing his back and absorbing the blow as they had been trained during the Spetznaz portion of Sergei's program.
Jake even had his feet forward and his toes in so that he could execute a side step aimed at hitting the pressure point on the side of her knee and collapsing her base. He intended to follow up with a tackle and a left hook to the temple and a quick right elbow to the nose as he fell on top of her.
None of that happened, though.
Instead, she stepped inside his stance, grabbed his off hand by the wrist in a painful grip, and twisted his hand outward. To compliment this move, she stomped on his instep of his right foot and pivoted her hips. The pain and the momentum sent him in a dizzying spin to the mat.
Before Jake had an opportunity to be embarrassed at the turn of events, he felt Violet collapse her body on top of him, wrapping his left leg between hers, one foot planted in his groin, the other crossed over. Her gloved hands pulled on his left arm, turning the wrist up and around from its natural position.
The pain was more disconcerting than his shame.
Jake quickly blunted the pain and put it outside of himself. Through gritted teeth, he pushed off the ground in a wild attempt to flip his body over and reverse her hold. The only way he could save face was to use his superior strength and focus.
She laughed and pushed down, her foot squeezing his groin and sending his shoulder blades apart. A flare of fire and sharp pain erupted between his shoulder blades. But that pain was dulled by the ache he felt creeping into his lower abdomen from the damage her foot had dealt to his family jewels. Jake closed his eyes.
That would be a dull ache until dinnertime, he estimated.
He raised his right foot and kicked out at her head. Both of her hands were occupied in pulling his arm out of its socket while breaking his wrist at the same time. She could not protect herself. He heard her grunt. He tried it again and heard Sergei laugh. The whole gym had stopped to watch the spectacle, he saw through a red haze.
Jake cursed inside and planted his toe under her chin near where jaw line met the soft tissue of her neck. He pushed. Violet screamed. It was a low, guttural scream. Perhaps he had made her angry. Now that he understood that she had been practicing her Sambo, Jake did not care.
He kicked once more, this time a sweep. He needed the momentum to swing his body out of the lock she had on his arm. At the same time, he leaned forward quickly, pushing his wrist painfully toward her, releasing the pressure from his shoulder. He hoped he would not break his wrist.
He realized with a mounting fear that his left arm was numb.
But, he was finally free. He scrambled sideways, seeking the toe of her foot with his right hand. He grabbed it with his thumb on the top of her arch and pulled down as he rolled.
Violet growled and rolled with him, desperately trying to regain the hold on his legs.
And then he was free, rolling to his knees and lurching forward to his feet. He whirled to meet her advance and managed to block two quick jabs. He had lost the knife and the armor was cumbersome.
She was quicker, more aggressive, and had him cornered.
Jake fell into a quick trance, realizing that he could only make things worse if he did not get his head back into this game.
As Violet closed on him, blood staining her perfect white teeth, Jake widened his stance and brought his both hands out to his sides. Violet let out a scream as she brought her foot up in a front kick.
Jake dodged, used her body as a fulcrum, and ended up behind her. He brought his hands together behind her neck and pushed her supporting leg in from behind, pushing down with his weight over her shoulders. She collapsed.
He could hear her leg pop.
That is unfortunate. I hope the company medical plan will cover that, he thought. The voice in his head was full of poison.
"No!" Violet cried out.
Jake saw the knife on the ground beside him. He reached down to pick it up, watching Violet grab her injured left leg. He stepped up to her just as she jumped to standing, hobbling on one leg.
"Done?" He asked. Jake held the knife at his side, his stance relaxed.
The anger he saw in her eyes was shocking.
"For now, pretty boy," she said through clenched teeth. She spit blood on the mat.
Their audience was turning back to their sparring. The room was much quieter, several of the pairs half-heartedly going through the motions.
"Sorry about your leg," he offered weakly.
She glowered at him.
"It's just a sprain. It will heal. I won't go easy on you next time," Violet said as she limped off toward the dressing room. She threw the gloves into a corner.
Sergei offered her a smile and an approving nod.
She just lowered her head and continued on, the sweat dripping down her matted hair as she pulled off her head gear.
Sergei sauntered over, his eyes scanning the pathetic performances around him with a wry smile.
"You got the upper hand, comrade. You fight well against women. They should not pursue you so much, I would think. Dangerous."
Sergei Vissarionovich was rarely in a joking mood. Jake did not feel like being the object of his amusement.
"I do what I must to win. Isn't that what you teach us?"
He chuckled.
"I teach no man to play hard-to-get. You take it too seriously, Sergei thinks."
With that he turned and yelled at the rest of the room, his normal demeanor returned.
"Everyone stop! No more bad fighting. Go run bleachers! Twenty minutes then shower."
Jake removed the armor, his clothes soaked in sweat.
Sergei turned back to him.
"I think you should go to sauna now before it gets crowded. I think you
need extra humidity today.” He laughed as he sauntered back to his office. His assistants picked up the sparring equipment and wiped up Violet's blood from the mat.
Jake frowned and then walked solemnly to the showers. He would be bruised and battered for days. Mostly his pride, though. Maybe Sergei was right. He took things too seriously. He needed a little fun. He made a mental note to find out what Gary had planned this weekend as he put the rubber knife back in its bin and hung the sweaty armor back on its hook.
Manic Monday (The Jake Monday Chronicles #1) Page 5
