Beneath the Surface

by Amy McKinley

  I dropped my stance but not my guard. One never knew.

  “You’ll fight him.” He indicated to his left, and I spared a quick glance at the thin boy who stood nearby, making sure to keep the instructor in my peripheral vision. “He is at the bottom of his group. If you can beat him, you will move up until we face one another.” He slipped a leg through the ropes and bent to exit the ring. Before he completed the motion, he paused. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  Oh, I won’t. I didn’t like him. He talked too much, taunting us, and was often cruel. He made me uncomfortable. Not to mention that he was the one who’d said my parents’ crash was no accident.

  I glanced at his arm—the one I’d broken the day he provoked us about our parents’ crash—with purpose. A red flush traveled from his neck to his cheeks, and an angry sneer replaced the pseudo grin. I’d reacted adversely to his comment, and his arm paid the price. I wanted to do it again.

  I wanted to get in the ring with him and defeat him. He wasn’t the best compared to several of the other instructors. He fought dirty, more so than any other I’d observed. I narrowed my sight on him. Our time would come.

  For the time being, I would surprise him and win the first fight. There would be anywhere from one to four matches during combat training. I planned to win my first few.

  Releasing the instructor from my thoughts, I focused on the boy who would go against me. I recognized him from political-science class. It seemed I was done fighting in my age group. The boy was Elsa’s age. I was to move my way up through their ranks, and it was something I was sure they wouldn’t like. I was ready.

  Gymnastics had prepared me in many ways. I was comfortable with my abilities and knew what my natural rhythm was. All I’d needed when I first began combat training was time to learn how to fight, memorizing the combinations of punches and mixed martial arts. With spatial awareness and a natural rhythm already ingrained, I just had to apply those skills to learning about my opponent and controlling the rhythm and range of the fight to the best of my ability. That’s where psychology came into play.

  One thing I’d learned was that it didn’t always pay to win. There were times it was best to let the mentors think I’d been defeated. Sometimes there was more to gain that way.

  The instructor joined the other trainer beyond the ropes and stood with his arms crossed, ready to observe us. The boy entered the ring. He was tall and lanky. His wingspan was long, but I was fast. We would see if he was as well.

  I knew my only weakness—power. Controlling the range and rhythm was key, so I didn’t take too many powerful hits. When I needed to, I would fight dirty. That would happen when I faced the fighters in the group who gave punishing hits, those who had a lot of weight and arm reach. Unless their endurance sucked—then I would stand a chance against them.

  Out of the corner of my eye, a beast of a boy—no, man—approached the instructor I sort of liked, not the douchebag. Shit. He had muscles stacked on top of muscles. My stomach sank as reality reared its ugly head. I would have to fight those types of guys. I just prayed they were slow. One hit, and I would be unconscious.

  There was more to fighting than strikes. There was a method behind how the fight was controlled and who did the controlling. I had to take charge or adapt if the rhythm of the fight was taken from me.

  The call came, and we began.

  The boy circled around the outer edges of the ring, the distance between us too far for a strike. Neither one of us made a move to close the gap. I got the feeling he didn’t want to do it. I would use that to my advantage.

  I closed off the ring, hitting him with a right and left hook. Immediately, I danced out of reach. Again, I repeated the same move, looking for his tells. He blocked the hook. I hit his block hard. Aggressively. I wanted to shake his confidence further.

  I evaded a counter left then danced out of reach. In and out, I moved. His chest began to heave. His endurance wasn’t high, and his skills were sloppy. Again, I weaved, then pounced with a combination. I hit as hard as I could with each strike. His confidence was shaky. The win would be easy.

  I used my quickness as an advantage. I took a few of his hits, but they weren’t at key points that would’ve made me falter. I needed to end it. There would be more. At some point, I noticed that he wasn’t holding his arms as high. It was as if they weighed more than he could hold up. I rushed in and hit him with an uppercut along his jaw, right in the sweet spot that would knock him out. It didn’t, but it made him dizzy. He sank to the ground, and I struck again.

  I was hoping to be equally as lucky in the next fight.

  The afternoon went on like that, with me using my speed and high endurance, evading as many hits as I could, ducking and weaving. Then the instructor, the one I hated, thought to throw a challenge my way. Dammit.

  I went back to the corner as the two trainers argued. The one I liked threw up his hands in frustration and walked away. I frowned. That couldn’t be good. Taking advantage of the downtime, I got a drink of water. It was when I turned that I knew I was in a world of trouble.

  The beast of a man was in the ring, waiting for me. Holy hell.

  I’ll have to fight dirty. There were several takedowns that would stun, giving me the option to survive. Am I willing to burst his eardrums, land hits to the testicles, or break an ankle?

  I entered the ring and stared into the cold gaze of a killer. Yeah, I’ll do whatever I need to do.

  One Month Later

  Tears continued to fall in a raging river down my cheeks. My voice was long gone from uncontrollable sobbing. It seemed it was a daily occurrence when I woke. I needed time for composure. I never let them see my pain.

  I sat alone in my room, numb from the tragedy that had occurred during our training exercise a few days before. The Academy was covered in a blanket of snow. My sister’s casket had been as well.

  I’d been at the short ceremony, as had our instructors. The Academy’s leaders had not been present. I wished they had been. I wanted to rage at them for what had occurred. It was wrong. She’d been the light in my very soul—my home. The paper one of the professors had given me crumpled in my fist.

  I was alone. I would always be alone.

  Pain lanced my abused heart. I looked around. Her brush was on the bed where she’d thrown it. It was in my hand before I knew I’d picked it up. My knees buckled, and I fell to her bed. Elsa’s floral scent clung to her blankets.

  I gathered them to me, holding them tightly. I could never hold her again. There would be no more smiles, no more late-night talks. No more radiating joy from my sister, my other half.

  No more family.

  My body shook as I tried to restrain my overwhelming grief. The world was a much darker place without her. Tears leaked once more from my eyes, soaking the comforter. I gasped for breath. Sobs wracked my body. My anguished cries filled the room.

  It wasn’t an accident. I knew it in my bones. They had taken her from me.

  I would take their everything.

  An hour passed. Then two. My grief didn’t know time. It never would. It lived inside me in a great, soul-sucking void. I sucked in lungfuls of air in an attempt to convince myself to go on. I would live. I would be the instrument of revenge for my family.

  After a few more minutes, I smoothed the piece of paper beside me as I lay entombed in Elsa’s blankets. I lifted one corner of the sheet given to me by one of the professors and looked at the writing meant to seal my fate.

  An exchange student had entered Germany. Ironically, her name was also Hannah. She didn’t know it yet, but we were forever entwined. Her world would end there as mine had. The difference between us was that I would be assimilating her life in America.

  Chapter 35

  Hannah

  Present day

  Fog rolled off the East River’s churning water and hung heavily in the air. It was the perfect cover for Hannah to infiltrate the warehouse that her former Russian comrade had told her about. He had masq
ueraded as a security guard, and she’d left him tied up in an unused room of the UN building, where Jack or another on his team was sure to find him. Jack would learn where she was. Better that then to think she was fleeing without reason.

  She’d attended the meeting long enough and slipped out during the turmoil. Henry would be fine, and it was safer if she didn’t remain by his side, at least for the time being.

  The flare of orange from the end of a lit cigarette burned brightly by the entrance to the building where he was supposed to be—her father.

  Her steps faltered. Bile climbed her throat. She forced it down. He betrayed us—my mother, my sister... A tremor ran through her hand as she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Her intent firmed. She held firmly in check the cauldron of emotions that almost bubbled to the surface. There would be a time to mourn. Not yet.

  It was the time for answers, for retribution.

  For his death.

  There was a bite to the damp fall air. She welcomed the chill. On silent feet, she crept forward. Smoke teased her nose as the guard blew out a long stream of vapor that blended in with the already dense atmosphere. Her fingers curled around her gun, the silencer already in place. With every step closer, her resolve hardened.

  The guard faced the water. A few seconds ticked by. He started to turn, taking another drag on his cigarette. Before he made a full rotation and saw her, she took aim and shot him three times. With a thump, he fell to the ground. The noise was minimal. She closed the distance between them and stepped over his prone body, her focus elsewhere. The few windows. The roof. The surrounding area. Finally, she saw the door she would walk through.

  There would be more entry points inside the warehouse. How many, she didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She’d come for information and to settle a score. She palmed a blade against her gun’s grip as she prepared to open the door. She was ready. Her fingers curled around the doorknob. With a turn and a push, she entered, transferring the knife to a secure hold in her free hand.

  Her heart thudded in her ears. The beat counted off the seconds and kept her present. Time slowed.

  Thump.

  Male voices bounced off the interior walls. Directly in front of her was a row of crates stacked on pallets. They blocked her from view.

  Thump.

  A man stood at the end of the pallets in an area that widened into what looked like an open section. He watched the others within, not her. Not yet. Across from her was another row of crates that provided more coverage.

  Someone shouted in Russian, and it echoed off the steel walls. “Mack, did you hear that? Go check.”

  The man’s back was to her. He grunted a response.

  Thump, thump.

  Laughter rang out, providing the coverage she needed. She secured her gun in the waistband of her pants. Before he could turn, she slipped behind him, snaked her left hand around, and plunged the knife in between his ribs to pierce his lung. He was momentarily stunned, so she took advantage and stripped him of his gun before sliding one arm under his armpit. He made a slight sound, and she temporarily pressed her gun against his temple, digging the knife in deeper. He shuddered. Her intent had been conveyed.

  His lung was filling with blood. He would drown from it, his ability to yell for help gone. She twisted the blade a quarter turn and weakened him further. With her chest flush to his back, she threw her weight against him to move him forward.

  An alarm hadn’t been raised yet. It would.

  Thump.

  Light filtered inside the spacious and dusty room, illuminating a table where five men played cards around a pile of poker chips in the center. Two bottles of vodka sat opened with shot glasses in front of each man. She had half a second to take in the layout before they were aware of her.

  She kept a tight rein on her emotions. She couldn’t afford to let the agony of abandonment and deceit rattle her.

  Directly across from her, some five feet away, was a wall of crates. Around the corner from the crates, the warehouse opened up. The table was the lone piece of furniture. Only a fraction of the back wall was visible on the left. Offices. She nudged her human shield half a step forward. It was enough. Eyes widened, and chairs scraped back. Thump.

  They noticed.

  Time’s up.

  She fired.

  They did as well. Bullets volleyed back and forth. Many thudded into her shield. Glass, chips, and money exploded from the table, intermingled with splashes of blood. Images from her childhood played with her mind as she recognized two of the younger men. She didn’t know the others.

  There weren’t that many. Most of the men were closer to her father’s age. None of them were innocent. Bodies fell as she stepped farther into the dark interior. Two were dead. One fired from the floor. Two more took cover.

  The crates—her next point—weren’t far. There, she would regroup and strike again.

  Bullets continued to pepper her human shield. With each strike to the man she’d commandeered, her time diminished. He became a deadweight she couldn’t hold up. Fire burned along her shoulder from the bite of a bullet. She ignored it. Just a scrape. With a hard tug, she pulled her knife free, letting the man’s body drop to the ground as she returned fire, sprinting across to the wall of crates.

  Silence fell around them. Each thump of her heart was loud in her ears. Spilled vodka dripped from the table onto the concrete floor. A whisper of breath escaped one of the men, and she pushed away from the crates. One step. Two. The man on the floor came into view.

  She pulled her arm back then released the knife. It landed with a thunk in the throat of the man splayed out on the floor. The bodies and table no longer offered him protection. She’d counted five men playing poker, but only three bodies were visible.

  Two men from the table lived. For now.

  A spray of bullets from a machine gun blasted through, splintering two of the crates. Shit. She dropped to the ground, her pulse pounding in her ears. The crates sat on raised pallets, and with her cheek flush to the concrete floor, she spotted where they stood. Bits of wood from the crates rained down on her. She extended her arm beneath the narrow opening on the floor and fired off four consecutive shots, one in each ankle.

  They fell, and she pushed to her feet and launched herself around the end of the barrier. She ejected her empty clip and rammed a new one home. Leading with her gun, she squeezed the trigger as the barrel breached the edge of the crates. The noise stopped. She slid fully into the open. Blood pooled around the men. They were still alive, so she fired again and again until they were no more.

  The silence that descended was eerie. The only noise was the steady drip of booze from the table combining with blood from the one slumped over its surface.

  Where are you? She clenched her teeth. The offices. She rushed to the doors along the far-left wall. There were three doors. Can’t kill him yet. A gaping hole of pain opened inside her at the desire to do so, but she shoved it closed. There would be time later to examine the betrayal and the destruction it’d caused in its wake. When she found him.

  The sound of two men’s hushed voices reached her ear. Step after step, she closed the distance between her and them. The murmur she’d heard became clear.

  “It’s done. Now clean this up.”

  Henry? It’d sounded just like him. The click of a door shutting told her there was another way into the warehouse, which must have led to the office. Dammit. She’d been too eager and hadn’t checked the building thoroughly enough. She increased her pace.

  With her gun extended, she ignored the blood splatters on her hands and body as she closed in on the first door. No one moved. It didn’t matter. She sensed him.

  The room was devoid of windows. Clasping the handle, she pushed the unlocked door open. She swept the room. Nothing. No one was inside. Bags, boxes, and a few chairs were it.

  She tamped down her adrenaline as much as she could. Glass from the gunfire dusted the floor. The windows were shot out in the next room. Sh
e stuck the nose of her gun through a hole and pushed the blinds open. Careful not to offer too much of a target, she peered in as much as she could.

  A nervous tic pulsed near the base of her throat. Her bet was on the last office. She turned toward it, and her body seized up. A man stood in the doorway.

  It was Ivan Aleksei, her father.

  Chapter 36

  Hannah

  The whir of the warehouse’s ceiling fans faded into the background as Hannah held her father’s—Ivan’s—gaze.

  She froze with her arm extended and the gun pointed at the man who stood several feet from her. He’s aged. But why wouldn’t he? His hair was no longer dark but streaked with silver. Fine lines mapped his weathered face. The same blue eyes as her sister—as herself—stared unwaveringly back at her.

  They faced one another, nothing warm emanating from either of them. Authoritative. Harsh. Cold. That’s the read she got from him. Was he always like that?

  Her memories of hugs, of praise, of being hoisted onto his strong shoulders so she could see better were shoved into a box in her mind, where they couldn’t hurt her. She couldn’t allow them even a sliver of light.

  “Well done, Hannah.” The gruffness of his voice grated along her nerves.

  For killing his people, his team? Her spine snapped straight. Who is he to comment on my actions? He gave up that right long ago. “What are you doing here? And alive?” With guns pointed at one another, they remained in a standoff. Acid clawed its way up her throat as he continued to stare at her with expressionless, dead eyes.

  Neither would lower their weapon—that much was evident. It was no happy family reunion. After all those years, how could he have done that to our family?

  At least she and Elsa had each other for a while. It was hard, cold, and scary growing up in the Academy, especially when they could have been at home. With him. Her muscles tensed. She needed answers, and he would give them whether he wanted to or not.