Killer Instincts v5

by Jack Badelaire

  "If you're going to get into a fight, you're going to wind up on the ground at some point. The most important thing to know how to do is take that fall well, and recover from the impact."

  Along with falls, Richard and I practiced throws. Against your average person with little unarmed combat training, the key was to lower your own center of gravity and widen your stance in order to keep yourself stable, while raising your opponent's center relative to your own and destabilizing them to provoke a fall. The ease with which Richard threw me around was astonishing; it seemed to take no effort on his part at all, he would just shift his body in relation to mine, and I'd find myself tumbling to the ground. Although Richard allowed me to throw him to see how the techniques worked, it was clear that in a real fight against the old man, I'd never have a chance.

  Beyond throws and falls, Richard and I discussed and practiced simulated blows to the body's weak points. Strikes to the groin, the instep, the knee and the base of the skull were all good because there was little muscle mass to pad the impact. The fragility of the knee and elbow joints, the usefulness of dislodging and breaking an enemy's pinky or ring finger, and the ultra-sensitive bundle of nerves right under a person's nose were discussed in detail. Techniques such as kicks or punches to the juncture of the inner thigh to strike at the femoral artery, clapping blows to the ears to rupture an eardrum, or the best way to shove one's thumb into an opponent's eye socket were topics for our dinner conversations.

  "What about knives?" I asked Richard one evening.

  "Stay away from knives," he replied.

  "What do you mean, stay away from them? Wouldn't it be easier to stab a guy then have to go through the trouble of ramming my thumb into his eyeball?"

  "I don't have time to teach you anything about knives. They are messy, they can slip and twist in your hand and cut you as badly as they'd cut your enemy, they can be taken away by a lucky or trained opponent and used against you. They can even break, snap, or get stuck in the other guy and become useless. Better to not rely on a knife at all than be inexperienced and try anyhow."

  "What if the other guy's got a knife?" I asked.

  "Run away. The guy who pulls a knife on you is either real dumb, or real good, and you don't want to take that gamble."

  Nevertheless, Richard showed me a few last-ditch techniques for catching a knife hand and gaining control of the weapon, but he stressed this was a do-or-die technique for me, and performing it incorrectly could get me into deep shit real fast.

  "Go for that knife hand at the wrong angle, you're going to wind up with a blade sticking out of your palm or lodged in your wrist, and then your goose is cooked for sure."

  THIRTEEN

  My last day in Texas arrived with unexpected quickness. I simply woke up one morning, and it struck me that this was my last day of training. In twenty-four hours, I would be flying back to Boston and starting to take my revenge in earnest. Richard and I went through our morning workout and run, and over breakfast we discussed tomorrow's schedule.

  "We'll skip the run and get some grub in you, then I'm going to drive you out to the airfield where I picked you up. Chuck is supposed to be there at seven tomorrow morning. From there you have an 11 AM flight out of San Antonio, so take a cab from one airport to the other, then slow down a little, get a meal in your belly, and get some sleep on the flight up north."

  "What do I do when I get to Boston?" I asked.

  "Your gardener will meet you at the airport and get you settled into your new apartment. He'll also provide you with any last-minute details."

  "What does this guy look like, or is he just going to find me?"

  "He'll find you, but just in case, he looks like you, more or less. Same height, same build, same hair color and eye color, same haircut."

  "That's kind of creepy, actually."

  "The gardeners bear a superficial resemblance to the operatives they cover for because it helps make the illusion more realistic for the neighbors. If your cover is ever investigated and the enemy learns from the neighbors that "you" appeared to be a five-foot tall Asian man, the cover wouldn't last too long."

  "Makes sense."

  "Trust me, if it didn't make sense, we wouldn't do it, because people would get killed."

  The rest of the morning, Richard and I went through all the weapons I had trained with over the last few weeks to see if there was any change to Richard's original recommendations. I still liked the Uzi, the Glock, Beretta .32 auto, the Smith & Wesson .38 snub-nose, the DeLisle carbine, and the cut-down Remington 1100 shotgun.

  Richard and I had focused the least amount of time on the Remington, not because a shotgun was easy to use; in fact, it was the most difficult and the most specialized of all the weapons I would have at my disposal. With limited ammunition, and a slow reload time, coupled with its tremendous recoil, blast, and the weapon's bulk, we both agreed that it was best suited for situations where I would be immediately emptying it into a room or a vehicle, then switching to another weapon for the rest of the engagement.

  After spending a final few hours working my way through using these firearms under Richard’s mentorship for the last time, he agreed that I was as ready as I was going to be, given the time frame.

  "I could say you needed to stay out here for another month, or six months, or heck, even a year. But the work I can do with you here can only take you so far. Right now, the biggest challenge for you is going to be finding the right time and place to strike, and I've got assets working on that as we speak."

  "You do?"

  "Along with your gardener, there's an intelligence operative in place right now, whose job is to keep an eye on the Paggianos and begin tracking patterns and familiar faces, strengths and weaknesses, hard points and vulnerabilities. Once you get into Boston, your operative will make contact with you."

  "How will I know who it is?" I asked.

  "Son, how many people in Boston are going to walk up to you and hand you an intelligence dossier?"

  "Good point."

  Richard offered to treat me to dinner on my last night in Texas. We drove into town and went to the same restaurant we visited three weeks ago. I got myself a ribeye steak and a beer, while Richard had pork chops and iced tea. Biscuits, greens, potatoes, and gravy were never in short supply.

  "May I ask why you don't drink alcohol?"

  "Alcohol makes it too easy to disguise something slipped into your drink."

  "Do you think that's going to happen here?"

  Richard gave me a look and a shrug. "It's an old habit, and if I have to ask myself every time if I think it's safe enough, I'll make a mistake when it counts. I have been in this business forever, and the list of people who'd like to see me dead is longer than you can imagine."

  I considered my next words carefully.

  "When I first heard about you from my uncle, he said he didn't know how you got into this line of work, only that you were already well-regarded when he met you after the war, and that he was certain you were never a military man."

  "Well, he's right on both counts."

  "So if it wasn't the military...?" I let the question hang in the air.

  Richard shook his head. "You never paid to hear my life story. Let's just say that I was in deep with some bad hombres, and after cutting myself loose I settled back into doing the only thing I was ever good at, only I sold my skills to those I thought to be the good guys."

  "I guess by that you mean, the U.S. Government."

  Richard shrugged again. "Most of the time. During the height of the Cold War, who was a good guy and a bad guy changed with surprising frequency. Sometimes I worked for Uncle Sam, sometimes I worked for one of his friends, and sometimes I worked in the private sector for people who had government ties, people who could ask around and find out how to be put in touch with someone with my skills."

  I paused for a long moment. "Do you know why my uncle quit doing...what it is you do? I guess that's how you two met."

  Richard g
ave me a wistful smile. "When it comes to this kind of life, you sometimes feel like you've plummeted down a rabbit hole and can't see the light up above you. Tell me, did you see that movie, The Matrix?"

  "Uh, yeah."

  "Although your uncle was coming out of a long, dirty war, and had spent a while serving at the sharp end of a very shadowy organization, he wasn't really privy to the world that lay beneath it all, the shadow world that I had operated in for years by the time I met Jamie. In a way, you could say that our relationship was much the same in those early years as that of Morpheus and Neo. Your father was a very skilled protégé who had a sense that there was something going on under the surface of the world, while I was the one who showed him just how deep the rabbit hole could go."

  "So what happened?"

  "Your uncle got out of the game before it consumed him. He became like Obi-Wan Kenobi, living out his days far removed from his past, content to let the world and current events pass him by. But you, young Skywalker, you came along and reminded him of what he once was, reminded him of the days when he fought the good fight."

  I smiled. "I think we're mixing our movie metaphors a little?"

  Richard waved his steak knife in the air and made wooooommmwoooommm noises. "An elegant weapon, for a more civilized age."

  I chuckled. "Oh my god, you're a closet nerd."

  Richard smiled. "Your uncle and I saw Star Wars in the theater together the week it opened. We were in Los Angeles at the time, not working, just some R&R. You might laugh, but in those days, we could relate to those cinematic adventures and escapades, living in the shadow world of the private contractor, fighting all over the map against the communists, the Islamic extremists, terror cells, organized crime, civil wars in Africa. We worked with guys like Han Solo or Boba Fett on an almost weekly basis."

  I just shook my head. "I can't imagine what that must be like."

  Richard barked out a laugh. "You can't? Well hell, son. What do you think you're doing right now?"

  It was a sobering thought, one that continued to haunt me as I tried to get a few hours of troubled sleep that night.

  In the morning, there was little that needed to be said. I was up by five, a quick but thorough ablution and a change into presentable clothes. Richard and I had a light breakfast of tea and dried fruit, saying nothing of consequence. My bags went into the back of the Suburban, and we drove away from the cabin. I resisted the sentimental urge to look back at the place that had changed me in such a profound way.

  We drove to the tiny airfield in silence. I had learned from experience that when he had nothing important to say, Richard could go hours without the need for small talk, and so I didn't think much of his quiet now. We reached the airfield ten minutes before Chuck was scheduled to arrive, and as before, we rolled down the windows in order to listen for the drone of his aircraft's engine.

  "I had always thought I didn’t possess the patience or temperament for instruction," Richard said to me suddenly, "but I hope I served you well, even when I wasn't very easy on you."

  I turned and looked at him, illuminated in the early morning sunlight. Richard wore his straw cowboy hat, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of faded jeans, much like the day I arrived in Texas. His Delta Elite sat on his hip, hammer cocked, safety engaged. I knew in his left front pocket, Richard had two extra magazines. There was at least one other firearm in the Suburban's cab, possibly another in the back seat. I wondered what drove a man to live his life in such a way.

  And then it struck me. I already knew.

  "When I came here,” I said, “I had a purpose, but I didn't have a plan, I didn't have the means, and I didn't have the faith in myself to see the job through. You've given me all those things, and much more."

  Richard nodded. "People like myself, we live in another world, the shadow world, and stepping into that world can be quite a shock. You handled yourself all right though, better than many I've seen. Your uncle, he was able to handle it too, at least for a time, but that's because he didn't have a choice. Vietnam made him what he was, what he became. You made the decision to step through the door on your own. I think you'll handle it even better than he did."

  We both heard the drone of Chuck's engine at the same time, and paused to see him come in for a landing. Without any urging, I felt under the seat and drew the Glock I knew was there, just in case. We waited until Chuck had taxied to a stop and stepped out of the plane, at which point I tucked the gun away and exited the Suburban. As I unloaded my two bags, Richard climbed out as well, and he offered me his hand before I started out for the waiting plane.

  "Give ‘em hell," Richard said as he shook my hand.

  "Happy trails, Richard. Enjoy that money a little - you can't take it with you."

  I shook Chuck's hand again as I stepped up to the plane, and he took my bags to throw in the rear as I moved to climb into the cockpit. Just before I shut the cockpit door, I heard Richard holler out to me over the rumble of the engine.

  "Hey, William!"

  I looked over to him, standing with one thumb hooked into his belt, the other raised in farewell.

  "Yeah?"

  Richard gave me his most mirthless smile.

  "Welcome to the brotherhood."

  FOURTEEN

  After my extended boot camp in the Texas desert, the first-class flight from San Antonio to Boston felt like I was enjoying the comforts of a five-star hotel. Comfy seats, a not-half-bad airline meal, and (after showing my ID) a couple scotch and sodas. In-flight movie, blanket and pillow, cool air conditioning, and thankfully, no screaming children or hacking coughs anywhere within proximity to my seat.

  I knew my "gardener" would find me somewhere around baggage claim, and when I went downstairs to the carousel area to wait for my suitcase, I gave the area a sweep, but spotted no one who matched, well, the description I would give if I were looking for someone just like me. After a few moments the carousel started up, and eventually I spotted my suitcase. Taking it from the carousel, I turned around, and almost walked straight into myself.

  At least, that's how he appeared. The "gardener" was my height, just about my build and weight, his hair the same glossy black and of similar length and style, the same blue eyes, the same fair, slightly freckled complexion. It was absolutely uncanny. I judged him a few years older, but beyond that, he could have been my older brother, it was such a similarity.

  "You all set?" he asked.

  I nodded. "You got a car?"

  "It's your car, dude, and yeah, parked in the short term lot across the way. Let's go."

  The car was a silver Volkswagen Jetta, just hip enough for Boston but simple enough to not stand out. We threw my suitcase in the back and climbed in.

  On the drive into the city, the gardener laid it out for me.

  "I've got you a one-bedroom apartment along Park Drive, over in the Fenway area. It's good sized, parking in the back behind the brownstone, and you're on the first floor, so there's less of a chance anyone will notice you coming and going at odd hours. Ever live in the Fenway?"

  "Never had an apartment of my own," I replied.

  "All right. Not a bad area, but not great. Now, this is important. You might hear shit or see shit with your neighbors: asshole boyfriend, couple always getting into fights, some dude who listens to his stereo too loud, whatever. The point is, you see nothing, you hear nothing, you say nothing, you do nothing, all right? No heroics, no calls to 911, no anonymous tips, no having a quiet word or playing Leon the Professional, you got me? You keep your head down, you maintain your cover."

  "I got you, don't worry."

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, you say that now, but I know it can happen. Someone is a dick to his girlfriend, you think she's cute, you catch her in the hall and ask if everything's okay, she thinks you're nice, and the next thing you know, she's banging on your door at three in the morning asking to come in because he's a mean drunk. That is the shit you do not want. Next day you have police k
nocking on your door, asking you questions, like why you didn't call 911, shit like that. Attention you do. Not. Want."

  "I got it, okay? I got it. Believe me, I have no interest in getting scooped up because of some domestic trouble that's not even my deal."

  He was still skeptical, but moved on. "I’ve already taken care of the rent. A check under your white identity will land in the rental company's mailbox a couple of days before it's due every month. I'm guessing this op isn't going to take very long, month or two at the most, but it'll keep being paid until I hear otherwise from your handler. Utilities are all set up to be paid electronically, so you won't even have to touch those. You have cable, full package, plus a phone line and a DSL connection for the computer."

  "Computer already set up?"

  "Yeah, got you a good laptop, and a color printer as well."

  "Works for me."

  We eventually reached the Fenway area, coming off of Storrow Drive and hopping onto Park Drive via Charlesgate. Within a few minutes, we cut down one of the side streets and parked behind the four-story brownstone. Taking my suitcase and my carry-on from the Jetta, the gardener handed me the keys and I used the remote fob to lock the doors.

  "There's a full tank of gas and I had the car serviced a week ago. Shouldn't have any problems."

  We came in through the parking lot entrance and took a single flight of stairs to the first floor. The gardener pointed out the right key, and I let myself in through the door just to the left of the stairwell. The apartment was simple and functional. The front door opened into the living room, while straight ahead was a small kitchen space. To the far left was the bathroom, and to the right, over near the far corner of the living room, was the bedroom. A couch and a reading chair dominated the living room, with an end table and lamp in the corner between the two, and a bookshelf in the middle of the left-hand wall near the bathroom door. To my immediate left, there was a small coat closet. The television and VHS/DVD deck was straight ahead, facing the front door and the couch. The floors were hardwood, with a simple berber rug in the living room.