“Right, Reilly Vicious.” I paused, nodding. “Think eeeviill.” I pursed my lips. “My mom tells me I was a biter when I was young. But I haven’t used that skill since I was five and bit my cousin at his birthday party. I got punished for that, by the way.”
“Different social situation. Different protocol.” War rubbed his chin in thought. “Biting’s a skill you’d be wise to recover. In this case, I’d reward you for defending yourself with a good chomp.”
I nodded in understanding. “Gotcha.”
“I’m not kidding.”
I must admit, he sounded serious. “Neither am I.”
He nodded. “Good. Ears are an excellent target for a bite. They’re readily available and he won’t be expecting it.”
I nodded again.
“Ears are a good bet in other ways, too, if you can get to them. Clapping both your palms simultaneously over Brooks’s ears will produce a nasty numbing pressure change to his brain. It’s even been known to cause unconsciousness. A quick, sharp movement is best.” He demonstrated the motion, though not on me.
“Is it more effective than the Vulcan shoulder pinch?”
War grinned. “Much.” He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “From what you’ve told me, you have good, natural fighting instincts, R.”
Bless his heart, he was trying to bolster my confidence.
“Maybe I did as a kid.”
“Then think like a child. Let go of your socially imposed restraints. Trust your basic instincts in a fight,” War said. “The key is to keep your attacker off guard and fight dirty. There’s no such thing as a fair fight when you’re fighting a bully or for your life.” He gave me a penetrating look. “Got that?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Now look around this room and tell me what you could use as a weapon.”
“Lamp?”
“Sure. What would you do with it?”
“Swing it like a bat. Or crash it over his head.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Chair. Use it as a shield.”
“Fine.”
I scanned the room. “Ashtray.” I paused. “Ashtray? Not many of these left anymore. Maybe in a bar.”
“What would you do with it, R?”
“Whack them with it.”
“Or throw the ash in their face.” He raised his brows in a look that asked if I was following him.
I nodded.
“Fireplace ash would work as well. You could use the ashtray or a coaster as a Frisbee-type missile. What else?”
I looked around the room. It was pretty sparse. I shrugged.
“Newspaper or magazine,” War said, picking one up. “Roll it up and use it as a baton. It’s a great weapon to use to fight off a knife attack.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling inadequate.
War tapped his head. “Think like a warrior.”
“Right.” I nodded again. I was doing so much nodding I felt like a bobble-head doll.
War stood and reached into his pockets, pulling out a handful of change. “I don’t recommend getting into a fistfight with Brooks. He’ll have the advantage on you there. Most girls fight like girls. No wallop to their punches. But if you absolutely have to, a fistful of change will add weight to your punch.”
Then he showed me how to make a proper fist and throw a blow. Which he followed with how to use my elbows, knees, heels, and feet as weapons.
“Ever wear a belt?” War asked me.
“Only as fashion dictates,” I said, wondering where he was going with it.
“There’s a reason besides fashion that cowboys wear those gigantic belt buckles. They make a hell of a weapon. And they’re perfectly legal to carry.”
“And here I thought they were just to hold up pants or draw attention to small waists and curvy hips. I’ll definitely keep the weapon potential of any belt in mind next time I’m in the market for one.”
War smiled. “On to the next topic—every spy should learn one effective move and use it when necessary,” he said after we’d practiced the body-parts-as-powerful-weapons drills. “I’m going to show you one that is potentially fatal. Use it only if you have to. But don’t be afraid to use it if you must.”
I kept up the bobble-head act.
“Listen and watch carefully as I demonstrate,” War said. “Facing him, you grab the crown of the attacker’s hair and pull his head back sharply. You have to do this quickly, catching him by surprise.”
“Yes,” I said.
“This unbalances the attacker and exposes his throat.”
I winced.
“Hang with me, R.”
“Right. I’m here.”
“Good.”
“What if the attacker has no hair?”
“Use a clawlike motion and grab at his nose and eyes, forcing his head back.”
“Okay. What next?”
“You bring your fist up into his windpipe with one hard blow.”
I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “And it’s best, and most lethal, if I have a fistful of coins, right?”
“You got it.” War smiled. “You’re a quick learner.”
“That’s what they tell me,” I said.
“R, do you have a gun?”
“Yes.”
“I mean your own.”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“In the safe in my hotel room.”
“Know how to use it?”
I nodded. “I do. I’ve got a membership to a gun club and I go shooting regularly. Plus I have a permit to carry concealed.”
“When you go out of the hotel, carry it with you.”
“Most definitely.”
“R?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re going to carry a weapon, you have to be willing to use it. You have to be willing to shoot to kill.”
I gave War a weak, but somewhat affectionate smile. “Now you’re sounding like my grandpa Dutch.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. One more thing,” War said. “If Jim or any other legal beagle ever asks, I told you that members of the public should only use reasonable force in a self-defense situation and never take preemptive action.”
I smiled. “Gotcha.”
Chapter 10
After I finished my private session with War, I joined the others for the remainder of the reflexive, or instinctive, shooting session. We practiced it first at the range. Explained in the simplest terms, reflexive shooting is shooting with both eyes open, rather than one closed and one on the sight. This allows a larger range of peripheral vision for the shooter, absolutely imperative in a combat, especially close combat, situation.
The trick is to let your dominant eye take over and focus, allowing the other eye to process the situation and surroundings. Like most things, it’s easier said than done. The other thing is to turn control over to the subconscious mind.
We practiced at the range, doing exercises and receiving individual coaching for well over an hour before we took a break in an actual break room. With tables and chairs and a pop machine and everything.
Van pulled up a chair beside me. “Soda?” He offered me a cola.
When I hesitated, he said, “The caffeine buzz will keep you going through the afternoon.”
“Like I’m likely to fall asleep,” I said. “Ever.”
When Van smiled, he had lovely, sexy dimples. He popped open the top of the can and handed the soda to me. “So,” he said. “I know my timing’s bad. I know I’m crazy for asking again and a date is the last thing on your mind. But I only have a few days to get to know you. So dinner…”
“Dinner?”
“Dinner.” He popped open his can.
“Dinner is a closed topic.” I took a sip of pop.
“Is it?”
“I think I was pretty clear with my ‘no.’”
“Were you?”
“I think so. I did everything but say, ‘no, no, never, never, nah, nah, nah.’” I gave him a smile
tinged with regret.
“But since you didn’t, there’s still room for negotiation.”
“V,” I said, pausing. “Did I ever tell you what a cool code name you have? You’ve got a hand signal and everything.” I made a V with the first two fingers of each hand.
“Very Nixonian,” he said, unimpressed. “Don’t change the subject—”
“R, well,” I said, ignoring his pleas to stay on track and crooking my first finger to make a little r, sort of. “It doesn’t really have a great hand gesture. I could signal to you across the room and—”
He grabbed my hand, covering my r. “Dinner. You. Me. The two of us. Tonight.”
“No.”
“R—”
“Nyet.”
He crooked a brow, daring me to come up with no in another language or use the nah-nah-nah chant.
“You know, there aren’t enough creative ways to say no. Have you ever noticed that no is pretty much no in most languages?” I said, mellowing.
“R, dinner. Unless you’re going to do the never-never thing.”
“Is that a dare?”
“It is.”
I couldn’t. I could not do it. I wanted dinner with that man. Actually, I wanted a lot more than dinner. “I suppose you can guarantee reservations in Fort Knox. Do they have a café there, do you think?”
“How about someplace closer to the hotel? Like in Seattle?” he suggested.
I shook my head. “Not unless you plan on wearing full body armor and hiring an armed guard escort.”
“Three’s a crowd,” he said.
“Van…in a world where Ket did not exist, I’d love to have dinner with you. But…” I paused, unsure how to phrase my thoughts without offending him and insulting his manhood. “You don’t understand how jealous Ket is, how irrational and dangerous. He’s not just jealous of other men. He’s jealous of activities that take too much of my time and attention. He’s jealous of babies and kittens and coffee and chocolate and anything else that’s cute and cuddly and might make me take notice.
“I appreciate your bravery, I do. I’m so totally flattered that you want to dine with me at the risk of personal peril. But I can’t let you do it.”
“I can take care of myself,” he said. And then he grinned. “Wipe that look off your face.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you don’t think so. The one that’s dying to say, ‘math skills are not enough. You can’t add him to death.’”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Mind reader.”
“Just call me Van the Magnificent.” He paused. “So dinner.”
“This isn’t who’s on first with Abbott and Costello,” I countered.
“No, but wouldn’t that be fun?” He studied me. “You think Ket would go postal if you went out with the entire FSC gang at once? He wouldn’t object to a group dinner, would he?”
“He can object to anything. But I think it would be a little less threatening to him and a lot less dangerous to us. You know, as long as you didn’t sit next to me. Or make eyes at me. Or play footsie with me under the table—”
“Stop, you’re getting me excited.”
“You’re easily thrilled.”
“Just around you.” He was grinning as if he’d won. “So what I’m hearing is that if we all agreed to go out to dinner as a group…”
I nodded. “Then I just might agree to go along. As long as no one pays me any special attention.”
“Understood.”
The other CTs were sitting around at various tables, relaxing before the next high adrenaline exercise.
“Hey, guys, how about dinner tonight?” Van called out to them.
After break, we met in the warehouse at the end of Mock Main Street.
“Listen up, CTs.” War stood in front of the group, in charge again. “Tomorrow, we’ll get to play with the hostage simulator equipment, virtual reality stuff. Like a flight simulator, only better because you get to shoot bad guys and dodge bullets instead of flying a plane. Today we’re going to play a live-action game to reinforce the reflexive skills you learned earlier. You will be both the hunter and the hunted.” He grinned as if he liked the thought way too much. “I call this game ‘Mafia with a Twist.’”
At the mention of Mafia, Peewee made a twin grin to War’s. “Sign me up.”
Kyle and Ace issued each of us a two-way radio to report our kills, a top-of-the-line Airsoft rifle so real-looking it scared me to hold it, and a bag of ammo pellets. While I held my gun gingerly, Peewee stroked his lovingly. Van inspected his. Cliff, Jim, and Steve loaded theirs like eager puppies.
War explained the rules. “I will be giving each of you the name of another CT. This is your mark. You will hunt, and shoot to kill your mark with your Airsoft rifle. No shooting at the head. Shots to the chest. Once your mark is ‘dead,’ you will radio in your kill and assume your mark’s mark. Last CT standing wins.”
“Sounds like a typical Mafia game,” Van said. “What’s the twist?”
“Pop-up characters. Dummies, cardboard cutouts, mannequins. Innocent victims that can pop up out of anywhere. Like in a real hostage rescue situation. Shoot one of them, you’re out of the game. Shoot someone not your mark, you’re out of the game.” War grinned slowly. “And for your further entertainment pleasure, you’ll be playing in the dark. Or the light. Our discretion when to mix things up. Any questions?”
I raised my hand. “If someone is trying to kill us, can we return fire?”
“Yes.”
“Fatal fire?”
“Yes.”
“What about their mark?” Peewee asked. “Do we get two then?”
“You do indeed.”
Peewee’s grin grew two sizes.
War put our code names into a hat. He handed the hat to Peewee first. “Draw your mark.”
I had two sets of fingers crossed that he didn’t draw me. Peewee pulled a name out, read it silently, and grinned that nasty, evil-faced grin that wouldn’t die again. Then Cliff drew. Steve. Jim. Van. They all looked at their names. I watched them all for their “tell.” The new Bond claims everyone has a tell. As far as I could tell, no one gave their mark away.
My turn. I put on my game face and did a silent chant. Not V. Not V. Not V.
I didn’t want to kill that man. Hunt him, yes. But once I had him, killing him wasn’t the first thing I had in mind.
I knew myself. I couldn’t look at my mark’s name and not give myself away. Not if I’d gotten Van. I stuffed the name in my pocket.
War gave me a smile, shook his head, and proceeded to give each of us a starting position, aloud for everyone to hear. I cursed under my breath, trying to remember everyone’s starting position. Maybe I should just peek at my name.
“You have five to get in place,” War said. “If things get slow, we’ll randomly announce clues to where CTs currently are to get the game moving. Now go get ’em.”
And then it was off for a view to the kill.
Just out of sight of the others, I pulled the paper from my pocket and read who my mark was. Jim. I blew out a sigh of relief and headed for my second-story apartment mid Mock Main Street, mumbling Jim’s location, the apartment below mine, over and over to myself.
My apartment was sparse. Not many places to hide. I slid into a closet like a child playing hide-and-seek. It’d be the first place anyone would look, and I’d be cornered, but so be it. My mind frantically tried to work out a plan. Would I be Bond-like and go on a badass body hunt? Or stay in the closet and ride out the body count?
“Boom, boom, out go the lights,” War announced over a loudspeaker, and the slit of light filtering underneath the closet door went out.
This was just a game, but my heart was pounding like there was no tomorrow. I felt jumpy and edgy and, surprisingly, ready to go, fight, win! Badass, body hunt won. I was here, on vacation being scared spitless, to learn how to go down fighting.
There was a stairwell just outside the apartment. I
made up my mind to charge down it and burst into Jim’s apartment like Rambo, taking him by surprise with a shower of pellets. Finesse be damned. I was going with brute force.
I loaded my gun and slid out of the closet, pumping myself up by silently murmuring, “I love my gun. I love my gun. My gun is my friend. I am Rambo-ette.”
I have excellent night vision and sharp hearing. I made it to the hall and down the stairs without incident. The dark, eerily quiet warehouse creeped me out. A door with a window led from the street into the first floor landing. I caught a glimpse of movement outside, and a chill ran up my spine. I looked back and it was gone. Everything was still. I fought off a wave of fear. I was in the clear. Ket could not be in the building. No one was taking me down.
I headed for Jim’s apartment. Boots can be lethal weapons, so War claimed. For sneaking, they weren’t ideal. I positioned myself in front of Jim’s apartment door just as the loudspeaker came on, startling me so badly I almost gave my position away.
“C is out of the game.” War’s voice boomed and echoed off the walls like the voice of God.
I took a deep breath and tried the door. Unlocked. Fool! I threw it open and burst in, gun at ready. My eyes had adjusted to the dark. The room was clear. The apartment was identical to the one above it. I tried the closet. Clear. I stormed into the kitchen.
Jim sat at the table, drinking a cup of coffee. I raised my gun to shower him with pellets just as he pulled a child-size mannequin in front of him. I pulled my gun up. My shot went high.
“Close call.” Jim took another sip of coffee. “Want some? There’s a fresh pot.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Hospitality and using a child as a shield, that’s your strategy?” I kept my gun on him.
“Nearly got you.”
“Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” I retorted, wishing I had a grenade and wondering what to do next. “How do I know I’m not your mark?”
“You don’t.” Jim patted a chair next to him. “Sit. I’ve been wanting to talk to you. In private.”
“In the middle of a game in the pitch-black darkness?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” I said, not seeing anything at all. “You’re going for the confessional atmosphere.” I cocked my gun.
Spy Games Page 9
