The Assessment

by Kerry J Donovan

  Pinkerton and Simms are running us through the standard stretches again when the main door opens and Captain Kaine struts in and, blow me down, he’s dressed the same as us: in T-shirt, shorts, and trainers.

  Is the little man going to join in the fun and games?

  The staff sergeant calls us into line, and we stand at ease at the side of the mat.

  For the first time, I have the chance to take a close gander at the main man. The muscles on his arms aren’t huge, but they’re corded like ropes, as are his legs. Some might call them sinewy. There’s not a gram of spare fat on him anywhere, but he’s sporting enough scars to show us he’s seen plenty of action. The most obvious is the deep white gash running along the outside of his right thigh. It’s so big and ugly, I’m surprised the man’s able to walk without a limp. It’s got to slow him up, though.

  The captain nods to Rollason and takes centre stage.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he opens, all nice and pleasant, like he’s addressing a bunch of guests at a social gathering. “I trust you’ve recovered from the afternoon’s exertions.” He ignores me and Tom as he says it, and I still can’t read his expression.

  “Staff Sergeant Rollason tells me you all passed muster as far as the morning’s weapons assessment is concerned and offers a particular commendation to Jenkinson for his skills when blindfolded. Well done, Corporal. I imagine you and your girlfriend have plenty of practice on that front.”

  Everyone laughs, including Rollason and the corporal.

  A joke? The dwarf’s making a joke at my expense? During weapons handling, I demonstrated superb technical skills, beat the others hands down, and the fucker does nothing but take the piss? What’s he up to? Is he trying to goad me into screwing up?

  Although I don’t see the funny side, I do my best to smile and take it on the chin, but it’s a struggle. Nobody takes the piss out of Big Jenks.

  “We’ve now reached the final part of the assessment,” he continues. “One more test and you’re done. Staff Sergeant”—he turns to his giant sidekick and holds out his hand—“the knife, please.”

  Rollason hands him a piece of dark wood shaped like a dagger. The blade is fifteen centimetres long and, although its edge is blunt, the thing has been whittled down to a vicious point. It can’t slice, but it can definitely stab. In the wrong hands, the seemingly harmless practice knife could prove lethal.

  “I’m sure you’ve all seen one of these before,” the captain says.

  He balances the tip of the knife on the end of his index finger, then flips it into the air and catches it by the handle.

  “Blake, Allenby,” he says. “Front and centre.”

  Tom and Connor Blake step forward and face each other. The captain’s deliberately split up the teams.

  Good.

  The captain hands Blake the knife and steps back. No instructions are necessary, this is a standard combat practice drill. Best of three two-minute bouts. The only part of the body out of bounds is the head.

  To win, all Blake has to do is touch Tom with the blade inside the time limit. Tom has to defend himself, avoid the strikes and, if possible, disarm his opponent.

  The two circle the mat for a while, gauging each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Blake lunges, Tom jigs to his right, and his arms and feet move rapid-quick. There’s a blur of motion and Blake is slammed flat on his back with the point of the knife—in Tom’s left hand—pressed against his throat.

  The black man taps the mat in submission and the first point goes to Commando Tom.

  Although I followed each move easily from the safety of the side-lines, Tom’s moves were slick and well-practised. He’s good. Intimidating even.

  Tom stands and helps Blake to his feet. Sweat shines on his ebony face. Tom looks cool, confident. This ain’t a real contest. It’s clear Blake is no match for Tom and, judging from the expression on his black face, he knows it.

  On the captain’s command, they face each other again. This time, Tom’s holding the practice knife.

  Round two is even shorter. A dance, a lunge, and Blake is wringing his right hand after receiving a solid jab when risking an early grab for the knife.

  It’s all over, quick as you like. Commando Tom wins two to zero, and Connor Blake is toast.

  They bow to each other, the captain, and his goons, and return to their original positions alongside me and Boris Kaplan. I’m half expecting the captain to tell the loser to sling his hook, but he doesn’t and Blake stands there, breathing hard, the sweat pouring off him and soaking through his T-shirt.

  From watching, I’ve learned something valuable for when Tom and I meet in the final, something he’s been keeping quiet. He’s a lefty. Or at least, if not an actual lefty, he’s ambidextrous. Makes him more difficult to take in a knife fight, but I’m better, even faster. I’ll take him. Not a problem.

  The captain’s voice rings out again. “Kaplan, Jenkinson, front and centre,” he calls, and me and Boris take to the mat.

  For the first bout, I’m given the knife, which is lighter than the ones I usually practice with, but it makes no difference, big Boris is going down.

  After the normal formalities, bowing and such, we slide around the mat for a few seconds. I toy with the fair-haired wannabe, getting his measure, before feinting left, darting inside his flailing hands, and grazing the edge of the blade along his left thigh.

  “Touch!” I call when Kaplan refuses to yield. “I touched you!”

  The cheating bastard shakes his head. “Nah, you missed,” and glances at the captain for support.

  I hit him, I fucking did. A blind man could have seen it.

  Grazed his fucking thigh, plain as day. If the knife had been real, the blade would have sliced a nice little line into his pale flesh.

  Captain Kaine claps his hands together once, a true sensei in his dojo, and we back away to take up our start positions, facing each other. On the outside I’m calm, but inside, I’m boiling. The blond fucker should have conceded the point.

  The captain looks in my direction, shakes his head and says, “The strike wasn’t clear and obvious. Reset.” Then he slices a hand through the air between us before stepping back.

  In the background, Rollason and the other two look on in stony silence. Neither speaks against the captain, who’s clearly biased in favour of Kaplan. Cheating bastards, the lot of them. Can’t believe it. All my life, the arseholes have been …

  Almost before I’m ready, Kaplan darts forward and makes a grab for my knife hand, but I parry with my free hand, spin through one-eighty degrees, and thrust.

  As the point of the blade jabs into his right kidney, Kaplan grunts and twists, trying to protect himself. Behind him now, I snap a heel into the back of his supporting leg. He drops to one knee, and I move in for the kill.

  With a fistful of hair, I pull back his head and rest the dull edge of the blade against his throat. Kaplan’s breathing hard, sweating so much it’s like he’s just stepped out of the shower. I can smell his sickly aftershave. I mean, who wears aftershave to a knife fight? His blue eyes meet mine. The cheating fucker’s beaten, and he knows it. He taps his thigh in submission, and he expects me to release him, but I’m not ready for that.

  I yank his hair back hard, his head follows, and he topples backwards with my knee in his chest. My whole bodyweight is on him, focussed on a single point. Something cracks. A rib? His sternum? Kaplan grunts again, and his face creases in agony.

  I lean close and whisper, “Cheating fucker,” into his ear, before releasing his hair and rolling far enough away to avoid any reaction.

  Then I’m up on my feet, dancing around Kaplan, buzzing. Next thing I know, I’m in front of the captain and the words are out before I can stop them. “Was that clear and obvious enough for you, sir?”

  “Stand down, Corporal Jenkinson,” he says, calm and collected. Then he turns to face his lackeys. “Corporal Pinkerton, Private Simms, please make sure this man”—he nods to Kaplan, who�
�s writhing on the mat, struggling to breathe—“gets medical attention. We’re done here.”

  Supervised by a fussing Rollason, the two non-coms step forward, help Kaplan to his feet, and lead him to one of the benches lining the side of the gym. They’re treating him like he’s the victim, not a cheating piece of shit. It’s all I can do not to scream at the blond arsehole. I bite off a taunt, but I can’t help sneering.

  Big Jenks one, Boris Kaplan—the cheating fucker—a big, fat zero.

  I’m basking in the glow of victory, still coming down from the adrenaline high when I finally notice the Captain’s speaking again. He’s saying something about control.

  I snap my attention back into the room.

  Captain Kaine’s in my face, his brown eyes dark as coal. For some reason, he’s angry. Angry with me. What the hell for?

  “Are you listening to me, son?” he says.

  “Sorry, sir?”

  What the fuck’s up now?

  “Get out of my sight, Corporal. You’re binned,” he says in such a way there’s a real finality about it.

  Binned? I’m binned?

  No, that’s not right. I can’t have heard him properly.

  “What? What did you say?”

  The captain forms fists. He’s shaking his head, still calm, but the muscles in his jaw are clenching. It’s the first time he’s shown any real emotion all weekend. He’s expecting me to react. To fight.

  He’s scared of me. The little shit’s a coward.

  “You heard me, son. Leave now. Submit a chit for your travel expenses to the office, and we’ll reimburse—”

  “But why? I’m the best fucking man here.”

  The captain backs away one step. Slowly, he opens his fists and flexes his fingers. He’s trying to make it look like a show of self-control, but he’s shit scared of me. Without his lackeys to back him up, the mealy-mouthed bugger’s crapping himself.

  “You lost control,” he says quietly. “You overreacted and injured a colleague.”

  “But he cheated! I won that first bout fair and square.”

  “I know.”

  “What?”

  The captain shakes his head at me. It’s like he’s a teacher disappointed in an unruly pupil.

  “You sliced Kaplan’s thigh with the knife, and he should have admitted it.”

  What the hell?

  “So, why didn’t you give me the fucking point?”

  “You’re better than Sergeant Kaplan. That much was obvious from the first bout. I knew you could take him, but I wanted to see how you’d react to my marking error.”

  The captain relaxes his shoulders. He’s confident I’m not going to attack.

  Don’t be so sure, fucker.

  I grind my teeth so hard I’m worried about cracking some fillings.

  “Until you lost it, you were still high in the running. In fact, until that point, I was considering offering both you and Sergeant Allenby a contract, but … you blew it, son.” He paused a moment before adding, “What are you waiting for? You are dismissed. Go!”

  Then he turns towards Tom and Blake.

  The fucker turns away from me. How fucking dare he? He’s treating me like I’m nothing. Like I’m something he’s stepped in at the park. I snap out a hand, reaching for his shoulder.

  Next thing I know, my wrist cracks, my right arm’s behind my back, my hand pinned between my shoulder blades. Off balance and weightless, I’m being pushed forwards until I’m slammed into the nearest wall.

  Air bursts from my lungs and I’m fighting for breath. My face presses against the painted brickwork, its rough texture grazes my cheek, forcing one eye closed. I wriggle, flail with my free arm and kick out, but I’m held tight. My right arm is forced higher. The shoulder joint pops open with a loud squelch. Fire explodes in muscles and tendons.

  Pain. Nothing but pain.

  Shoulder joint and wrist on fire.

  Jesus Christ.

  The captain’s voice is in my ear. “Stop struggling, son,” he says, cool and calming. No fear there, only control and confidence. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

  “You fucker!” I scream.

  I try to fight the steel grip. Curse, struggle some more.

  Didn’t see it coming. How did it happen?

  A finger and thumb dig into my throat, pinching my carotids. Can’t fight it.

  A fucking … sleeper hold.

  I wriggle again. Try pushing myself away from the rough brick wall. Fight. Trying kicking out some more, but the darkness encroaches, tunnelling my vision.

  Fucking idiot.

  Big Jenks … beaten by a … runt.

  What a fucking moron.

  Blackness …

  Chapter 14

  There’s Always One

  Gently, Kaine lowered the unconscious Jenkinson to the floor. He placed him in the recovery position and checked the pulse at his throat. Strong and steady. He’d wake soon, angry and embarrassed, and suffering a thumping headache. He’d also have inflamed shoulder and wrist ligaments, and would be unable to put up anything of a fight.

  Physically, he’d heal soon enough, but emotionally? Who could tell?

  Kaine patted the unconscious man lightly on his damaged shoulder. He meant what he told the young man. Were it not for the massive overreaction with Kaplan, Jenkinson would have been offered a job at DefTech, but Kaine couldn’t have a hothead aboard. He needed people he could trust implicitly.

  And talking of job offers …

  He stood, smoothed out the creases in his T-shirt, and tucked it into his shorts in the true military manner. Unfashionable, but smart. Without taking his eyes from the groaning and slowly recovering Jenkinson, he stepped towards the remaining candidates, neither of whom had moved since the beginning of the little contretemps. They stood smartly at ease, apparently content with the way he’d dealt with their former competitor.

  “Sergeant Allenby”—the former commando stood to attention—“congratulations. You made the team. Are you free to fly to Bolivia tomorrow? Inoculations up to date?”

  After a momentary pause, DefTech’s latest recruit nodded. “Yes to both questions, sir. And thank you, sir.”

  “Excellent. Then have a shower, change into civvies, and meet me in my office in thirty minutes. You’ll need to sign contracts and a whole load of waivers. Dismissed.”

  Smiling, Allenby snapped out a smart salute, which Kaine returned.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said and turned about face. He threw a sympathetic nod towards Blake as he headed towards the changing rooms.

  Kaine turned to the remaining candidate, who couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  “Sergeant Blake,” he said and waited for the man to come to attention. “No need to look so glum, son. You’ve acquitted yourself well this weekend. From time to time we need a backup crew. I’d like to put you on a small retainer, if you’re interested.”

  It took a moment for the information to register and for a bright smile to appear.

  “Yes, sir. I am really interested. Thank you, sir.”

  “Excellent. Join your new workmate. See you in my office in half an hour.”

  Blake passed Rollo on his way to the changing rooms, still smiling broadly. Rollo acknowledged him and took in Jenkinson’s dishevelled form as the binned hothead leaned against the wall, hugging his injured arm close to his chest.

  “Kick up a fuss, did he, Captain?”

  “Afraid so, Rollo. Didn’t like my decision to send him home.”

  “Thought he mightn’t,” Rollo said, sighing loudly, making a sound like a distant foghorn. “There’s always one.”

  Kaine nodded. “Seems that way. Shall we see if he’s okay?”

  They moved towards Jenkinson, who slid himself up the wall and stood, half bent over, favouring his injured wing.

  “You sucker-punched me, you bastard!” he shouted through a wince and pushed himself upright, swaying slightly. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

  “You
brought it on yourself, son,” Kaine said and nodded to Rollo. “Look after him, Staff Sergeant. The poor lad’s in a bit of a state.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain. I’ll have the medic check him over and make sure he’s fully recovered before getting back into his car. Wouldn’t want him driving in his condition. Might cause an accident.”

  “Thank you, Staff Sergeant,” Kaine said, ignoring the young man’s tiring and irrelevant rant.

  Kaine watched as Rollo escorted the humiliated man towards the changing rooms before heading towards his temporary billet. He had plenty to do before the upcoming foreign trip.

  “You’ve not seen the last of me, Captain Runt, you fucking arse ….” Jenkinson’s words faded away as the changing room doors slammed shut behind him.

  Yes, there’s always one.

  * * *

  The END.

  On the Run

  We hope you enjoyed the backstory to Ryan Kaine.

  * * *

  Book 1 in the bestselling series is On The Run.

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  Copyright © 2018 by Kerry J Donovan

  Published by Fuse Books 2020

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  The right of Kerry J Donovan to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act, 1988.

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  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.