The man in the white polo shirt stretched tight across his massive chest held a large white card that read, ‘K. Hakala’ written in bold black marker. He stood above the crowd like an elephant among zebras. He was that big. And scary looking, with a nose that had been on the wrong side of fist more than once and skin roughened by years of being generally naughty.
“That’s me,” I told him, easing my duffel to the floor and extending a hand.
Brown eyes bored into mine for a brief moment and, from his sneer, found me wanting. “I guess so. Grab your kit and follow me.” So I did, entering the bright September sunshine outside of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Instantly the tingle of smog in my nose made it itch and my eyes watered enough that I nearly bumped into Gigantor as he pulled to a halt in front of a shiny black Crown Victoria that all but screamed ‘Fed!’
He fished around in the pocket of his perfectly pressed chinos and pulled out the keys. “You drive,” he said blandly as he tossed them over.
I protested. “This is my first time in DC.” Somehow I felt that my tour of the Smithsonian would be postponed indefinitely.
“Then you better learn how to follow directions.”
The retort that heated my tongue cooled off quickly as I came to the belated realization that Bigfoot here had probably gone through the exact same training at Coronado that I had just finished. Which made him a very dangerous giant. One that outweighed me by a good sixty pounds. I jumped into the front seat and pulled out into traffic.
Every big city has industrial parks and the DC area was no exception. Not too far from the airport lay the Springfield Industrial Park where I found myself pulling to a stop in front of a warehouse painted a dirty white. A glass door labeled ‘McClennan Statistical Analysis’ proved to be the only entrance besides four large loading bays closed tight.
“Is this it?” I asked, tossing the keys back to Tall, Dark, and Scary and hoisting my duffel.
“What?” he scoffed “You expecting something like the Hoover building?” If his disdain got any thicker it would’ve cemented me into place.
“It’s a little Bond. You know, ‘Universal Export’.”
“That’s MI-7’s bailiwick, not ours.”
It seems the Brits are not without a sense of humor.
Inside the door was a lobby decorated in hospital and prison chic, a mishmash of industrial beige, teal, and bilious yellow that made my eyeballs spin in their sockets like a cartoon character’s. A pretty blonde with long frizzy hair and hooker-red lipstick manned a large brown desk set against the far wall.
“This the new Green Pea, Thomas?” the frizzy blonde inquired of my surly companion.
Thomas the Ugly Giant grunted.
Hands on desk, my aura was read, palm prints analyzed and electrochemical and heat signatures recorded. Wham bam, thank you ma’am. The frizzy blonde stared at me with eyes like frozen marbles, left hand under the desk and zero expression on her lovely face.
Once I passed muster, a hidden door (steel faced with drywall) opened and Thomas the Enormous led me into the building.
A hallway. A really long hallway painted pale apple, a kind of faded Golden Delicious that I thought of as Institutional Ugly. I hadn’t been expecting a hike.
“Afraid of a walk?” The big man’s tone challenged me.
The look of disdain I shot him failed to impress and we both set off on shanks mare. After a couple dozen yards we came to a door on the right, also pale apple, with the word ‘Combat’ stenciled in black at eye level. On the wall to the right of the knob was an 8 x 10 shiny black plate. Thomas ignored the door and kept walking.
Once again, after a couple dozen yards, came another identical door with black plate, this one labeled ‘R&D.’ More doors appeared at regular intervals, all the same, all with shiny plates: Medical, Dormitory, Records, and Admin. It was at this last door where the giant laid one big hairy paw on the shiny plate and turned the knob with the other.
Another lobby, much more tastefully decorated in warm brown tones and dark woods, certainly less punishing on the eyes. A mahogany desk wrapped around another hard-eyed Receptionist dominated the area.
“Thank you, Thomas,” said the Receptionist, a thin woman with brown hair permed into a kinky halo and a high, thin voice. She had an aura of cheer lacking in the first Receptionist. “I’ll take the Pea from here.” Thomas turned around and left without a word, but not before tossing me a speculative look.
“Pea?” I asked the lady, trying on my best smile at full wattage.
She wasn’t impressed. I must’ve been losing my touch. “Short for Green Pea. All questions will be explained soon. Have a seat, the Director will see you shortly.” Her tone told me she was already bored with my presence.
I placed my rump on one of those chairs you expect to find in a dentist’s office … cloth wrapped over steel, the kind that helped induce hemorrhoids. Magazines such as People and Newsweek overflowed kitchy little wooden racks, the kind you buy at Wal-Mart. All in all, the feeling was less than welcoming.
While at Coronado, I learned to catch winks whenever and wherever I could, and I developed the ability to nap with my eyes open. I decided to exercise that skill and drifted off into a pleasant nothingness where thinking was not only optional, but frowned upon.
“Mr. Hakala, the Director will see you now,” the Receptionist’s thin voice suddenly broke into my consciousness. I was on my feet instantly, duffel in hand, internal clock telling me that a half-hour had passed.
“Hrrm … where do I go, ma’am?” I beamed, trying another full-power grin. It bounced right off her sallow skin.
She pointed. “Down the end of the hall, go right. End of that hall, left, and it’s the door at the end labeled ‘Director.’ ” She spoke slowly, as to a six-year-old.
Once again I flashed my pearlies and trotted off. When I made it to the Director’s door I had the near overwhelming urge to rap out ‘Shave-and-a-haircut’, but resisted the temptation manfully. Instead I settled for a polite tap-tap-tapping.
“Nevermore!” came a low smooth voice. I smiled as I entered, amused at the literary reference.
Wow.
And I mean … wow.
Big office…the kind of big you can park a semi in. Beautiful wool and silk carpeting done in dark blue and green, a long, dark wooden table surrounded by luxuriously appointed leather chairs so comfortable-looking that I grew drowsy just looking at them. And way down at the end, almost too far away to see, a huge oak desk that ought to have been donated to science fiction. It wouldn’t have been out of place on the starship Enterprise.
“C’mon in, Mr. Hakala. Don’t worry, it strikes everyone like that.” The man striding toward me appeared to be Dad’s age, with perfectly groomed, thick, brown hair graying at the temples. The way he moved told me he knew how to take care of himself and, as he drew nearer, I realized that he topped my six-three by at least a couple of inches. His suit, a Caraceni, draped him like a lover, accentuating his wide shoulders. Not an ounce of bureaucrat flab marred his waistline and close up I saw the fine scars on his cheeks and chin, long healed badges of honor. He had the coarse, weathered look of a man who spent a lot of time in the sun and wind. A roughhouse sailor playing corporate dress-up.
The hand he extended engulfed my own in a grip both powerful and controlled. I realized that I faced a suit who was also a trained killer. “It is a pleasure, Mr. Hakala, a real pleasure.” He sounded like he meant it and his smile equaled mine, watt for watt.
“Thank you, Director.”
“Come, let’s get you squared. Drop your duffel there. You can pick it up later.” That done, we headed off toward his desk and I wondered if I had the strength to make the trek.
He seated me in a soft leather chair that did its best to absorb me into its plush depths. Heroically, I kept my eyes open and somehow cudgeled my brain into order.
“So, Mr. Hakala. May I call you Kal? Or do you prefer Kalevi?” Surprisingly, he didn’t butcher the Finnish.
“Kal is fine.” I pronounced it ‘Call.’
“Call?”
“Kal with a k.”
His grin took ten years off. “I’m glad I don’t have to speak Finnish. Might tear my throat to shreds.”
“It’s not so bad, Director. At least there’s not any irregular verbs,” I smiled. “Of course, there aren’t any regular ones, either.”
His smile at my weak joke was genuine. “Kal, then. Now is the time when all good men must make up their minds.”
“Sir?”
“Your contract. Now is the time you have to decide on a two, three or four year term of service.”
Ah. The answer sprung into mind easily. It wasn’t like I had a girlfriend anymore. “Four years, sir.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Four? That confident?”
“Committed, sir.”
For a moment his warm hazel eyes became icier than a politician’s heart, then the smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes came back. “Kal, you know we have a rather large dossier on you?”
“So Agent Merced told me, sir.”
“You’re in this for revenge, aren’t you?”
Lying wasn’t an option; neither was denying the rage that flooded my body. “Yes, sir,” I affirmed thickly, swiftly caging the wrath that heated my veins.
The Director nodded. “Honesty. That’s good. I applaud that. Many men and women join for many different reasons, but the motive that worries me most is revenge. It can cloud your judgment, put other agents at risk. That I won’t tolerate. Ever.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “I’m not trying to take down all the Supernaturals in the World Under, sir.” I bared my teeth in what wasn’t a smile. “Just one.”
A fat file was produced from a drawer hidden somewhere in that enormous high-tech desk with its built-in monitors and geegaws. “Everything I’d ever want to know about Kalevi Hakala.” Flip, flip, flip. “The only man in over sixty years who saw a Class Five Supernatural.”
“Class Five?” I heard the capitals. They were categorizing them? How very ... bureaucratic.
“Yes, Class Five. ‘A being of Mythic or god-like proportions.’”
Funny, I certainly didn’t think the beast was god-like at the time. My face must have betrayed my feelings.
“Believe me, Kal, we categorize them not because of some sense of order, but to bring them to a level we can understand. Too many of them are so alien from what we can comprehend that this is the only way we can deal, to be effective.
“Yet you stood five hundred feet from one of the most alien, most incomprehensible monsters in all creation and weren’t driven completely crazy by the experience. Your parents, too, retained their sanity when 99 percent of humanity would have been reduced to gibbering idiots.
“Do you know how rare, how special that makes you? You and yours impressed the hell out of the Finnish agent and he tagged you right then and there as one to watch.” Flip, flip, flip. The pages of my life laid out on white, multi-purpose paper. “Your test scores are impressively high and you handled SEAL training like you’ve done it before.” He closed the file and speared me with a look. “All this scares the living daylights out of me.”
“Sir?”
“You are either going to be the best agent this Bureau has ever seen, or you are going to sink spectacularly, sucking good agents down with you. I don’t know which.”
“I can hack it, sir.” I had to. As the saying goes, failure was not an option.
“I’m caught in the crosshairs of a quandry, Kal. I’d half-hoped you’d wash out of Coronado, like over sixty percent of trainees do, but that didn’t happen, so now I have to make a decision. Keep you, or let you go.”
My voice roughened as panic tore at me. “I can’t go back, sir. I gave up too much for this opportunity.” Carol’s smile flashed into my mind’s eye before fading like a sob.
“I know, Kal. And that’s part of what bothers me, the fact that you’d give up a woman like Carol Stuart. Why? Is it just revenge?”
The words came tumbling out before I could stop them. “But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.” Even to me they sounded trite.
The Director’s eyes did their best to travel to the back of his skull. “Robert Frost?”
“Yessir. I made a promise, Director. I have, no ... I must keep it.” If he bounced me, I didn’t know what I would do. The possibility threatened to undermine the gutrock of my reality.
“We are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men,” he began.
“Leaning together, headpiece filled with straw,” I finished. T.S. Elliot had always been a personal favorite.
He snorted, a smile hitting his lips. “Very nice. Now if you can quote Whitman—”
“Oh Captain, My Captain! Our fearful trip is done—”
“Okay, okay … as far as literature is concerned, you’re well grounded.” The Director stared at me, scarred face becoming blank. The seconds stretched … became a minute … became two. A tickle of unease vibrated through me, but I tried to bury it under resolute will. However, something intervened, a force that fanned the unease, allowing it to become part of the rage that had awoken within me the past year, fueled me, aided me through my trials at Coronado and Parris Island. It grew, pulsing behind my eyes and I let it, reveling in heated exhilaration. I felt empowered and the blood roared in my veins.
The intervening force withdrew, gone like the memory of a warm breeze, and I put the rage away, contained it, almost fainting with release.
The whole thing lasted for a few brief moments as we stared at each other.
“Your rage is a big thing,” the Director said softly, dropping his eyes to his desk.
“Huge,” I confirmed.
“I didn’t think you would be able to keep it under control, but you did. I’m impressed.”
My heart beat hard in my chest. “You did that? You did something?”
Once again that small smile. “No. It’s the chair. A small gem in the back holds the power and silver thread in the arm rests gives shape to the spell. It exposes the singular weakness in whoever sits in it, and sends the data to my desk. The words ‘well rounded’ activated the spell.”
Getting angry again seemed counterproductive, so I nodded, the muscles at the corners of my jaw bunching and unbunching.
The smile he tossed me seemed genuine and had some warmth to it. “I wasn’t sure if you’d jump me or just storm around the room. Good to see you can keep all that anger on a leash. Good for you. You’re in.”
I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“Team Epsilon just lost a man to a pack of Hellhounds two months ago and needs a replacement. Their leader is a five-year man, my best. In fact, I’m looking to hang up my spurs in a year or two and he’s the front-runner to replace me. If anyone can channel that rage of yours, it will be him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
A well-manicured finger touched a flat-screen keyboard and an ominous hum began in that massive desk. Only a few seconds passed before a section to his left tilted up and a small pile of paper was ejected. I wondered if there were Supernaturals in the damn thing doing all the dirty work. A desk like that must have cost more than my parents’ house.
He handed me a pen and turned the stack around so I could read. My contract with the Bureau. “Standard stuff. Initial where it says initial and sign and date at the end. Most of it is a non-disclosure form, in case you get around the Interdiction, which no one has. Last page discloses your salary.”
My eyes made the attempt at a Loony Tunes classic … popping out on springs. I hadn’t seen so many zeros in all my life. A two-year agent got paid better than an All-Star Lineman in the NFL. A three-year could easily retire after the contract date. My four-year pay plan would give Trump a heart attack. Then I reminded myself that there were as many belowground retirees as there were above. Scribble, scribble and done.
“Go back down the hall to the Dormitory. You’ve been approved to access all areas of the building except R&D; that’s where the Magic happens. When you get there, tell Epsilon you’re the FNG. They’re the only team in-house right now.”
I rose. “Thank you, sir. You won’t be disappointed.”
“I know.” He paused. “Kal, you realize that if you find a way to kill that monster of yours, the Finnish government might not let you? It has cruised all over the planet, but most of the time it stays in the Baltic.”
The thought had occurred to me. One thing at a time, though. “No worries. If I can find a way to kill it, then I can find a way to make the Finnish government say yes.”
“All right. Welcome aboard, then.” A dismissal.
I trekked toward the door that would let me escape the aircraft hanger the Director called an office and made my way to the Dormitory, slapping a hand on the black plate. I warmed up under my skin and the knob turned.
Inside, the dormitory was almost as big as the Director’s office and separated into twenty smallish bedrooms along a long hall and one big living room with a flatscreen TV the size of an RV. Seven dark brown leather Lazy Boy recliners were arranged in an arc in front. Looked like a great way to watch the Vikings on a Monday night. Off to the right of the TV stood a fridge, all stainless steel, that would’ve made Wolfgang Puck weep with envy and beyond that, two foosball tables and an air hockey table. I caught a glimpse of thinning hair in the center-most recliner. The TV clicked off.
“You must be the FNG,” came a smooth, urbane voice. I guess announcing myself was off the table.
“I must be,” I replied, closing the door and dropping the duffel. “You must be part of team Epsilon.”
“I am the team leader.” A slim, balding man with short dark hair extricated himself from the recliner. Rushing forward, I extended a hand. Although smaller than me by at least six inches and fifty pounds, his grip matched mine ounce for ounce. I felt unusual calluses under my palm.
“Sir, good to meet you. I’m Kal Hakala.”
“Sit down.” Without waiting to see if I would, he took his own self back to his recently vacated seat.
That little antenna that warns me of danger just picked up a signal that put my whole body on alert as I eased into a recliner.
“Listen up, Green Pea, from now on, you are a waste of protoplasm …”
So began The Speech. Well practiced, he must have delivered it a hundred times. Somewhere along in the middle of what I was sure was a heroic rant, my brain mercifully switched off and I faded from reality.
“You got me, Green Pea?” The question, delivered in a tone that could have cut glass, snapped me back to reality. My internal clock said at least ten minutes had passed. Not bad.
“Yessir.” Safest response. Ever.
“Good.” Watery little eyes drilled into mine. “Go to room six; that’ll be yours. Rest for a while, you’ll need it, Pea.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
As I made my way down the hall to room number six, his cultured voice floated along with me. “I’m not a ‘sir’; I work for a living. You can call me BB.”
Room 6: Twelve by ten. Nice blue cut-pile carpeting. An oak armoire for my gear and a bed. A beautiful, comfortable looking queen-sized bed. My shoes never made it off my feet before I flopped into its welcoming embrace. Flights of angels and all that stuff ….
“Wakey wakey, Green Pea.” Somebody wanted to die.
My brain tried to remain in the ‘off’ position, but months of training had the volume up to 11 before I knew it and pushed me out of my self-induced coma.
“Gah!” I exploded.
“Aww … you musta got all of six hours sleep, Pea. It’s time to get up and pay for your stay.”
“I thought the Fed was paying my way,” I grumbled, trying to burrow deeper into the mattress. I realized my mouth tasted like a goat’s pen. Only worse.
“On your feet, Pea. It’s chow time.”
Sleep fled, chased off by my stomach. “We got a mess hall?”
“We got a kitchen and a well stocked pantry and fridge. We make our own grub here.”
The thought of eating something other than camp chow and MREs appealed to me on a visceral level and levered me to my feet. Standing in the doorway was a wide, flat-faced Native American, complete with long black hair and a turquoise, squash-blossom necklace. Faded jeans, a coarse blue button-down shirt and cowboy boots completed the ensemble. A grin creased his leathery face, exposing even white teeth. There must have been a hundred of them.
“Name’s Canton Alsate, Pea.” He held out a broad, rough hand, which I took.
“Kal Hakala.” I removed my hand before he could fuse the fingers together.
“Interesting name.”
“Finnish.”
“Harrumph. They grow them big up north, I see. And pale. You are the whitest white boy I’ve ever seen. Well, I’m your tour guide and combat trainer. Come with me.” He turned and headed down the dorm’s long hallway.
“I swear I just went through training.” The words bounced off his back. I realized that sleeping in my clothes did nothing to enhance a clean, fresh scent. In fact, I smelled like a gym locker.
“You did, but you haven’t gone through my training.”
I mulled this over as I followed. Eventually the hall opened up into a large room—a kitchen big enough to feed my hometown. Canton approached a sizeable stainless steel vault door with a large mechanical latch. With a grunt, he wrestled it open to reveal a walk-in freezer blowing frosted air through a plastic strip curtain. Bravely, he plunged into its depths and soon emerged with two white paper-wrapped packages.
“How do you like your steak?” he asked.
My stomach rumbled. “Still moo-ing.”
The packages flew at me and I fielded them like I still played for Nebraska.
“Good!” His smile nearly blinded me. “Make mine med-rare and don’t screw it up.”
I looked for a broiler and found it, turning on the gas. A combo of charcoal and mesquite was the best, but considering what I’d had to eat in the past 33 weeks, my stomach ached for steak, so I wasn’t going to be picky. I laid the two-inch thick, beautifully marbled meat onto the grill and smiled rapturously at the sizzle. Soon the smell of beef char filled the air and set my salivary glands at ‘waterfall.’
Steak done, Canton and I ate in silence, savoring the flavor. From the marbling and texture, I reckoned it was prime bone-out rib eye. The kind you’d expect to pay forty dollars for in a fancy-schmancy restaurant. Fresh-tasting apple juice chased the steak to my stomach.
“Not bad, white boy. You can sure cook.” Canton let out a medium-sized belch.
My stomach strained against the fabric of my jeans. “One thing I know is how to treat a steak.”
Canton wiped his mouth with a napkin, finished his apple juice and levered himself to his feet. “Tomorrow I see how good you are with a knife, what you learned at Coronado. Then comes orientation. As for now, you have to face Mace.”
I groaned. “What’s a mace?”
“Not a ‘what,’ pale face, but a ‘he.’ Mace is our team’s unarmed combat champ. He wants to see what you’re made of.”
“Let me save him some time. I’m bone and meat, like everyone else.”
“Funny guy. C’mon.” He started toward the exit.
Crap. Facing some hand-to-hand expert and me with a solid wall of steak in my stomach. It was insane to fight with a full … Waitaminute.
I may be slow, but I get there. I smelled rodent. “Canton!”
His voice was sardonic. “Just figured it out? You’re faster than most.”
Double crap.
I followed, wondering if there was a head on the way where I could barf and lighten the load.
Canton must have been psychic. “Don’t even think about it, white boy.”
Triple crap.
The long hallway again, tramping on down to the door that read: ‘Combat.’ Canton placed a hand on the black plate and opened the door.
Big room, wrestling mats on the floor here and there, the ceiling far above a maze of catwalks and structural supports. Along the walls stood racks of just about every non-projectile weapon known to man: swords, spears, halberds, etc. There was also an array of punching bags, wing chun wooden dummies, and even a boxing ring.
“You need to loosen up?” Canton asked quietly.
My stomach tried to tie itself into a knot, but the rib eye prevented that. “No.”
“Well then, take your shoes and shirt off. The gang will be here shortly.”
They were. And what he meant by ‘gang’ was everyone in the whole damn building.
Of course, to top it all off, the Director put in an appearance, in a pair of blue jeans so new they were almost black and a salmon-colored polo. Hard muscle writhed like oiled serpents under his tan, scarred skin. I guess he didn’t want to get blood on his $4,000 suit.
“No offence, Kal, but this is what we live for. New recruits are always a source of excitement,” the Director laughed as his perfect white teeth came close to blinding me.
I hid nervous jitters behind sarcasm. “Glad to be of service.”
His smirk said he read me like a book, but he clapped me on the shoulder and joined the throng of about twenty spectators.
I raised my voice. “Canton, got a question for you.”
The Native American sauntered over from where he was chatting up the frizzy-haired receptionist. “Whatcha need, white boy?”
“You said this Mace character is your best unarmed combat guy. What’s his specialty? Muay Thai? What?”
“Krav Maga.”
Well that just put another condiment on crap sandwich. Krav Maga translates from the Hebrew ‘contact combat,’ an Israeli martial art used by their Special Forces and commandos. The whole purpose behind it is to inflict the maximum damage in the minimum amount of time. SEAL training used it, along with Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and Muay Thai, but I was far from expert. The idea came to me that abject cowardice might be the better part of valor.
“By the way, who are those characters?” I whispered, waving to a posse of nerds. Men and women stereotypically complete with birth control glasses and pocket protectors in white lab coats. All of them had the kind of smile reserved for those who really enjoyed blood sport.
“That’s the squad from R&D. Magicians and physicists, mostly.”
“Cool. I get to be killed in front of the Geek Squad. My parents would be so proud.” It was about then that things really became pear-shaped.
“There he is,” Canton enthused, pointing a stubby finger at a figure in the doorway to the endless hall.
I squinted. Something seemed to be subtly wrong with the proportions until I realized that the doorway wasn’t small, it was that the guy standing in it filled it up. All the way up.
Thomas. The man who picked me up from the airport. Gigantor.
That sucked big time.
Thomas walked straight to the boxing ring and vaulted the ropes with ease. Without touching them. If that demonstration was designed to intimidate me, it worked all too well. “Canton, tell me again why the hell I’m here.”
“Easy peasy, white boy, to prove how tough you are. It’s a rite of passage we all take.”
“And why would you do something so incredibly stupid?” Maybe I could appeal to logic and scram with my tail between my legs. Better than having my head pounded down so far below my shoulder blades I’d be able to taste navel lint.
Logic wasn’t going to help me here. “Because, white boy, we gotta see what kind of iron you got. Don’t try to wuss out.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my iron spine had rusted through the second I found out that I’d be fighting Thomas Mace. Instead of proclaiming my cowardice to one and all, I eked my way to the ring, steak-filled stomach plummeting lower and lower with each step. Thomas had taken off his shirt, showing massive amounts of scarred skin and great slabs of muscle. So much that I thought he might be part Silverback gorilla.
As I climbed through the ropes I had a desperate idea. If logic and sanity wouldn’t work on this crowd, maybe pride would. That plus a whole heap of sarcasm.
“Thomas, good to see you again.” I said with a wide smile, extending my hand. The big dope grinned sardonically and said nothing, not even bothering to shake.
“You’re the team’s unarmed combat champ, right?”
Nod. Obviously a man of few words.
“Quick question, then. I hear you specialize in Krav Maga, correct?”
A frown, but he nodded.
Hoping I lived to see tomorrow, I raised my voice. “What kind of wussy setup is this, then?”
Everyone got quiet. I fancied I could hear tumbleweeds rolling by.
“I said, what kind of wussy setup is this? You all speak English, right? Your mother tongue, I believe.”
The big man rumbled. “You think this hasn’t been tried before?”
Uh-oh. Plan B.
I leaned in close. “That right?”
His misshapen nose lowered to within an inch of mine. “Yeah.”
Quick as I could, I grabbed his crotch and squeezed. Hard.
Thomas made a whooshing, whistling noise right before a fist the size of Iowa clocked me under the left eye. I dimly heard Roger Rabbit comment from deep within my subconscious, ‘Look Raul … Stars!’
When I was able to open my eyes without it hurting, I saw Thomas bent over himself, clutching his happy place and grunting in agony. So far so good … I wasn’t dead yet. Getting to my feet proved far more difficult than I’d imagined, but I finally found myself upright. Score two points for the home team.
One thing any combat expert will tell you is never kick your opponent. It’s giving the enemy your leg to use however they wish, and when that happens you might as well update your will. I knew it and Thomas knew it. Heck, even the gaggling herd of geeks knew it. So I kicked him.
The heel of my foot connected with his oft-battered nose, splaying it across that pug-ugly face. Blood geysered and the giant toppled with a crash that shook the ring. A shooting pain in my foot interrupted my triumphant yell.
Jumping up and down in anguish blinded me to the monster climbing to his feet, a snarl of hate on his damaged visage. Before I could react to the presence I felt at my back, a truck parked itself on my face.
Agony in my mouth, blood gushing down my throat, teeth buried deep in my tongue and an incredible pressure constricted my chest. He was on me, on my back with a knee buried in my spine, wrenching my arm back, twisting. Something tore sickeningly and a scream raked my throat with shards of bone.
A dark, hot thing woke inside me, rearing its rough head. The Director feared my rage, feared that it would consume me, make me a threat to those nearby. The truth was far worse than he could’ve possibly imagined. Instead of an emotion that would devour others, or me, it was the bestial part of myself that had only one mission: kill the enemy. No other outcome could or would be allowed.
As my shoulder dislocated, I rolled under Thomas’s vast weight, ribs bending, a couple breaking, his knee tearing at the skin of my spine, flopping onto my back so I could stare into the giant’s maddened eyes. What he saw there gave him pause.
That was enough for me. One, two, three swift hammer blows with the arm not in his grasp. Three impacts: one to cheek, one to crushed nose, one to the throat that rocked his head back.
Gagging, he dropped my arm, hands shielding his battered throat, giving me the opening I needed. Instantly my hand, my elbow, forearm, drove into the slabs of muscle at his side and washboard stomach. Before he could squirm away or strike back, I was on top of him, pounding away at anything I could hurt, rage fueling my blows.
His hands fell from his throat as his eyes rolled back in their sockets and I had my shot, a perfect strike to the larynx that would end the battle once and for all. Dimly I heard someone thunder my name from the group of appalled spectators, but I paid no mind. Only one objective remained: kill. From the far places of my mind, I knew satisfaction and willed myself to stop.
I stood, swaying, the rage emptied from the broken vessel of my body. A few dozen eyes gazed at me in wonder and not a little bit of terror. The Director stood in the forefront, hands on the ropes with Canton at his side, a wicked looking knife in his hand. A part of me knew I could kill him before he could throw it, despite the arm that hung useless at my side. Next to him stood BB, Glock in hand, not quite pointed at me. A much more effective weapon. I couldn’t dodge bullets. Maybe someday.
“Well, Director … did I pass your test?” I slurred before passing out.