by Shane Kuhn
“I’ll leave it on. This is what they call a teachable moment.”
I teach Bob how to fall on his face as I sweep his legs and send him sprawling to the floor.
“Cheap shot, asshole,” says one of the more surly recruits.
When I take the time to glare at the recruit, Bob side kicks me in the nuts while he is still on the floor. I bend over and almost puke from the pain. Bob takes that opportunity to hit me in the jaw with a roundhouse. I go flying and take out three or four recruits. Sorry about that. While I lay there, attempting to put my mind back together piece by piece, Bob begins his training lecture as if all of this was part of today’s lesson.
“There is no such thing as a cheap shot in a life-and-death situation,” Bob pontificates. “There is only advantage versus disadvantage.”
Bob picks me up using an old wrestling move called the fireman’s carry and hurls me into a wood rack full of practice weapons. It explodes like an adult-size barrel of pick-up sticks. I can barely see from the blood pouring out of the gash in my scalp.
“Do you think John swept my leg because he caught me off guard? Or, do you think I allowed him to do that, anticipating a comment from one of my lesser students—a comment that would briefly distract him so that I could take advantage?”
Mumbling from the recruits.
“You did it on purpose,” offers one of the female recruits. “He’s younger and stronger. You took advantage by distracting him. Then you took advantage after you disabled him with the kick to the nuts. Then you took advantage of him being dazed from the kick to the jaw.”
Bob turns to me.
“One of my better students.”
Bob gives me the “come hither” hand gesture. I drag myself up and take on the posture of a kung fu style called White Eyebrow. Bob assumes the posture of Monkey Style kung fu.
“White Eyebrow versus Monkey. Who’s going to win?” Bob queries.
“White Eyebrow is superior,” offers the student who made the smart-ass comment earlier.
I attack. Bob counters with a shocking level of ferocity. I am weak and pukey from booze and what is most likely a raging concussion. The worst thing is he can easily anticipate everything I do. He is beating the shit out of me. His heel striking me behind the ear sends me to the ground. I lie there, half-conscious, and the lecture continues.
“As you can see, John has been trained well. But I’m the one who trained him!”
He switches to jujitsu and tries to get into me for grappling holds. I switch to silat, a Southeast Asian style purely meant for killing or serious injury. Bob didn’t teach me this style, so I pummel the shit out of him for a change. All of your collective jaws drop.
I kick him so hard he does a back flip and lands on his chest and face. He lies there, gasping for breath.
“Unfortunately for Bob, I’m using a style he didn’t teach me. Bob has made the mistake of assuming I would employ only his training.”
I fly in for a spine crushing pile driver and he rolls. I hit the hard floor instead, bashing my kneecap. He rolls across the floor like some kind of animal and gets his arms around my neck. I struggle to escape, but Bob is too fucking good at Gracie, and I find myself in a death hold, completely at his mercy.
“But I didn’t make the mistake of assuming you would do the smart thing and take advantage of me by using a weapon. Instead, you did what I thought you would do—tried to finish me in some spectacular movie style, even though your gun is a few feet away. How’d that work out for you?”
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* * *
THE FALLEN ANGEL
I’m awake and in a hospital room. It’s a very weird hospital room. Almost too white and pristine. At first I think I’m dead and this is hell. Then I think it’s just a dream until an ugly nurse walks in to check my vitals and she smells like a mackerel cannery. I don’t dream about women like that. Then I realize that the hospital is weird because it isn’t a hospital at all. It’s the HR medical unit. I’m the only patient in this hospital. Dr. Hatchet smiles at me with nicotine-stained teeth.
“How we feeling? Still got a case of the assholes?”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Bob orders.
Dr. Hatchet exits and Bob walks up.
“Hi, John.”
“Hi, Bob.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Not bad.”
“Good.”
He punches me square in the jaw. I am about to lose consciousness when he hits me in the stomach. That wakes me up as I struggle for air.
“Guts over brains. Right, John?”
I gasp in acknowledgment. He grabs my collar. Through my watering eyes, I see that he is furious but also deeply disappointed in me.
“God cast the angel into the pit. He was nowhere near as disappointed as I am in you, John.”
I try to answer but still can’t breathe.
“If we weren’t so deep into this operation, I would burn you now. Today. But that satisfaction is a luxury I cannot afford. I’m well past my deadline with this client and we have one window to pull this off. But you already knew that, didn’t you, John?”
“Yes, Bob. I did.”
“Good for you. You might think you’re pretty smart, but a lot of stupid people do. See, you’re just smart enough to completely fuck yourself. And that is what you’ve done by putting me in this position. You can forget about your future. This business is over for you. I’ll make it my life’s mission to brand you a loose fucking cannon.”
“Works for me, Bob.”
He is furious, almost to the point of tears. It’s unnerving to see him this way because I never would have guessed he had it in him.
“You’re so glib, John. So dismissive of me. Have you forgotten who pulled you out of juvie and saved you from becoming some gangbanger’s bitch?”
“No, Bob. I haven’t. This was not about—”
“Shut the fuck up. You’re a disgrace and you don’t even deserve to be in the same room with me or anyone from HR. You may have some accomplishments under your belt, but they mean about as much as a drop of piss in the ocean now.”
“I killed a lot of people, Bob. I don’t consider those accomplishments.”
“No. You are an elite assassin, trained by the best in the world to take out the worst. You perform a crucial service to society. Killing is only the means, John. But based on today’s actions, I can see that you might as well have set everything I’ve taught you on fire.”
“You shouldn’t have killed her, Bob.”
He angrily pulls out a gun, chambers a round, and hands it to me.
“If you really believe I killed her then have your revenge.”
I hold the gun. It feels like the heaviest thing I’ve ever had in my hand. I look at Bob. If he did kill her, then he is clinically insane, and we all know that is impossible for a calculating sociopath like Bob.
“I may have stepped on a few insects in the past, John, but I’m not about to throw myself into the oven by killing a federal agent just because you’re fucking her!”
He picks up his gun and empties the clip into the wall and all of the medical equipment. Glass, smoke, and cotton wool fill the air. He throws the gun across the room. I’ve never seen him this way. I feel like everything is crumbling around us, a house of cards made of cement slabs, all with suicide kings.
“Don’t insult my intelligence again, John.”
“I’m sorry, Bob. I’ve lost control.”
“You’re goddamned right you’ve lost control. And it makes me sick to see you this way. John, it makes me a failure.”
Cry me a fucking river, I think as I sit silently, wallowing in what I want Bob to think is mental self-flagellation. He softens a bit.
“The good news is that your gross incompetence hasn’t killed us. We found your girlfriend’s keycard and laptop in one of the bars you got thrown out of. Couldn’t crack her laptop so we sent someone into the firm with the keycard last night and acquired the encrypted travel
itinerary. You’ve got twenty-four hours to get your shit together.”
“You trust me to get it done?”
“I don’t really have a choice. Either you do it and we all ride off into the sunset or it doesn’t get done and we all get scrubbed. And it’s not just about you and me, John. You fuck this up and everyone pays, even the snot-nosed recruits you just embarrassed yourself in front of.”
“I’ll get it done.”
He pauses for a long time, looking at his watch and then me.
“Who did her, Bob? Any idea?”
“Brooklyn family. Old case. Revenge for some meatball she put away. If it’s any consolation, I had their whole crew whacked out. Didn’t want you wasting time on them too.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
As he walks out, I see myself in the mirror and remember what he said about the fallen angel. That’s me, out to make the world pay with blood and pain. Bob uses this. It’s just another hard asset that helps him guarantee his return on investment. It’s also the only reason I’m still alive.
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* * *
THE FRIENDLY SKIES
Night is enveloping everything like a dark tide. A bloodred harvest moon is on the rise, signaling the baptism by fire that is imminent. I’m moving through a wet field toward a private airport in eastern New Jersey. I can see the G650 that will carry Locke and his entourage to a secret island compound off the coast of Belize. His partners will travel in different aircraft to the same destination. In the corporate world, they call this “Risk Management.” If one plane goes down, they don’t lose the entire brain trust. Locke and his entourage have not yet arrived. They are due to depart at 0100. There’s a single armed guard posted near the plane and one in the hangar. They’re not pros. The dew on the scrub grass is soaking my legs and the inside of my shoes. I don’t sweat it because I am thinking that this might be the last time I ever feel such a sensation. This might be the last time I feel anything.
In the past, I’ve never thought about any of this. I’m thinking of it now because I’m convinced that, in a few hours, I’ll be dead. Up to now, I have taken my entire short-ass life for granted. Twenty-five years is a tear in the ocean. It is less than nothing. And I’ve spent most of it either holding on to the pain of the past or waiting for the future. Until now, there has been no now for me. But tonight, I am the wolf. I’m breathing in my world, sensing it through all my capacities. Not just sight, the least reliable of all senses, but smell and touch too. And it’s bittersweet. But I refuse to lament anything. I am a killer. I have ended many lives. Whatever happens to me, I have it coming. That is not newfound morality that makes me more relatable to the average Joe. Fuck the average Joe. He is a fucking slob and he is eating, shitting, fucking, and fighting his way through the world’s most protracted suicide. This is knowing myself for the first time.
I am wet shoes.
I am cold, damp breath.
I am sweating hands.
I am gravity crushing the grass beneath my boots.
I am Kevlar and metal and lead.
I am laser sighting.
I am death.
And I am coming.
Dark clouds are building in the sky and I am taking that as a sign, a metaphor from the Almighty telling me that I should prepare myself, like a samurai, for ashes and dust. But I embrace it. I’m inside the black and I’m comfortable here.
I move with purpose across the tarmac, using whatever I can to shield me from the guards. They’re more interested in their fucking iPhones than doing their jobs. I can see the glow of their phone screens on their faces as they check e-mail, update their Facebook slaveware, dream of living, breathing, and fucking through the anonymity of text and memes. But I’m stalled behind a fuel truck, waiting for an opportunity to approach the aircraft undetected. Then the dark clouds that were warning me of my impending doom a moment earlier bring forth an unexpected gift—rain. As the drops begin to fall, Dumbass 1 jogs from the tarmac into the hangar to wait out the rain with Dumbass 2. Thank you, duality. You have once again shown the beauty of a universe with a split personality.
I crouch and creep under the airplane and climb into the landing gear bay. This is where the op simulation comes in very handy. In total darkness I have to climb into the belly of the plane and feel my way to the back. I use my infrared flashlight to locate the access panels above me. I find the panel that leads to the main passenger cabin and mark it with a black light marker.
Then I cram myself as deep into the back of the belly as possible. If I am anywhere near the landing gear when it retracts back up into the plane, I will be crushed or at least lose one of my limbs. So that I don’t asphyxiate, I have a breathing device that will deliver fifteen minutes of life-giving oxygen from roughly 25,000 feet (when air pressure is nil and things get dicey for humans) and 51,000 feet (when humans just straight up die). And let’s not forget about hypothermia. At cruising altitude the temperature will drop to minus fifty or sixty degrees Fahrenheit. I know I can withstand this for about ten minutes before I pass out. Of course I have a shitload of speed to keep my mind sharp and pump up the overall performance of my nervous system. I also have Acetazolamide, a drug that hard-core mountaineers take to prevent altitude sickness. It makes the blood more acidic and more efficient at transporting oxygen to my major organs. And I brought along a blister packet of cyanide. I know, old school spy shit. I figure in the unlikely event I am captured and not killed, I will just check out cold war style and leave those assholes to deal with my foaming, twitching corpse.
Sounds fun, right? Actually, what I just described is the fun part. The rest of it is a total drag. When we reach cruising altitude, provided I am still alive and conscious, I have to jack open the access panel to the main cabin so I can crawl into the plane. I am hoping to have some energy left to kill everyone on board, but you never know, so I have a syringe full of adrenaline to chemically bond with the speed and turn me into an unstoppable monster that feels no pain and has the strength of five orangutans. I have only used this rocket ship speedball once before, and if memory serves, the last time I shot it I tore a man’s arm off and beat him to death with it.
I can hear them loading the baggage into the plane. They have also started fueling it, something I thought they had already done before I came aboard. That sucks. Now my whole respiratory system will be irritated and burning from here on out, and that is significant, considering I will barely be able to breathe as it is. I shove my nose into my Kevlar jacket and try to minimize the damage. After what seems like an eternity, I am extremely light-headed (also bad for the whole blood-brain-oxygen combo). But I can hear the heavy vehicles carrying Locke and his entourage enter the tarmac. By the sound of it, he’s got a bunch of gung-ho ex-military juicers protecting him because they drive like fucking maniacs up to the plane, screeching to a halt, and banter like a bunch of frat boys all the way into the passenger compartment. They are fucking heavy too. The plane sinks down a few inches on its wheels when these sides of beef get settled into the leather.
That means things will definitely get very ugly. Big men who are experienced fighters are a major pain in the ass. They see themselves as gladiators and they will always try to get you to take them on “man to man” if you have the drop on them. I love it when they say “mano a mano” and have no idea that means “hand to hand.” Learn some basic fucking Spanish. Only half the country speaks it. Anyway, don’t fall for their bullshit. They die just like everyone else when you do your job properly. No amount of toughness and teeth gritting is going to help even the biggest oaf to overcome the catastrophic blood loss of a torn aorta. Think of yourself as a slaughterhouse worker. Don’t get too close to the livestock and use the right tech to stun them and bleed them out.
The pilots finally button up the plane and start to taxi. I get ready, strapping myself to anything metal with some strips of 5,000-pound webbing. This will keep me from getting sucked out of the landing gear housing if I am knocked unconscious on take
off. A Gulfstream 650 is basically a rocket ship with cushy leather seats and busty bimbos serving steak sandwiches. It needs fewer than 6,000 feet to take off at a speed of 300+ knots. It has a top speed of Mach .925, and it gets there in a hurry. Until we get into our less aggressive ascent pattern from 10,000 feet and up, I will be pinned to metal and unable to move a fucking muscle.
The pilot’s a fucking cowboy because he doesn’t even slow down as he taxis and turns to takeoff position. Then he punches the throttle. By the feel of it, he uses about 3,000 of the required 6,000 feet of takeoff runway and we shoot nearly straight up into the sky. Because of the plane’s attitude—pointing nearly vertical—I am now at the mercy of some serious G forces. I have no control whatsoever over my body, so you can imagine my dismay when I slide straight down and my legs are hanging out of the landing gear housing, dangling in the wind—the 400 mph wind, that is. In this position, when the landing gear goes up in a matter of seconds, I’ll be cut in half.
So, I move my hand like a broken seal flipper and pull my speedball from the chest zip on my Kevlar jacket. It feels like I am attempting to dead lift a Volkswagen as I attempt to move the thing toward me. I manage to pull off the syringe cover with my teeth as I hear the pilot attempting to retract the gear. One of my pieces of webbing is blocking it momentarily, buying me precious seconds. I jab the syringe into my neck and plunge it. Almost immediately, I am jacked to the gills on gack. I claw my way back into the landing gear housing as the servomotors chew their way through my webbing. When I get my feet inside, it’s much easier to maneuver, which is good, because the webbing that was hindering the landing gear servomotor just snapped. The sudden release of the gear causes it to whip up into the housing, knocking me back into my hiding hole with the force of a freight train. The last thing I see is my hand just before my face smashes into it.
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