by Matt Rogers
The two sized up and touched gloves.
Jake attacked first. He skirted forwards and threw a hard jab at Crank’s face. Crank swiped it away with ease. Jake barely even saw the deflection take place. Frustrated, he tried another jab, and was met with the same result. This wasn’t going to work. Crank was so quick that he could hardly believe the man’s reflexes were human.
He decided to go on the offensive. Use the element of surprise. He let out a yell and began to strike out with right hooks, twisting his torso with each swing. Each punch was knocked away, again and again and again. He was jolted by each parry.
Finally, as he swung a final punch, Crank darted out in a two-handed attack. With his left hand, he slammed Jake’s arm away at the wrist, and with his right, he punched him square in the chest with enough force to drive the breath from his lungs. It was one of the hardest hits Jake had ever taken. He stumbled back, spluttering, desperately trying to catch his breath.
“Am I still too small?” Crank said, grinning. He was having fun.
That pissed Jake off. He had never been beaten so easily before, so effortlessly. Years of his life had been devoted to this sport. Now, he was acutely aware that in comparison to the men around him, he was nothing more than a wholly inexperienced weakling.
“Let’s go again,” he said, his voice cold.
Crank turned to Felix, seeking approval.
Felix shrugged. “Carry on.”
“Alright then,” Crank said, dancing on the balls of his feet. “Let’s do it.”
Jake charged instantaneously, dropping his shoulders low and aiming for the mid-section. He might as well have come running in from the other side of the room. Crank spun away from the tackle and gave him a hard shove in the back as he went steaming past. Jake sprawled across the mats, tumbling head over heels. He rolled to his feet.
He was furious. He had landed hard on his elbow, but he didn’t let the pain show. He had to beat this man.
He danced back into range, fists up in front of his face. The whole room was silent, save for the squeaking of their feet on the mats.
This time, Crank attacked first. A padded fist whistled through the air. Jake barely managed to deflect it in time, bringing both his hands up as fast as he could in a reflexive motion, but despite his best efforts, it wasn’t fast enough. Half of Crank’s padded fist smacked him in the nose. Pain flared behind his eyes.
Crank had such a lethal ferocity to his blows. It was something Jake had never experienced before – the intensity of a man who regularly used his combat skills to kill. A man who struggled to hold back.
Angrily, Jake struck out with a roundhouse kick. In hindsight, he knew it was a stupid idea, but he hadn’t been thinking rationally. All he wanted to do was hurt Crank. Crank reached down and plucked his foot straight out of the air, like the speed and power behind it meant nothing. Jake was now suspended on his left foot. There was nothing he could do to stop his leg getting kicked out from underneath.
He crashed down into the mat, back-first.
“Had enough?” Crank said. “I think we have enough of an idea of where you’re at.”
The remark was laced with enough contempt to make Jake see red. Crank was no longer facing him; he had turned his back and proceeded to slip his gloves off. He was only a few steps from the far wall.
Jake picked himself up off the floor and sprinted forward, letting out a grunt of anger. With both hands, he gave Crank a double-handed push. Crank was taken off-guard and lurched into the wall. He only managed to stop himself from slamming into the concrete by sticking out a foot and bracing against the force of the shove.
He paused there for maybe a second. There was a moment of stillness.
Then he pushed off the wall, at the same time twisting his torso round and bringing his fist down in a blur of movement. Jake never saw it coming. Crank’s bare knuckles hit him in the forehead so hard that he saw stars. He slumped to the ground, his vision blurry and unfocused.
*
“Jake –”
The voice was muffled. Everything was hazy.
“Jake, bro, you with me?”
Now it was harsher, as if someone had increased the treble. His vision came back. He was in a large white room, surrounded by huge men he didn’t know. He gazed around, confused, eyes wide.
Slowly, his memories returned. Sam and Thorn were crouching over him. Behind them, Felix and Crank stood together, arms crossed, looking on with interest. Crank had his arms folded across his chest.
“There we go,” Thorn said. “Come on back.”
“What happened?” Jake said. He had broken out in a cold sweat. Getting beaten semi-conscious was nothing like in the movies. It felt harsh, cold, brutal. Everything was wavering slightly.
“You pushed Crank,” Sam said. “He punched you.”
“Oh … yeah.”
“You okay, buddy?” Crank said, stepping forwards.
“Mmm,” Jake said, rubbing his temple with both hands. He was wary of Crank. There was a certain hesitancy that came after getting beaten into unconsciousness. It had rarely ever happened to him. “Sorry about what I did.”
“It’s understandable,” Crank said. “I’m the one who needs to be sorry. I shouldn’t have retaliated. Should have known better.”
Jake shrugged. “I would have retaliated.”
Crank extended a hand and pulled him to his feet. “You’re better than I expected.”
“Really? It felt like I got pummelled.”
“You did get pummelled. But what were you expecting? I kill slayers for a living. Even if Mike Tyson was standing where you are, he wouldn’t be able to hit me. But you’re exceptionally fast. How long did you say you’ve been kickboxing?”
“Since I was nine. Seven years.”
“You know, with a few months of training, we could probably even bring you up somewhere close to our level. It’s going to take a lot of work, but you have potential. Are you up for it?”
Jake nodded. “I want to be like you guys. I need to be.”
“Let’s head upstairs,” Felix said. “I want you to meet Link.”
Jake followed the four men through the workstation. As he moved past the benches, he stopped to admire a four-barrelled assault rifle resting on the steel, surrounded by various tools. The front of the gun housed four thick barrels, arranged in a two by two grid. He didn’t know much about firearms, but it was clear that the ammunition had been modified as well. There was no magazine attached.
“What’s this?” he said.
Sam turned around and grinned. “A Snowdog. These babies are what I build, man. It’s our primary slayer-killing tool. Each one costs almost a million dollars to make.”
Jake raised his eyebrows. He could live the rest of his life in comfort for a million dollars. “Why are they so expensive?”
“Well, I could go on for days, but I’ll make it short. Heard of the MetalStorm technology, Jake?”
Jake shook his head.
“Basically, it’s a firing system that can pump out ten thousands rounds a minute. Instead of firing out of a magazine, the Snowdog has all the bullets lined up in the main section of the gun right here –” he tapped the steel, “– and they’re packed in tight with propellant in between each bullet. When you squeeze the trigger, it fires each bullet out through electric shocks. Not many people can build one of these, brother. On full auto, this thing can shoot out forty thousand rounds a minute if all four barrels are going at once.”
Jake let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of ammo.”
“It sure is, which is why we need to be bloody careful about what we point it at. If you find yourself in a life or death situation, though, this bad boy will tear a slayer to shreds.”
“How do you know how to build one?”
“Let’s just say I’m fairly switched on. The Delta Force taught me a lot, though. It helps that the MetalStorm technology was designed right here in Australia. I’ve done a lot of research. There’s also
a lot of old contacts willing to sell me the parts I need. For a price, of course. Nothing in life’s free, bro.”
“How do you afford all this?” Jake said.
“Link,” Felix said.
He didn't elaborate.
They moved up the stairs with Jake at the rear. As they fanned out into the kitchen, Jake saw an Asian man sitting at the dining room table. He had a pack of playing cards in his hand and was shuffling them between his fingers at a blinding speed. He looked younger than the rest of the men, maybe twenty-five.
“Link,” Felix called out. The man looked up. “This is Jake.”
Jake walked over and the two shook hands. Link had an iron grip.
“Heard a lot about you,” Link said. His voice was monotonous.
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing,” Jake said. “Nice to meet you.”
Felix clapped a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Training starts tomorrow, kid. I know you’ve been sleeping all day, but try and get some rest tonight. You’ll need it. We’re off.”
“Where are you going?”
“To check up on Wolfe,” Crank said. “He’s out scouting, looking for slayer hotspots. Has been all day.”
“The guy’s got an uncanny ability at finding them,” Sam said. “He can tell just by looking for signs. He tracks them, reports back to us, and we all deal with the problem.”
“That’s how he found you,” Crank said. “He was scouting.”
The four men shuffled out, first Thorn and Sam, followed by Crank and Felix.
“Catch ya, man,” Sam said as he left, performing a casual salute with his index finger.
Jake nodded back. Then they were gone. Link was the only man left in the room.
“So, Jake,” he said. “What do you know about counting cards?”
Jake paused. This he knew a little about. He’d seen a few movies on the subject. Even recalling those memories sent him back into the little apartment, stretched out across the couch, absent-mindedly watching the television and waiting for his dad to return home. Countless nights had been spent like that. For many, his dad had never showed. Jake preferred this place, and the company that came with seven people living under the same roof.
“It’s used in blackjack, right?” he said. “To gain an advantage over the casino? To beat the system?”
“You’ve got the general gist of it,” Link said. “You keep track of the cards as they are being dealt across the table. In your head, you have what’s called a running count, which is a number that changes as you remember each card. That way, you know what the rough chances are of the next card being what you want it to be, and you can place your bets accordingly. To dumb it down, you basically assign each card that comes out with a number. For example, the most simple form of card counting is that anything from a ten to a king is minus one, anything from a two to a six is plus one, and seven to nine is neutral. So when the running count in your head is a big number, you know that a lot of lower value cards have come out of the deck. Then you can assume that the next few cards will probably be high value.”
“I get it,” Jake said. “Seems simple enough.”
“Yeah … it’s not. That was the most basic description I could possibly give you. When you’re surrounded by distractions in the casino, it’s much harder. Also, the plus one, minus one system leaves a lot of room for error. My system’s different. It has a different value for every single card, and then from the number in my head I can work out the probability of exactly what the next card will be. I sort out the chances in my head.”
“Are you some kind of genius?”
“I don’t like to brag, but yes.”
Jake laughed. “So how much money is in this? It’s not like anyone who counts cards can become a millionaire.”
“You’re right. Only people who are gifted can make serious money.”
“Do you make serious money?”
“Last weekend I took a plane to Sydney with fifty grand, and came back with one and a half million.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Like I said, I don’t like to brag, but yes, I make serious money from this. That’s how this whole operation is financed.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. A group of millionaire ex-soldiers who hunt monsters and live in a place like this. That’s like … a video game scenario.”
Link managed a smile. “It’s pretty strange, huh?”
“So what do you know about my training?” Jake asked, searching for information. “All I know is that it starts tomorrow.”
Link stared at him for a long time, almost sizing him up.
“I know you’re going to want to quit,” he finally said. “There’s going to be long, hard days. No breaks. Physical training like you’ve never experienced. Actually, it’s probably a good thing that there’s a national manhunt for you right now.”
“A national…?”
A hint of a smile danced across Link’s lips. “You haven’t turned the television on today, have you?”
“I’ve been asleep.”
“Your face has been on every station all day.”
Jake gulped. He wondered what his dad was thinking, what Liam was thinking, what everyone who had ever known him thought of him right now. He was a new person.
Link brought him back to reality. “At least you have some serious incentive not to leave the house now. No matter how hard Wolfe pushes you.”
Jake searched his face for any hint of sarcasm. There was none.
“It can’t be that bad, can it?” he said. “I can handle pain.”
Link shook his head. “It’s not just pain, my friend. You need to be conditioned, and that means for the next few weeks, at least, your life is going to be miserable. You’re probably going to hate us. But it’s necessary. We need to push you to your limits. I went through all that. When I joined, I couldn’t believe how deadly the other five were.”
Jake recalled Wolfe saying that Link had been recruited later on. “Those other five are the Delta Force squad? The one that was ambushed?”
“Yes. Wolfe, Felix, Crank, Thorn and Sam. When you see them in action … it’s breathtaking. They knew they needed to lift their game when they left the Delta Force. They’d entered a whole new ballpark. And so they did – they applied themselves and moulded themselves into slayer hunters. It takes devotion. But I got there, and you can get there too.
“Trust me, you need a different mindset to how you usually train. This isn’t to give you the perfect beach body. It’s for survival. You need to remember that. If you don’t reach our level, you’ll be outmatched by slayers, and you’ll die.
“That’s what you need to repeat in your head over and over again to get through the next few weeks. Just keep telling yourself that, Jake.
“You adapt, or you die.”
CHAPTER TEN
Wolfe had him up at five the next day.
The sun was yet to rise. Jake clambered out of bed, groggy, bleary-eyed, dragged down by an overwhelming helplessness as he contemplated what lay ahead.
“Do I have to do this?” he muttered.
Wolfe heard. “Take it one day at a time, kid. You’ll be right.”
He led Jake down to the basement.
Crank was working out silently in the corner. He kept to himself, giving nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement in Jake’s general direction before turning back to the squat rack. Otherwise, the basement was empty. It felt colder when it was unpopulated; larger, more intimidating.
Wolfe took Jake through a two-hour workout session consisting of nothing more than heavy weights training. Low repetitions, high intensity.
Halfway through, after what felt like an eternity had passed, Jake collapsed. Rugby training was nothing compared to this torture.
“Up,” Wolfe barked, his voice stern.
Jake sucked in air. He was sweating profusely, yet he was cold. He felt sick. His skin was clammy. For a fleeting moment, his stomach heaved and he looked up at the bleak
surroundings with trepidation.
“I don’t want to,” he said.
Wolfe crouched. “You’re barely an hour in. You’ll never survive if you keep this attitude up.”
“This is too hard.”
“No, you’re just overwhelmed. Shut your mind off. I don’t want to hear another word of complaint. Now get up.”
Jake had never seen Wolfe like this before. The friendly demeanour had vanished. It was somewhat encouraging. He rose, forcing away the pain, and continued.
*
With a strain and a grunt of exertion, Jake faltered. Veins in his head throbbed, as if set to burst. Blood rushed to his face, turning his cheeks a shade of crimson.
The bar had stalled halfway through his final set of bench press. It hovered over his chest. Heavy plates were stacked on both sides, threatening to crush him if he couldn’t finish.
Wolfe hovered overhead, spotting him. He was ready to catch the bar if Jake’s arms gave out.
“Take it,” Jake gasped, his face beet red.
“You don’t need me!” Wolfe yelled. “I’m the easy way out!”
Jake flicked an internal switch and heaved with a final, desperate reserve of energy, his muscles screaming. The bar rose just a little, but it was enough. He let it fall back into its supports. It came to a jolting, crashing halt. The weight plates crashed together, echoing through the empty basement. Crank had long since disappeared.
“You’re done,” Wolfe said with a grin.
Jake retched. “Ahh – I didn’t think I’d make it through that.”
“But you did.”
Wolfe extended a hand. Jake took it and rose up off the sweaty bench.
“Listen, buddy,” Wolfe said, draping a muscular arm over Jake’s shoulder. “You just did that. Be proud of yourself. Your training schedule looks daunting, but you and me, we’ll get through it.”
Jake revelled at the change in atmosphere. “Why are you so friendly all of a sudden?”