Her smile widened at Yossef's growing apprehension. He tried to step back and she followed, holding his sunglasses.
“What—” he said. “You must attack.” Yossef held up his hands in a defensive posture, but Vanessa stayed close against his chest so he couldn't step back far enough to counterstrike.
At last, when her breasts brushed the fabric of his own shirt, his eyes flicked down and she flung the fistful of dirt clenched in her right hand straight at his face.
Yossef grunted and staggered back to raise his hands. Vanessa let him move back—it provided her with just the right space to land a powerful front kick to his crotch. He hit the ground with a muffled curse, gasping for breath. Yossef was totally blind and Vanessa was on him before he could rise, one arm around his throat. She clasped her hands and squeezed, feeling the delicious sensation of his entire body stiffening in panic. His hands flew in a pathetic attempt to dislodge her, but he’d been wrong—she had listened to his lectures. She knew exactly how to execute a Figure Four choke. Vanessa tensed her arms and pulled his neck back while she pushed his head forward at the same time. As a result, he only had a few more seconds of consciousness.
A moment later, Vanessa stood and brushed the sand from her legs as she stood over the inert body of her instructor. She looked up, surprised at the sudden silence that filled the training yard. Every pair of instructors and trainees watched her. Most of them smiled.
A slow clap started. She turned to see the man in the suit stroll toward her with a face-splitting grin as he clapped.
“Brava!” He laughed as he grew near. “Oh, well done—well done indeed!”
Vanessa noticed that the instructors bowed their heads in deference as the man approached. The other trainees merely watched. She squinted at the stranger in the noon-day sun.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The man bowed before her and swept his arm back in an exaggerated, courtly bow. "Reginald Tillcott, at your service my lady," he said with a faint Scottish accent.
"And you are most definitely ready,” he said as he removed his designer sunglasses. He glanced at Yossef, snoring on the ground at his feet. “My father was right to select you. What is your name?”
Vanessa opened her mouth then closed it. The Council's training had been harsh but thorough—she only thought of her other name for a moment.
“Seven.”
Reginald clucked disapprovingly. “Seven? How spectacularly unimpressive. No, my dear, you will be much too beautiful," he said, raising a manicured hand to gently caress her puffy, tender cheek, "to be saddled with such an industrial moniker. What was your birth name?”
"Vanessa Brant."
He pursed his lips and tapped them with his folded sunglasses. "Now that willna do at all, will it?" His eyes sparkled as he reached out to gently take her dirt-encrusted hand in his.
Vanessa thrilled with the electricity of his touch. His hand, smooth but full of strength, held her fingers so lightly that the contrast made her breath quicken. He turned from her to face the other trainees.
“Attention, everyone. I am pleased to announce the first of you has passed her final test. By using every weapon in her arsenal, this exceptional unarmed young woman has bested her instructor—a Mossad-trained agent and IDF veteran.”
He looked at her and those fierce gray eyes bored straight into her soul. His gaze was magnetic and as his hand squeezed hers, Vanessa's heart skipped a beat.
“Whenever a trainee passes their final test, they are given a new name to go along with their new life as a Council operative. From this moment forward, you will be known only by your new identity." He reached up and took her chin in his hand, turning her swollen face left and right, clucking his tongue.
"Your old self is dead—the quicker you adjust to that reality, the better. You belong to the Council now. You belong to me.”
Vanessa smiled into his eyes as she felt the jealous stares of the other trainees and the stern gazes of the instructors.
He stared at her. “In time, all of you will ask me: who am I?”
She squeezed his hand in silent hunger. “Who am I?” she breathed.
“Vanessa Brant is dead." He smiled at her.
"You are Jayne Renolds.”
CHAPTER 36
Glacier National Park
SEVEN HOURS, TWO PLANE trips, and a short, bumpy helicopter ride brought Chad to the absolute middle of nowhere, Montana. He stared out the window of the big gray Sikorsky he'd been on since Dr. Taylor parted ways with him in Billings, unable to look away from the majestic beauty of the mountains and glaciers that crinkled the landscape below.
He watched as his helicopter swooped low over an oblong, zucchini-shaped lake of pristine, blue water. Flocks of shorebirds scattered like a frenzied white mist that fled before the aircraft. Chad tried pointing out the scene to the other passengers, but the rotors were so loud none of them seemed able to understand him.
Either that or they're all purposely ignoring me—just like the soldiers back in San Antonio. Chad grimaced. Had he traded one life of captivity for another, more secluded version?
At last the long trip was over and the side door opened. A grizzled, wiry man dressed in the olive-drab uniform of a park ranger stood before him, ducking beneath the slowing rotor blades.
"You Huntley?" he yelled over the helicopter's engines as he tucked his campaign hat under his arm.
The men with Chad were all dressed in civilian clothing but clearly carried themselves like soldiers. They efficiently offloaded Chad's gear and climbed back aboard without a word. Chad stepped down and shook hands with the older man.
"Yes, sir," Chad shouted.
The gray-haired park ranger nodded, waved absently to the others inside the helicopter, and pulled Chad aside. He made sure Chad remained crouched over until the helicopter lifted off and the swirling storm of dust and pebbles subsided. The old man watched the helicopter recede into the hazy distance before he finally turned to face Chad.
He was a little taller than Chad and had the weathered, leathery face of a man who'd spent his entire life outdoors.
"You can call me Ranger Belkin."
"Nice to meet you, sir."
Belkin grunted. "I ain't no officer, son—I work for a living." He gestured for Chad to follow and moved over to pick up Chad's bags. He slung the two largest over his shoulders like a man in his prime. Chad grabbed the last one and kept Jess' satchel securely strapped to his shoulder.
"I thought I was supposed to be going to school?" Chad said, staring at the surrounding wilderness, pristine and empty.
Belkin remained silent as he headed toward a brown Jeep parked next to the crystal clear waters of the lake. He opened the back and tossed his bags in as if they weighed no more than a football. As he watched the helicopter recede over the mountains to the east, he mumbled: "This is your school, son."
Chad tossed his bag in the back of the Jeep. "You mean there's no other students?"
"Oh, there’s students…they're waiting back at the ranger station. Biggest class of new recruits I've ever had."
"So we won't be studying history or math and stuff?" asked Chad, as he climbed in the passenger seat. Belkin got in on the driver’s side, turned the key, and the old 4x4 workhorse started with a throaty roar.
"You’ll be studying, but not that bullshit. The world that required that kind of stuff from its young people is gone. It might come back someday—maybe sooner rather than later—but that's not what you need right now."
"What do I need then?" asked Chad.
"You need to learn how to survive. I'm going to teach you that."
Chad said nothing. He stared out the window as the Jeep bounced across the rocky beach to a gravel path to the east, leading away from the lake. He glanced out Belkin's window and saw a sizable deserted resort complex on the edge of the water in the distance. Sailboats and jet-skis dotted the shoreline as far as he could see.
Chad turned his gaze down the road ahea
d, seemingly cut straight through the pine-covered mountains. He let his eyes seek out their lofty, snow-covered peaks as Belkin pushed the ancient Jeep deeper into the woods. Jostling with every groove and rock the vehicle plowed over, Chad brushed against a strange-looking rifle secured next to the gearshift between him and Belkin.
"What's wrong with that rifle?" he asked, rubbing his shoulder after he slammed into it again.
"Nothing," grunted Belkin as he shifted gears. "That's an octagon barrel, boy. It's heavier than most rifles, like they used to make 'em. Back when this land was still considered the wild frontier."
"They don't give you normal guns out here?" asked Chad.
Belkin laughed. "Oh they do. I have 'em locked up back at the station. I use 'em to train new people.” He nodded at the odd rifle.
“That one's mine, though—she's a lever action Henry. You learn how to shoot one like that, you'll never want one of those fancy semi-autos again."
Chad smiled as they passed a trail sign for Little Matterhorn and settled further in his seat.
Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
If you liked this book, please consider taking a few moments to leave a review by clicking below! Indie authors live and die by the reviews left for our books. You'll not only be helping me out but you'll be helping out your fellow readers by letting them know what you thought about this book.
Thank You.
LINK TO BOOK
The story continues….
CLICK HERE
to read Apache Dawn, the next book in the series!
For information on my upcoming books,
events, news and more, please visit the following:
Official Website:
marcusrichardsonauthor.com
The Freeholder Blog:
freeholderpress.com/blog
To receive the latest news on upcoming releases and inside information
(including exclusive content for subscribers) join my mailing list:
The Freeholder Update.
Acknowledgments
I WOULD LIKE TO thank the usual suspects, my family, my friends, and most importantly, my wonderful wife.
A big thanks to Rotag and Old Sarge who once again came through with fantastic insights as beta readers. Thanks guys!
Last but certainly not least, I want to give attribution where attribution is due to BigStock.com for elements of the cover art.
THANK YOU.
About the Author
MARCUS graduated from the University of Delaware in 2000 and earned his law degree three years later. Since then, he has at times been employed (or not) as: a highly over-qualified stock-boy, cashier, department manager at a home furnishings store, assistant manager with a national arts and crafts chain, an acting store manager with the same chain, handyman, woodworker, husband, cook, grounds-keeper, spider-killer, stay-at-home-dad, and writer.
He currently lives with his wife, children, and one cheeky vizsla behind the Cheddar Curtain (he’s a Bears fan living in Wisconsin)—and he couldn’t be happier you’re taking the time to read this.
Discover more about Marcus at:
marcusrichardsonauthor.com
Books by Marcus Richardson
THE WILDFIRE SAGA
The Source (Prequel)
Book I: Apache Dawn
Book II: The Shift
Book III: Firestorm
False Prey (Novella)
The Wildfire Saga Bundle
For my complete catalog listing, please see:
marcusrichardsonauthor.com
The Source: A Wildfire Prequel Page 22