Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy

by R. E. Schobernd

  Sitting back down Joe continued, “When I decided to leave the CIA there was the matter of what I would do to earn a living. I’m a professional agent on an international scale. Before leaving I learned I was ranked as one of the top twelve professional operatives in the world in proficiency and performance. In answer to the question forming in your brain right now, no those twelve people are not all in the service of the United States. Only two of our people were ranked up there; the others are from around the world: England, Israel, Russia, Turkey and several others. I wanted to get away from the killing, but it’s what I’m good at. It’s what I’ve done all my adult life. So now I train aspiring killers in the art of ‘covert actions’, a term my former boss’s liked to use to disguise the real name of what we did; it was murder, plain and simple.”

  Adjusting his position in his chair, Joe continued “I don’t tell any of this to my other customers. I’m only telling you because I suspect what your reasons are for being here, and I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. At your young age you’ll probably go ahead with whatever plans you have laid out. But at some point you may come to the same conclusion I have, and may want out just like I did. Or not, it’s up to you and your own conscience. One of the reasons I stay out here in the woods is because when I tried to change professions and just do a plain everyday job, there was always somebody who could read me; see what I am and what I’m capable of, and then had to challenge me. Sort of like the old gunslingers and the young kids who wanted to make a name for themselves by taking on the old pro. I have the freedom to go wherever I like, but I’m a prisoner because of what I am.”

  Joe changed the subject from himself to his pupil, “The man paying for this said you have already killed several people. Looking at you, it’s hard to believe. He also said you planned and carried out a mass execution; the one in Chicago about seven months ago, right? I thought so. The area code of the phone number of your sponsor was in the Chicago area. All of the talk from the people I know attributed the job to some mysterious and highly experienced professional from out of town; some even suspected me. My hats off to you; you’ve already tasted blood, and apparently you have a knack for it, just like I did. Don’t mind me if I offer you condolence instead of congratulations. I know what’s ahead for you even if you don’t. Now, tell me about yourself and what you expect of me over the next four weeks.”

  Clay took a deep breath and let it out slowly while he thought about where to start. “I got into this because some drunk attacked me outside a bar. I defended myself, he wound up dead and I escaped undetected. It was in self defense, but I wasn’t sure anyone would believe my story. A short time later my best friend was murdered; I avenged his death by stalking and executing the man who killed him. I felt a strong moral obligation to make things right because we had been lifelong friends, and we each thought we would always be there for the other. Two years later his father, who runs one of the Chicago mobs, was shot by another gang wanting to take over the rackets in his area. Since his son was dead, I stepped in and led the hit on the other gang, knowing they all had to be eliminated or an all out war would erupt. Since then I’ve made my first professionally paid hit. It came off good, except I know of some mistakes I made and I need to correct those. My experience is minimal, so I'm here to learn. I guess I really don’t have any expectations because I don’t have anything to judge by. I don’t know how a professional like you operates. I don’t know what skills I should have, and I don’t know what weapons are available besides the common pistols, rifles, shotguns and so on. I did use some M-14s and incendiary grenades on the Chicago job and thought those were far out.”

  “Apparently you already have your mind set on becoming a hired killer. I’m not encouraging you; it’s your decision and you’ll have to live with it. Since you haven’t been in the business long enough to be aware of the skills you need I’ll take the liberty of teaching you the things I think you need to know. You’re probably wondering why we’ll spend four weeks out here in the woods when most of your work will undoubtedly take place in urban areas. First, the skills you’ll learn here will be vital anywhere, in rural or urban settings. Second, we have privacy here and the ability to move around undetected, space to target practice, all out of the view of prying eyes. I’ll teach you the basics; you’ll need to continue your training on your own to gain proficiency.”

  “You’ll learn proper firearms handling, close up targeting as well as how to hit a target up to half a mile away with a rifle. I’ll teach you about explosives; how to use readily available materials to make powerful bombs; how to rig timers and trip wires. I’ll show you how to kill an opponent in one blow, snap a neck like a dead stick, stun a man so he’s helpless to fight back effectively, fight with a knife, and use a garrote to silently strangle a victim. We’ll practice stealth tactics; how to approach a target without arousing attention or suspicion, even in a city. There will also be training on how to identify and disable security systems. We’ll talk about poisons and how to procure or create them.

  Now let’s have supper, relax a bit and turn in; tomorrow morning we’ll start with hand to hand combat, and move to classroom instruction in the afternoon. Set your alarm for five thirty; breakfast is at six fifteen and we start training at seven. If you decide to go outside at night for any reason start talking when you open the door; the dogs stay outside and may attack you since you’re new here.”

  By the end of the third week Clay felt like his head would explode if he crammed anymore information into it. During the first two weeks he and Joe had spent ten hour days in the metal building at the back of the compound. The building contained a kitchen, two classrooms, a large training room for hands on exercises with mats on the floor, storage lockers for the various equipment to outfit a half dozen trainees and a bunk room. Most days started at seven in the morning with whatever physical training Joe had planned for the day. After lunch they would go to one of the classrooms where Joe would present information on subjects from pre-planning a hit to planning the escape route. There was so much more involved than Clay had ever imagined. He learned when using a small caliber pistol from several feet away the victim should be shot through the ear or the eyes because the low power bullets may not penetrate the skull with enough force to do lethal damage to the brain. Or, when possible, plan a hit with a stone or concrete wall behind the victim so bullets passing through a body would be too damaged to get a good ballistics match. And with a knife, how to inflict a killing wound without getting covered with the victims blood. Clay learned how to disassemble a pistol or rifle until he could do it in the dark, or blind folded. He learned how to destroy a house or building using natural gas piped into the building, flammable liquids, and solid fuel like wood and common household products. At the beginning of the third week they had started discussing sniper training. Joe removed a.30-06 Winchester Model 70 rifle from a compartment in one of the storage cabinets. He handed it to Clay to get used to the feel and weight of it. They spent the rest of the day shooting at 100 and 200 yard distances and discussing the merits of the Winchester Model 70 and Remington 700 rifles as well as some foreign made rifles.

  The remainder of the week was spent in the forest, dressed in army fatigues and carrying a lightweight backpack and rifle. Clay remembered the first two days in particular.

  Early the first morning he and Joe had left the compound in the Ford pick up and were deep in the forest before seven o’clock. They left the truck and were following an animal trail in a valley between two mountains. Leaving the trail the two men began to climb up a hillside to their right. The slope was steep and irregular, with varying degrees of difficulty in the ascent. As they rose higher the climb became increasingly harder, until Clay found himself lagging behind. The weight of the pack and awkwardness of a rifle made climbing very difficult. Hurrying to catch up he began to climb with all his strength and endurance, taking changes on dubious footings, and grasping small trees and bushes for leverage and support
. Climbing like a man possessed he gained ground steadily; he felt this was probably a test to see what he was made of. Short of breaking a limb or sliding all the way back down to where they had started, he intended to reach their destination when his leader did. After ten minutes of climbing at a furious pace, he felt he was gaining on Joe. In another fifteen minutes they were close enough to touch, just as they breached a flat rocky area near the top of the mountain.

  The panoramic view before them was spectacular. The sun, well above the horizon, had not burned off the mist in the tree-covered valleys below them. It looked like clouds had fallen from the sky and filled the valleys, clinging to and obliterating the vegetation. When Clay glanced at his watch he could hardly believe they had been climbing for thirty minutes, but it fit and explained why he was tired and breathing heavily.

  After removing several items from the lightweight backpack he was carrying, Joe laid it at the edge of the small clearing, and indicated for Clay to do the same.

  Leading the way to a rock over hang at the edge of the clearing, Joe settled in under the branches of a large pine tree. Pointing to a mountain to the south he said “There’s your target; remember what you’ve learned about shooting this rifle.”

  Clay thought to himself he could hardly miss hitting the mountain, so there must be some smaller target he couldn’t see. Lying down in a prone position, he began to scan the mountain through the adjustable twenty power riflescope, looking for his target.

  Joe broke the silence “The slope we're facing on the mountain is just under half a mile away. This is a long shot for a beginner; but I want to see what you can do and learn if you have what it takes to be a sniper. The scope has been adjusted for this distance, but you’ll need to make some minor corrections to make it fit you. I’ll coach you until you develop a feel for it.”

  Clay finally spotted a wide ledge two thirds of the way up the mountain. He counted a dozen plastic milk jugs placed on the ground, on boulders, and stuck into crevices in the vertical rock face behind the ledge. Some were clear and others were shades of red, green or blue; the coloring, along with shadows cast by the early morning sunlight, made some harder to distinguish than others. Clay loaded the rifle and concentrated on remembering the instructions given during the past days of training.

  Joe removed a spotting scope from a case and prepared to watch Clay’s first target practice. “Remember, compensate for wind, take a breath, let it out, and squeeze off a shot smoothly. Which jug are you aiming for?”

  On his first four shots Clay missed the chosen target, but came increasingly closer. Joe appraised each shot, coaching Clay and making suggestions on how to correct what he was doing wrong. On the fifth shot the plastic jug tumbled backward, as the force of the .30-06 caliber 150 grain bullet hit the shale filled container. After rolling backward several yards, what was left of the jug came to rest at the base of the vertical cliff. After his initial hit, Clay missed the next two, and then hit two in a row. After two hours he had taken twenty seven shots, and all of the containers had been hit.

  The two men ate a cold lunch sitting on the rock ledge under the shade of pine trees, far above the floor of the valley below.

  Between bites Joe said, “Congratulations on your marksmanship. You have a natural ability very few people can develop even with extensive practice. Our next move will be to descend the mountain on the opposite side we climbed, into some of the most rugged terrain in this part of the forest. I’m afraid the noise and the length of time elapsed during the shooting, might have caused someone to alert the local authorities about the gunfire; we’re not supposed to be in this section of the forest, it’s a game preserve. The authorities in turn may relay the complaint to federal law enforcement. We’ll move deeper into the forest to evade any possible contact. Tomorrow morning we’ll be at your target mountain to clean up all signs of your practice session.”

  Clay noted, “If the authorities do search for us, the pickup will probably be found.”

  Joe laughed and said, “Come on kid, you need to have more faith in me. After we left this morning, Joan rode a 100 cc motorcycle out to where we parked the pick up, loaded the bike in the bed, and took the truck back to the house.”

  After descending the mountain the men spent the remainder of the afternoon moving silently through the thick forest, practicing the arts of natural camouflage and tracking. At dusk they ate food from their backpacks; cold rations designed for Army soldiers in combat zones where fires couldn't be built.

  Overnight they slept out in the open in sleeping bags, awaking the next morning before dawn under a heavy layer of dew. The humidity was high, even though the air felt cool, and their clothing was damp from the moisture in the air. Both men stowed their gear, drank water from their canteens, relieved themselves, and were on their way as soon as there was just barely enough light to see. Joe took the lead through the dense shadows, moving silently, taking care with each step to avoid breaking fallen branches underfoot. Leaves on the ground had been softened by the heavy dew and made scarcely any sound. Clay assumed this was just another exercise in stealth techniques. He barely saw Joe’s hand motion him to stop, but noted the man had frozen dead still in his tracks. Joe’s hand slowly motioned for Clay to move ahead cautiously and quietly. When he was so close to Joe they almost touched, he saw shadowy forms in front of them. The shapes didn't blend into the vertical tree lines of the forest and moved occasionally. One of the six shapes he could define raised its head, glanced around, and lowered its head again to continue feeding on the meager plants growing in a small clearing.

  Joe moved his right hand in extremely slow motion to indicate what he and Clay would do, communicating without making a sound or saying a word. Joe crouched down, removed his backpack, and began to move to the left in slow, prolonged, stealthy movements. Clay watched as the big man moved away quietly and effortlessly through the shadows amid saplings and small bushes. He removed his own backpack and laid the rifle with it, crouched, withdrew his knife from its sheath, and began to move ahead toward the small herd of grazing deer. He couldn’t believe he was about to try what Joe had indicated to him; a month ago he wouldn’t have thought it even possible. But, if Joe was confident it could be done, then he would attempt it. The deer were still about twenty five feet ahead and Clay moved as slowly and as quietly as he could. Even so, he began to notice agitation among them. They sense something is amiss he thought while managing to move ten or twelve feet closer to the shadowy forms. He knew they had to be hearing the occasional twig breaking under foot and the rustle of bushes being parted. Still in a crouched position, he stopped often as he continued to see heightened agitation in the half dozen animals. From twelve feet away he could see the animals were spread out over a distance of thirty feet, mostly to his left. His heart was pounding so loud he was sure the deer could hear it; an adrenaline rush had sharpened his senses, honed like a razors edge. Everything else faded from his conciseness as he focused all of his attention on a single target before him.

  The stillness suddenly exploded with a loud screaming sound and the noise of something crashing through the sparse vegetation and debris on the forest floor. The startled deer herd froze for an extended instant. At the same time Clay recovered from his own momentary shock at the sudden but expected noise and lunged forward. As the frightened deer reacted to the initial source of attack they attempted to turn and run away. Clay reached the nearest doe moving in front of him as it was turning from the danger. On its outstretched rear legs, its body bent almost double, the deer was attempting to make a desperate leap to safety. As he sprang toward the animal it was already committed to its initial evasive action. In three strides he hit the deer broadside, wrapped his left arm around the base of the animal’s neck and hung on, slowing its forward motion; at the same time he thrust the knife in his right hand deep into the deer’s throat, forcing the knife away from himself and the deer in a slicing motion. The deer faltered, stumbled, and fell over on its left side, with Clay
going down on top of it. Instinctively he moved to position himself on top of the doe’s warm body, away from the hooves flailing aimlessly and feebly to his right as the deer bled to death. What remained of the small herd had disappeared into the shadows and the only sounds he heard was his heart beating loudly over the gasps of the animal dying beneath him. Looking into the eye inches from his own head he sensed the fear and utter helplessness of the dying doe as he pinned it to the ground.

  Joe had caught a small yearling, not many months past being a fawn, and had broken its neck before it could follow its mother in retreat.

  Joe nodded his approval to Clay, saying “This is a lesson in survival, in case you have a job go bad and need to disappear in order to escape. Remember you can do this, or something similar in a pinch. Now, we’re about to have a warm and nutritious, though highly unorthodox breakfast.” Joe extracted a length of light rope from his backpack, tied one end of the rope to the doe’s hind legs and tossed the rope over a low tree branch eight feet off the ground. After pulling on the rope and raising the deer to the vertical position, he tied the rope off. Digging around in his backpack he found a collapsible metal cup, extended it in the open position and held it to catch blood draining from the neck. He motioned for Clay to do the same, and drank down the thick warm liquid. Taking his knife in hand, he rose and cut through the deer’s hide to expose the tenderloin running along the backbone. Clay watched as Joe sliced off a chunk of bloody meat, placed it in his mouth and began chewing.

  Clay had heard his brother-in-law, Tom, tell stories of watching old farmers in Wisconsin catching the blood of cows while butchering and drinking the blood, but never dreamed he would be called upon to do the same. Putting his cup under the deer, he caught the dark stream of draining blood until the cup was two thirds full. Standing up, he felt the warmth of the crimson liquid transferring through the metal cup to his hand, and said out loud, but to himself more than to Joe, “Well, here goes.” Swallowing a small amount of the thick fluid, Clay found he could over ride the squeamishness he had learned from society by concentrating on Joe's comment, “This is a lesson in survival.”