In-house Training
“Who am I?” The young man asked, his eyes impossibly confused. Just 18, it was the kind of question Jiter Michaels would have expected from a kid just getting his bearings and figuring out where he stood in the world, if that same kid hadn't been part of an experimental test group and had his memory blanked on purpose.
“You?” Jiter said incredulously “Who the hell am I?” He'd run the scenario enough times to be convincing; in the last fifteen years only one of the trainees had been bright enough to question his authenticity, and that one was now his superior. Director Loffery was a ruthless SOB, but that's why he'd been picked by the big boys after his novitiate for the fast track – he was just what the Organization needed.
“Where are we?” The kid said, eyes darting around the room. That was always the next questions recruits had, and though they didn't know it, it didn't matter. Within minutes, a squad of goons was going to break down the door – in this case, one at a seedy motel – and start shooting. Real bullets would be coming out of the guns, and both he and the kid had hot-loaded pistols, but the kid was the only one who wouldn't be wearing body armor. Jiter always felt a twinge of guilt at that, but stifled it with the memory of the worst partner he'd ever had, before the Organization began using this drill. The idiot had nearly gotten them both killed off the coast of Greece when it was discovered – at an utterly inopportune moment – that he “didn't like guns”. Now, the kids coming through had two choices: fight, live and get their memories back, so much the wiser and so much the better, or die in a hail of gunfire.
“Don't ask me!” Jiter snapped. “Wait! What's that noise?”
Damn. He thought to himself. Early. Jiter knew the men were in position, but he should have waited for their footsteps outside before saying something. As it was, he had to pretend his hearing was somehow superior until the kid heard it too, and perked up. He was getting sloppy in his old age, and the Organization had no use for it. Loffery would kill him as soon as let him retire with the kind of secrets he was carrying around, and Jiter knew he had to be as useful as he could for as long as he could.
A careless boot-scuff outside finally grabbed the recruit's attention, and he moved quickly to take cover behind the bed. Not a bad choice, but not the best in the room; although it gave a good sight-line to the door, a mattress wasn't going to do much to stop a bullet. The doorway between the bedroom and bathroom would have been the best place to take cover, since it would have afforded the kid the ability to show as little of his body to his attackers as possible.
Since it was vacant, Jiter took the best space in the room and drew the pistol at his hip. His men had been trained to go down hard on what looked like lethal shots, and so had he. It was a point of pride that the last time anyone had scored a fatal shot on him was the day after his niece's wedding, when he'd had far too much to drink and around forty-five minutes of sleep. Even so, he'd taken four men with him before he hit the ground.
“Kid,” he hissed, and the pale-faced young man looked over at him. Right in the middle of his class, the kid didn't have any distinguishing skills, and so long as he survived the last few weeks of his training would make an solid mid-level operative, one that the Organization didn't mind throwing away to ensure more important jobs could be completed by those of higher calibers.
Jiter motioned to his pistol, and the kid finally figured out he was carrying one of his own. With a smooth motion, he drew, surprise clear on his face that he was so competent with the gun. Jiter had seen some of the younger ones scream when they found the pistol in their hands, even though he knew they'd been training with it for months.
Muffled voices outside the door told him the attack was coming, and he steadied himself against the bathroom wall, making sure that only his pistol and the slightest edge of his face was visible at the edge. No sense in making this easy for his men, since they needed the practice as well.
Jiter saw the door start to crack open, and then the kid was moving before he had a chance to react. Dropping the gun, the thin recruit leapt across the bed to land in front of the door, then slammed it hard shut on the hand and leg of the first man trying to come through. There was a cry of pain and the kid danced back and away, moving quickly side-to-side on the balls of his feet. The door came crashing down next, three of his men jamming through the opening, weapons drawn. Not one got a shot off before the young man at the door leveled them, and the other three outside shot him a look.
He nodded; their job hadn't changed.
They tried to be more cautious, but the kid was simply too fast. Guns were knocked from hands, wrists were broken, and when it was over Jiter stood in the middle of the room, pistol back in its holster, no shots fired.
Pulling a cellphone from his pocket, he started to dial. The sound of a gun hammer drawing back stopped him.
“I work for the Agency,” the kid said calmly, “have for five years. Your training program is good, I'll admit, and you're the best part of it. My bosses have an interest in you, and an offer to make. Mine is this: put the phone down and come with me, or I'll kill you right now.”
Jiter knelt slowly and set the phone on the ground.
“Lead on.”
- D
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