Trained by Sansa Rayne
Chapter 19
We spend two days relaxing and pondering the future, though I try to keep us focused on the former rather than the latter. She needs time — much more time — but after two days she gets bored of sitcoms and salty snacks.
She doesn’t tire of the sex, but that doesn’t have to stop.
“I just want to walk around,” Kate says. “Could you give me a tour of the compound?”
“Sure.”
It’s a good idea, if just for her own safety. In the event of an attack, she should know where to go and what to do.
We start by touring the perimeter, which ends with a climb up an old fire tower observation station. Kate looks cute and comfortable in an oatmeal sweater and loose, borrowed jeans. She shivers at the top of the tower, giving me an excuse to hold her close and shield her from the icy winds.
“From here we can see the roads leading into the area,” I say, gesturing to arrays of cameras and sensors on all four of the tower’s posts. “We have radar for the skies and several of our missile launchers. If anyone manages to find us, they’re not going to have an easy time getting here.”
“Good,” she says, gazing out at the expanse of hills and valleys. “And it’s a beautiful view.”
I sigh, swallowing down my hatred for Anton.
“It must have been hard, living in a cell, not having your freedom. I can’t even imagine it.”
Kate shakes her head.
“It was awful. If it had just been bare walls that would have been bad enough. Anton made me watch my old broadcasts, all the time. He forced me to re-live every humiliating second of them.”
That fucking piece of shit.
“It should have been me, Kate. I should have been in that prison instead of you. I’m the one Anton wanted.”
“It wasn’t like he was going to pick just one of us to hurt,” she says. “He would have done this to me regardless.”
“Maybe if he had me to focus his anger on, he wouldn’t have cared as much about you. He carried this grudge for years, and when he thought I was dead, he let out all his hatred on you instead. That’s my fault.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” she says.
A heavy wind whips through the tower; Kate shivers against me.
“That night when Anton shot me. When he pretended to shoot you and we were in the water, I thought about coming back for you right then.”
“Don’t, Ingram.”
“I didn’t think I could help you. I wanted to, but-”
“I know,” she interrupts. “If I’d seen you were alive, I would have told you to go. I wanted you to do exactly what you did: escape and come back for me when you could. I don’t blame you. It had to be this way.”
She’s right, but it doesn’t make me feel a lot better about what she’s endured since then. If I had known just how horribly he was going to treat her…
“I’ve thought of a lot of could-haves and should-haves since I met you,” I say. “Not killing Anton when I learned he was Simon will go down as the regret of my life. All of this could have been avoided.”
“Yeah.”
“You cold? You want to keep going?”
“Sure.”
—
We head back down and warm up inside; I show her the hangar where we keep the new jet, followed by the bomb shelter.
“It’s five stories deep,” I say as the elevator takes us down. “Back in the Cold War, it held an entire command center, capable of overseeing the armed forces should the government need to evacuate Washington.”
“Cool.”
Judging by how far her jaw drops, I don’t think she realized how big the subterranean complex would be: an entire facility, complete with barracks for our agents, a cafeteria, training rooms, a recreation lounge, a shooting range, an armory and an operation center.
“Whoa,” she says as we enter the gym. Two rows of men and women do push-ups as an instructor leads. “Who are all these people?”
“My network; people I’ve recruited over the course of my career. Also, enemies of Anton. You see him?” I ask, pointing at Nasir. “He was one of Hamza Bin Khaled’s men. We gave him an opportunity to join us, and he did.”
“Wow. He didn’t mind that you killed his boss and friends?”
I shrug.
“He didn’t take it personally. And we would have killed him otherwise.”
“Of course.”
“They’ve all been vetted. They’re all trustworthy,” I add. “Some are in it for the money. Some have scores to settle. All of them are highly-skilled and loyal. We might not have as many mercenaries as Anton, but ours are the best.”
We stay and watch a little while, then I take Kate’s hand and lead her to the shooting range. Eight booths long and stocked with a selection of pistols, shotguns and rifles, the range extends a hundred feet, allowing for training at a variety of distances.
“I know you’ve learned to shoot before,” I say. “Since you’re here, I’d like you to practice on a regular basis. Get familiar with a variety of weapons, improve your accuracy and reloading. I’ll always protect you, but I’d like you to be deadly all by yourself.”
“Sure,” Kate replies. “It’ll give me something to do.”
I smirk.
“Oh, I’m going to keep you busy. I’d like you to train in hand-to-hand combat to build on your self-defense skills. And I intend to spend a lot of time with you for some very intensive workouts.”
She chuckles.
“I should hope so. And I’d already thought of kickboxing or something if my life ever got back to normal. Can you teach me that?”
It’s my turn to laugh.
“No, not kickboxing. Ever heard of Krav Maga?”
“Sure,” she says. “A style developed by the Israelis. Eyal?”
I nod.
“He’ll teach you, when he can. Come on, for now let’s see you shoot.”
Smiling, we don our headgear and head into the range. She picks out a Colt handgun, a Mossberg pump shotgun and an M16. Before we even start shooting, I watch her load and unload the guns for a half hour. When she finally gets in the booth, she’s eager to begin.
“Let’s see your stance.”
Kate points the gun at the target sheet, shoulders straight, feet planted and knees flexed.
“Good.”
I move the target to twenty feet.
“Let’s see your aim.”
She opens fire, one shot at a time, perforating the sheet with well-placed shots. The first five hit center mass; the last three hit the head. I can’t help but recall how she dispatched Victor.
“Kate, if you’d grown up a little differently, you might have made a good assassin.”
She laughs.
“The pen is mightier than the sword, Ingram.”
“Yeah, they said that before the M16 was invented. Why don’t you give that a try?”
She sighs, removing the pistol’s magazine and setting both parts down. I set up a fresh target sheet and move it back to fifty feet.
“My father abhorred violence,” she says. “He was a pacifist. I don’t think he’d like the idea of me learning to kill.”
“Even under the circumstances?” I ask.
“I think he’d understand, but he wouldn’t be happy about it. Which is fine — I’d rather not be doing this either. Even when I learned on my own, it was out of necessity.”
Blood rushes to my face; I look away.
It was necessary because she made enemies in her line of work. I was one of them.
“If I’d really wanted to enlist or become a cop, he wouldn’t have stood in my way, but I could tell he was happy I chose to follow in his footsteps. That’s probably why I’ve tried so hard to live up to his name.”
“He’d be very proud of you, Kate.”
“What about your father?” she asks. “Was he hoping you’d grow up to run the factory?”
I laugh, shaking my head.
“No, he was thrilled when I enlisted. He felt it would lead to a better life than the one he had. Plus, he was all about self-discipline and hard work, which were lessons I really needed when I was young.”
“I can’t imagine you taking orders and calling someone else ‘sir.’ Telling you to clean the latrine, demanding you get down and give him twenty…”
“Yeah, that part wasn’t easy for me,” I say, remembering Drill Sergeant Skinner. I haven’t thought of him in ages. “I definitely had my share of disciplinary infractions. If I thought I could get away with something, I tried to. It didn’t always work. But in the end, I learned respect for authority and the value of discipline.”
“And also to be very good at fighting, killing and more,” Kate finishes.
She aims the M16 and takes a practice shot. The gun kicks in her grip, but she doesn’t drop it. The next time she squeezes the trigger shes’ ready for the recoil. Her shots hit their marks, leaving holes in a tight spread.
“Very good,” I say.
“So was it your idea to join or your father’s?”
“His,” I admit. “But I liked the idea of learning to be a badass, so I didn’t fight him too hard.”
She goes through a few clips with each gun, learning their feel. Every time I see her target sheets, I smile. She’s a natural, without a doubt. Normally I’d be afraid of arming a civilian, worried that they’d cause more friendly fire than anything else. I have a feeling that won’t be much of an issue with Kate. Though, hopefully she never has to use a gun. I intend to keep her safe; if she ever needs to defend herself, that will be a failure on my part.
When she’s finished, I take her to the cafeteria for lunch. She gets a turkey club sandwich with tomato soup and french fries. I have a grilled chicken salad.
Kate pours mustard all over her fries, practically drowning them. I don’t ask.
“Did your father know about your work, after the military?”
“I was in the SEALs for a while, so he knew about that. I never told him I’d left to start my own outfit. There was little point — either way, my work was a secret. In truth, he wouldn’t have approved. He believed in doing what was right, not just working for whoever can pay. I’m glad he never knew the truth.”
Kate looks down at her food.
“That must be difficult,” she says. “Living with that guilt.”
“I’ve had my share.”
She nods.
“Me too.”
—
After eating and taking some time to digest, I take her to the gym.
“What are we doing?” she asks as I toss her some loose shorts and a plain t-shirt.
“A little hand-to-hand training. Just a little; your stitches are still healing. Get changed and we’ll start with the punching bag.”
She does as she’s told, not minding getting partially undressed in front of everyone. She’s spent so much time nude as a prisoner that this must not even faze her. Normally I wouldn’t expect my people to pay her any mind, but I’ve seen them glancing at us throughout the day.
Their curiosity is understandable; she’s the reason I brought this small army together, and now she’s here.
“Let’s see your punch,” I say, tossing her a pair of boxing gloves.
Her self-defense training taught her a more than adequate technique; she makes solid contact, with good arm extension.
“Good. Keep going.”
I hold the bag steady, watching her take swing after swing. Neither of us speak as she wails on the bag, pounding it harder and harder. Her face twists in pain, but I don’t think it’s from the training.
“Kate, be careful. You don’t want to bust a stitch.”
She doesn’t listen. She keeps punching.
Fuck it. If she needs to have a stitch redone, she will.
I make eye contact with one of the other instructors and gesture for him to go. Quietly, he clears the room, leaving me and Kate alone.
She doesn’t notice. Tears drip down her face. Teeth bared, she cries as she punches faster and harder. Sweating heavily, she doesn’t stop the barrage until she’s out of breath from both fatigue and grief.
This is a year’s worth of swallowed aggression and misery pouring out — likely just a fraction of what simmers below the surface.
“Hey,” I say, taking her in my arms and lowering us both to the mat. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
Cradled in my embrace, she weeps. I can’t even imagine the pain she’s endured, the fear and outrage. I stroke her hair and kiss her forehead until she’s done. Every second makes me wish I could have Anton’s severed head in my hands right this second.
“Come on,” I say, picking her up. I inspect her implant sites; the stitches look to have held. “We’re going back to our room, okay?”
She nods.
“Make me forget,” she says as I lift her in my arms. “Just for a while. Make me forget.”
“I will, Kate. I promise.”