I was sitting in the driver's seat, pressing the buttons on the car stereo in search of a tune suitable for riding in my uncle's huge black Chevrolet Tahoe. There, precisely what I needed! A good old classic – Still Dre by Dr. Dre and Snoop Dog. I turned the volume up to full blast. Bobbing my head in rhythm with the music, I veered onto the highway. Rolling behind the wheel of such a big and powerful car in lonely pride was quite an exhilarating experience.
The last time I had sat in the driver's seat was in Jack's car, a day or two before... before I saw her for the last time. It seemed like I had nonetheless begun forgetting about all that crap. Lately, I had been reminiscing about Jack less and less often, and sometimes, I even seemed to have stopped blaming myself for her death. Memory is quite a strange thing. In my memories, the image of Jack was completely divorced from that of the spine-chilling creature she turned into on our last night.
I remembered my best friend, how she used to smirk all the time, how she taught me to fight and drive at a dangerous speed, how we played PS all night long, and how together we raided the drug lord’s den. Hell, I loved that girl! I loved her as a friend, as a sister, maybe I loved her even more than my own sister, and definitely more than all my classmates, put together.
And I missed that Jack. Those memories didn’t hurt me anymore, although I knew that she was gone and I knew why. All those days I spent with her, she had been a great friend, and I enjoyed recalling funny moments we had together. All those days… except one. The last one. But at that moment it wasn’t Jack anymore, it was someone else. And I killed her. I killed her and I saved that stupid boy. It was the right thing to do. And the Jack whom I knew and loved… that Jack would have done the same thing.
The track ended, and gangsta rap changed into some soppy tune. I drove the rest of the way with nothing particular in mind, just watching the road and clicking through the stations hoping to find something better. Some ten tracks later I reached the headquarters building. I slowed down and was just about to reach for the gate opener remote… Hell no! You won't fool me twice!
I slammed on the brakes. My suspicions were confirmed – the gate had already been opened. Just a crack, so it would have been almost impossible to notice it, driving by. But still, it wasn’t locked! If Rettle thinks I’m a complete idiot - dumb enough to fall for the same trick twice, he will be very disappointed. I shifted into reverse and backed the car off to the side – just in case the sniper was waiting for me on the roof again.
“What do I do next in such a situation?” I asked myself. I’d already undertaken a tactical retreat, so now it was time to call someone from the Order. I dialed Rettle. A beep. Another one. And another. He wasn't in a hurry to answer. I removed the phone from my ear to check the duration of the call. When the beeping was no longer taking up all my attention, I noticed a barely audible buzzing. As if a massive beetle climbed under the dashboard and couldn't find its way out.
No, the sound was coming from somewhere behind me. I turned around…And stared down the barrel of a gun. It was Rettle. The buzzing I was hearing was nothing but a vibration of a phone in his pocket.
“Morning, Sam.”
Rattle's voice was, as always, incredibly calm. As if he weren’t holding a gun to my face.
“Morning, Sir.”
This was the second time I blurt out “Sir” at the sight of a gun in the coach's hand.
“What was your mistake this time?” he asked.
“I should’ve walked?”
“You should've checked your back seat before getting inside. A car is a perfect place for neutralizing a target. People are unconsciously more careful outside, and at home the target has the home-ground advantage. But in a car, they are subject to a false sense of security. Plus, it's difficult to fight off an attack coming from behind when you are in the driver's seat.”
“Okay, I'll keep that in mind.”
“What do you have to do now?”
“Give you my wallet, phone, car keys and ask you not to kill me?” I attempted a joke.
“What do you have to do to come out of this alive?”
“Try to jump out of the car?”
“Go ahead.”
“Promise not to shoot me in the face and ruin my uncle's new leather seats with my fresh and not-so-very-smart brain?” I asked.
“We'll see how it goes.”
Was it a joke? Or did he actually mean it? Go figure when his words are so expressionless. I jumped for the door and was instantly thrown back by the seatbelt.
“Never forget about the seatbelt,” the coach said. “And two more comments – your left hand should've reached for the handle even before you started to move yourself. But most importantly, your head followed a straight-line trajectory which gave me a clear shot, so I could've easily gotten you if I wanted to. The first rule of self-defense against weapons – you need to get out of the line of fire. If a gun or a knife is pointed at your chest, swiftly turn sideways and hit the enemy's hand to make the weapon tumble out away from you. If it's in your face – jerk your head to the side and hit the opponent to send the weapon upward into the air.”
“Can I have another go at it?” I asked.
“You can and you should. First, you should remove the seatbelt while distracting your opponent with some chatting. Actually, when you are faced with a single attacker, like now, you should try and snatch the gun out of his hands before getting out of the car. With two armed men against you, in your case, it's better to abandon the car as soon as you get a chance.”
“In my case? So you would take another course of action?”
“For starters, I would never end up in this situation.”
And again – these words might've sounded like showing off, but coming out of Rettle's mouth they were nothing but stating a fact.
“But what if you did?” I insisted.
“Then I'd turn around sharply, block the gun of the attacker behind my back with my right hand, grab the gun of the second attacker with my left hand, aim it at the first one, shoot him and then use his gun to shoot his partner.”
While the coach was answering my question, I managed to get rid of the seatbelt.
“Okay. Could you show me that next time?”
Rettle gave a nod.
“Can I try now?”
The coach gave another nod. I jerked my head to the side, at the same time turning around on my seat, then grabbed Rettle's wrist with my left hand and pulled the gun upward. The muzzle stopped at the car's ceiling.
“What's next?” I asked, grunting from all the strain.
The coach was clearly putting only half of his strength, if not a quarter, into resisting, but I was barely keeping his hand from pointing the gun into my eye. And then Rettle's wrist literally slipped out of my supposedly iron grip.
“Always block the weapon with your both hands,” said the coach.
“But how? How did you do that?” I was completely at a loss.
"The wrist's cross-section is elliptic rather than round. That's why it's easy to break free from such a hold by using basic principles of mechanics."
Rettle put the gun aside and grabbed my wrist.
“Try to get out of the hold.”
“I can't.”
“What makes the oval different from the circle is that it has different length on different sides. So tell me, what's easier to get through a crack – something narrow or something wide?”
I saw where Rettle was going with that and rotated my wrist in his hand till my palm was perpendicular to his. I then wrenched it sideways, and my arm slipped out of his deadly grip like a bar of soap in the shower room after a workout.
“Once again, from the top,” the coach ordered.
I nodded. Rettle picked up the gun, and we resumed our original positions. I repeated all of the previous moves but this time I sent my right hand into action after the left one. I ended up holding Rettle's wrist with my both hands. I had to decide on my next move. "I guess I should get his gun," I thought. I removed my left hand from the coach's wrist and grabbed the gun by its barrel.
“Stop. What was your mistake this time?”
I looked at Rettle, at his hands, then at my hands and the gun. Damn! I'm such a moron! The muzzle was pointing straight at my stupid head!
“I got into the line of fire.”
"You didn't just get into the line of fire. In this situation, the gun could've gone off even if your attacker didn't want it to. Your wrenching move could've made his finger slip and press the trigger, leaving your brains smeared all over the place."
"Can I try to get it right?"
Rettle nodded. I swapped my hands around so that my left hand was holding his wrist, and my right hand – diverting the gun.
"Let's consider it a success. In this situation the gun should be wrested from a grasp with one swift and powerful move – it will break your attacker's fingers. This way you won’t only take his weapon, but also stop him from fighting with both arms."
"Okay. Thanks for the lesson. What do we do next?"
"Go to the headquarters. You've got a shooting practice today. Your mentor for today is already waiting for you."
"My mentor for today? So it won't be you?"
Rettle had already gotten out of the car, so my last question didn't reach his ears. I stepped outside too and started walking toward the building. I'd barely made a step on the headquarters grounds when I heard a muffled bang followed by a billion infuriated killer bees stinging me in my chest all at once. I collapsed on the ground and groped my chest expecting to find a bleeding hole. But my body was mostly intact. With a lingering groan – something between an erotic moan of a small-time porn star and a grunt of an old man – I opened my eyes and looked up. Rettle was bending over me.
"I warned you – the training will continue for as long as it's necessary. Completing one task doesn't mean there won't be another one straight after."
"Arghh…" was all I had strength to reply with.
"You've noticed that the gate wasn't locked. That's why you pulled over. So why would you assume that ten minutes later the Order grounds became safe again on their own?"
"What.. ghhh-mmhhh… What was that?"
"Stoker shot you from the roof."
"With what? Ghee-mhhh… An elephant?"
"With a beanbag gun filled with rubber balls. It's a non-lethal weapon used for suppressing riots. Hurts at first, but on a vampire's body the effect quickly goes away."
"How… ahehhh… quick? 'Cause I want to die right now… Hurts like hell."
Rettle offered me his hand and helped me up.
"Physical pain helps to commit acquired skills to memory much better than grades and praises. A couple more of these practices – and you'll learn to sense the danger from a mile away."
I turned my head toward Rettle – his words seemed to carry a hint of smiling. But it wasn't the case – the coach's face looked as still as a tombstone. "What does he eat for breakfast?" I wondered, "Minced barbiturates with a side of tranquilizers?"
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