Authors: Nicola Claire
Fuck.
"If you say she's in trouble, I believe you."
Thank God for Nick Anscombe.
"At least, I'll give you forty-eight hours to prove as such."
Yeah, that's better. Hard, unforgiving and authoritative. The Nick Anscombe we knew and loved.
W
e had an audience
. Strangely, I wasn't surprised. ASI tended to do things together; a type of camaraderie I wasn't used to, and yet it made me smile. And, from the looks of it, not just the usual suspects. I had a feeling there were hangers-on here as well.
Plus the disconcerting and alluring smell of caffeine. As a distraction technique it was definitely novel. And bizarrely effective.
I walked into the firing range in a sedate, but controlled manner. One look at Jason Cain's face let me know tardiness was not a normally accepted behaviour in the Captain's army. I wasn't going to incite his rage further by sauntering. But I sure as hell wasn't going to run either.
"You're late," he said, as all conversation in the viewing gallery ceased on noticing my arrival.
"The garage was full," I replied, wondering where in the hell these people
had
parked their cars.
I counted them off inside my head, keeping my eyes on Cain and only allowing my peripheral vision to catalogue the potential additional hazards.
Three women and one man I had to work to identify. And four ASI personnel.
Interesting.
"Thirty," Cain advised. Meaning the number of minutes I'd have to face off against him in the ring.
"My apologies," I offered, with what I knew sounded like appropriate contrition. I could do emotion, if it was warranted.
I just couldn't do real emotion. Mine was all a consummate act.
"The PSM Pistol, 5.45x18mm,” he said, picking up a standard issue small firearm, a common choice amongst high ranking government officials, police, military and security forces. In Russia.
And an indication on how this "training" session would go down.
"155mm long," he added, turning the weapon over in his hand, making it look like an extension of his fingers. "Barrel length 84.6mm. Muzzle velocity..."
"Three hundred and fifteen metres per second," I finished for him.
Silence. Both in front of me at the range and in the peanut gallery at our backs.
"What does PSM stand for?" he finally asked.
Pompous Smug Meathead
sprang to mind, but I held my tongue on that one. Cain was only doing his job. Testing me. Testing the Navy.
But I wasn't Navy. I was something else altogether.
"
Pistolet Samozaryadnyj Malogabaritnyj
," I dutifully replied. "Or Compact Self-Loading Pistol.”
He smiled. "Russian. One of your many languages."
I didn't smile back; it hadn't been an invitation to.
"Blowback operated semi-automatic pistol," he added. “Capable of penetrating fifty-five layers of Kevlar at realistic engagement distances. Any newbie recruit worth their salt can handle one."
The implied,
can you?
He released the magazine, checked the chamber was clear, pulled down on the trigger guard, and slid the gun apart, and then placed the various pieces on the side table at the main firing range.
I checked the target in the distance; he wasn't mucking around. I'd guess a good twenty-five metres away. Any handgun at that range was inherently inaccurate.
He was setting me up to fail.
I moved past him at his invitation - a sweep of his arm toward where the pistol lay - and checked the necessary components of the weapon.
Taking a slow inhale through my nose, picking up hints of burnt primer and more human scents that had long permeated the ASI firing range, I considered my options.
My cover was enough to allow me a modicum of expertise. A Naval officer would have received the standard basic training, including firearms and weapon handling of various types. But landing a solid hit to the centre of the target from this distance went beyond what my cover should allow me to achieve.
I could hit it. I knew without even trying I was that good. But the Charlie Downes who was working for ASI was not the real me.
I picked the pistol up, reassembling it in record speed. I checked that the decocker was in position, meaning the safety was on, and reloaded the ten round cartridge into the chamber. The manoeuvre took less than three seconds.
I replaced the gun on the side table. I may not be able to hit the target dead centre from this distance - according to my ASI profile - but I sure as hell wouldn't let an Army captain show me up in gun prep.
"Nice," he said, surprising me with the compliment.
He handed me some ear plugs and protective eyewear, donning his own set. Those watching no doubt wore ear protection but were far enough away to avoid the goggles.
"Have at it, Lieutenant," he said with a knowing smile.
The desire to show him up was all consuming. But I was better than that.
I purposely missed the centre of the target by four centimetres.
Then hit the same spot six more times.
Vanity, that bitch, held me by my bootstraps. I'd tripped and fallen. I made a hasty miss of a further two and three centimetres from the target for the next two shots to cover my mistake.
I left one bullet in the cartridge and lowered the gun.
Jason hit the button and made the target run towards us along the ceiling track. Silence reigned but for the screech of metal on metal. The target paper flapped as it came to rest before us; evidence of my accuracy - or purposeful inaccuracy - glaring us in the eyes.
"Well," he said. "That was telling. Now do it again and don't hold back this time."
A new magazine was placed beside the PSM. I stared at it for a few seconds and then cleared the old cartridge and reloaded the gun.
"One thing," Jason asked, when I'd steadied the gun to re-fire. I lowered the weapon, and then hastily flicked the safety, angry at my faux pas. A Naval trained officer would have hit the safety first, before lowering the gun.
Apparently my mistakes today were not over.
"Why did you hold the last bullet in check?"
I lifted my eyes to his and decided to answer honestly. "I wasn't sure where the next round would come from."
He stared me for several long seconds and then nodded his head.
I was certain I'd just given him an insight into Lieutenant Downes that he hadn't as yet had.
I couldn't regret the tell; part of laying down a cover was to improvise. But I knew in my heart that explaining the tick was an encounter I needed to avoid at all costs.
Jason Cain saw too much and he'd just seen a shadow of the ghosts of my past.
My
past, not Charlie Downes'.
I lifted the pistol, flicked the decocker, and fired off nine rapid shots. By the time I'd returned the gun to its resting place, the new target was already flying. Within seconds Cain had ripped it down from its clips.
Murmurs started up in the galley. I flicked a glance towards the voices, never turning fully away from Cain in the process. The crowd had grown. Now not only Abi, Koki, Brook and Eric were present from ASI. But also Adam and Ben.
And that wasn't counting the hangers-on. I used the moment to put names to the faces, only having recognised them for their connections outlined in a dossier before now. Genevieve Anscombe, Jason's sister. Kelly Quayle, her co-worker and best friend. Evangeline Rowe, Nick Anscombe's wife. And Dominic Anscombe, Genevive's husband and brother to Nick.
I pushed all superfluous reactions to this interesting intel aside and watched as Jason moved the target to lie over the top of the first one I'd fired.
The holes matched up. Perfectly.
"Fucking hell," he muttered, raising his deep blue eyes to my face. "Is this a party trick?"
I smiled. It was forced. I was just all kinds of fucked up today. "A girl's gotta have something to show for herself," I said, a little too vehemently.
Cain shook his head; dumbfounded.
I'd taken a risk, after making one hell of a misstep. Mal would rip me a new one if I included this in my report. Of course, my reports to Mal were going to be very circumspect from now on.
I had to run with my instincts. And my instincts were yelling at me to duck. Just what exactly I was evading, I couldn't yet tell.
But I did know ASI was more of a challenge than we in the Department had first thought.
And I was in desperate need of a cover that would wear their perusal well. Not that I suspected anyone was checking deeper than their initial pre-employment checks. But my gut was telling me it wouldn't take much for them to do so.
Hell, even Carmel had her doubts.
I needed an additional layer. My shell was in danger of cracking. My cover - carefully chosen and constructed for this assignment alone - was not going to be enough. Normally, a ramp up in layers would have to be approved by the handler in charge of the specialist.
I considered myself handler-less. As close to a rogue as I had come.
No. Lieutenant Charlie Downes, teacher at HMNZS Philomel for the past six years, was not enough. I needed to included the two years prior.
Every cover has a fallback. Mine was those first two unaccounted years before being hauled into Naval Training College.
"What were you before you were an instructor?" he finally said, falling for my trap so easily.
I almost felt bad for him. Almost.
"Classified."
His eyes met mine and a type of understanding was shared between us. Despite my story being a cover and little else, it did hold a modicum of the truth. I used that knowledge, that honesty interwoven into the lie, as I met that assessing look in his eyes.
I held his stare on equal footing. Jason Cain filled in the gaps as I'd known the ex-SAS soldier could only do. I might have been able to do this with Eric Shaw as well. But he wasn't as much of a potential hazard as Cain. At least, not right now.
I needed Cain on my side. His support would go a long way to convince Eric as well.
"If I were to place a Colt or a Glock in your hand," Jason asked, setting the target sheets to the side, "I'd get the same result, wouldn't I?"
"My specialty is hand to hand combat. Short range, not long distance." Ava was the sharp shooter, not I.
Jason nodded. "OK," he said at large. "You'll do."
The gallery erupted into applause. So unexpected, my whole body jerked in surprise. I hadn't forgotten them. Fuck, I knew when each one of the spectators breathed or shifted about. I just hadn't considered their approval.
Most of them I didn't even know. Well, not personally, anyway. The other half, I'd only just met.
There was something about ASI that was inclusive. Something alien and foreign to my mind. I had no former experience to call on. Just training that had me responding with a wave and a bow.
The clapping was joined with cheers; some of them on the more crude side. Koki or Brook, I didn't try to separate them. Singling one out from the other was currently unnecessary, and I'd resorted to the most basic of needs and desires.
Survival mode, my trainer would have identified. Which made me realise I was in more danger than I’d consciously thought.
I scanned the crowd of onlookers, as Jason packed away the PSM and target sheets - the session and my assessment over now - and realised what had set my instincts, even those I subconsciously had, off.
Adam and Ben weren't clapping.
I moved my attention off them as quickly as it had arrived. Turning to Jason with a smile, forcing myself to place the threats at my unprotected back, for fear of discovery and reprisal.
"So, what's next, Captain?"
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" he queried, good naturedly. "Well, as it so happens, I believe we have a fitness assessment to see to now."
"And you'll be taking it?"
"Not up to an Army beat down?" he teased back.
"Just worried I might show you up in the ring, as well."
"Ouch!" He shook his head, and opened the door out of the firing range. The sound of those in the gallery also moving let me know my audience wasn't over yet either. "Would you prefer Ben? His tactics often include the use of a
taiaha
. And he wields it well."
I did not fancy facing off against the Māori right now. Not if my suspicions were correct. This would require delicate handling. I'd laid the groundwork for a deeper cover with Jason, I needed to know more before I pulled Adam or Ben into my web as well.
Something was off, and the specialist in me had me preparing for the worst.
My time at ASI was under threat; I needed to work as fast as humanly possible now.
Following Jason down the corridor towards the gym I became surrounded by the hangers-on, laughter and rapid fire conversation pouring over me like a warm wave on a tropical beachside. Smiles and pats on the back, words of congratulations and, in the case of the curly headed blonde I knew to be Kelly Quayle, awe laced with a strange type of familial respect.
"Fan-fucking-tastic!” she exclaimed. “I don't think I've
ever
seen Jase wordless around guns before. Tell me how you did that. It's gotta be something I can learn. If only to show the prick who's the boss now and then."
"With a gun, Kels?" Genevieve asked. "I'm sure he'll quake in his boots if you pick a firearm up."
"We'll all quake in our boots, sweetheart," Dominic, the lawyer brother, drawled.
"Hey! Do you mind?" Kelly, or Kels, said. The outrage was only half-arsed and entirely wrapped up in a brightly coloured bow of long standing friendship.
"That type of weapon mastery takes years of practice, Kelly," Eric advised, making a spot between my shoulder blades itch, knowing he was at my back and close enough to hear the comments as well.
I forced my steps doggedly onward, following Jason, pretending to hang on every word. All the while deciding how best to defend myself if the shit suddenly hit the fan and I was forced to extricate out of these too enclosed walls.
"At least eight years, at any case," Adam added, making me glance over my shoulder involuntarily, and meet his eyes.
He winked back, throwing me off balance. Making me doubt the danger I'd just seen up in the gallery. I scanned the crowd for Ben as I turned forward again. But the big Māori had vanished from sight.
One less opponent to battle.