Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (22 page)

After a minute of silence while she stared at
him Joan said, “You certainly don’t look like a killer.”

Clay didn’t know how much she knew about him
and didn’t comment, choosing to ignore her comment and continue
looking across the road into the forest.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? I
mean, most of the men who come to train with my husband look like
they were born to be mercenaries or soldiers of fortune, traipsing
around the world playing their little war games. They get their
jollies hurting and killing people; it gives them a feeling of
power over others. You don’t have the cruel, sadistic look they
have in common. You look like a clean cut kid who just walked out
of your senior prom.” She paused a moment, “And why are you getting
special treatment? What are you planning, to warrant solo
training?”

Before he could think of an appropriate reply
she exclaimed, “Oh, what the hell! Come on. We need to get
going.”

Clay tossed the gym bag to Joan, picked up
his suitcase and followed her across the highway, up a steep, weed
covered embankment and into the trees. She headed deeper into the
forest and he followed in silence. He ws at ease in the shadows and
random patterns of light filtering through the thick foliage of the
green canopy above them. It reminded him of the times he and Jimmy
had spent in the woodland on Tony’s farm in Illinois; times when he
shared deeds and thoughts in the confidence of a trusted
friend.

Fifteen minutes after entering the forest the
pair arrived at an old trail Clay surmised to be either a past
remnant of logging operations, or a trail used by some division of
a state or federal park service. The woman got in the drivers seat
of an older model Army Jeep and started the engine as he got
seated. Joan put the vehicle in gear, revved up the engine, and
popped the clutch. The Jeep hurtled along the narrow, rutted dirt
road, bouncing over tree limbs and through mud holes, narrowly
missing tree trunks on either side of the twisting roadway. Clay
hung on to any hand holds he could find and jammed his body into
the hard seat back. Wildlife was abundant and Clay saw deer
frequently as well as smaller animals; squirrel, fox, groundhog and
hundreds of birds.

The Jeep wound through the dense forest
valleys for twenty minutes, switching trails several times, until
the trail they were on intersected with a gravel road. Joan turned
to the right, and after three or four miles the gravel road became
a blacktop surface. In another five minutes the jeep slowed at a
large rock abutment on the left and turned off the road to the
right, into a private gravel lane. After several dozen yards Clay
could see buildings in the near distance through the trees. The
jeep slowed and entered a large meadow containing a two-story log
house, an oversized three-car detached garage and an even larger
metal building behind the first two.

The front door of the house opened and a man
walked out onto a covered porch spanning the entire length of the
house.

“My husband.” his driver informed him.

Clay saw a man near forty years old, about
six feet tall who weighed around two hundred ten pounds, wearing
boots, jeans and a green plaid flannel shirt. He had blond hair cut
short in a crew cut, firm square jaw, and blue eyes set in a wide
tan face. Lean and muscular; his movements reminded Clay of a
jaguar he had seen at the Chicago Zoo; a solitary animal whose
stealthy movements were quick and graceful; a natural killing
machine.

The man gave Joan a hug and a kiss, and then
extended his right hand out to Clay. “Call me Joe. You don’t need
to know our real names and we don’t need to know yours.” He pointed
at a pair of Labs, one black and the other golden” These two are
Blackie and Sis.”

Joan handed the money bag to her husband and
they headed into the house while Clay retrieved his luggage from
the Jeep and then followed.

Inside, a southern/country décor gave the
house a homey feeling; informal, neat and very relaxed. Joan showed
Clay to the upstairs bedroom where he would sleep. He put his
suitcase beside the bed and went back downstairs. Standing in the
living room, he looked in the adjoining rooms and saw the pair
standing in the kitchen.

Joe asked, “Would you like something to
drink, water, coffee, tea, soda, beer?”

After all three had opened their long necks,
they walked back out to the front porch and sat down in Adirondack
chairs, arranging them in a conversation circle so they could see
each others faces while they talked. Blackie had approached Clay,
sniffing the back of his hand hanging down along side the
chair.

Joe started the conversation, “Since we’re
going to spend the next month in close quarters I’d like to know
some things about who you are and what kind of person you are. But
first I’ll tell you some things about me and my background. I
enlisted in the Army when I was eighteen and moved into the Rangers
after getting recommended by my Lieutenant. I found a home there,
and excelled in the small tight groups we worked in. I liked
working and living with a select group I could trust with my life,
and be secure in the knowledge they were among the best trained of
any Army. We performed covert operations around the world, entering
foreign countries to free political prisoners, or assassinate
people our government targeted; among other things. Then I took a
discharge, and joined the Central Intelligence Agency. I continued
doing basically the same thing, but for a whole lot more money than
a soldier got paid.”

“During the years I began to see officials at
middle and lower levels of the agency making deals and arrangements
for their own gain. I felt some of them were contrary to the best
interest of my country. I got sick of what they were doing, but
knew if I tried to blow the whistle on them I’d first be
discredited, and then eliminated. Eliminated by the very people I
worked beside in the field. As I looked back I wondered how many
other agents I might have killed, under orders, because they were
attempting to do what was right.”

Standing up, Joe walked over to the end of
the porch to spit and remained there a full minute, looking toward
the woods. Clay had a profile view of Joan setting in a rocker with
both hands on the beer bottle held in her lap. Her head was facing
downward, and he thought he detected a pensive, almost sorrowful
expression; as if she was suffering as much as the storyteller
while listening to details from a past she had lived through with
the man she loved.

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.