Trent’s face flushed red. He realized he was losing face in front of his recruits. “You think you can handle me, paper pusher?”
He charged.
I dropped the clipboard. It clattered onto the rubber mat.
I moved first, throwing a quick, controlled combination of punches. I didn't use full power—I couldn't afford to break his jaw and expose my background—but I used enough speed to completely overwhelm his defenses.
He blocked my first strike, slipped past the second with a grunt of surprise, and countered with a sharp kick that I allowed to push me backward.
For the first few seconds, I let him control the fight. He pressed forward aggressively, throwing punch after punch while I kept moving around him, easily slipping out of his reach. He was strong, but sloppy. Angry.
Then, I suddenly changed direction.
As he stepped in for a heavy right hook, I stepped inside his guard. I grabbed his forearm, pivoted my hips, and used his own rushing momentum against him to throw him entirely off balance.
He stumbled wildly, his boots squeaking against the mat.
The recruits erupted.
“Whoa!”
“He almost went down!”
Trent caught himself before he fell, turning back to me with a look of pure, unadulterated venom. He wasn't laughing anymore. He was taking me seriously.
He rushed toward me again. This time, I raised my leg for a fake counter-kick. He fell for the bait, reaching down to catch my leg.
For a moment, I let myself be off balance. He pulled me forward and sent me crashing onto the training mat.
The recruits shouted in surprise.
I hit the ground safely, rolling with the impact. I lay there for a second, letting him have his victory.
He stood over me, breathing heavily, and forced a smile. “Still think you know?”
I wiped the chalk dust from my sleeve and slowly got back up. I had pushed it far enough. I had humiliated him in front of his men, but if I kept going, I would expose the fact that I was formally trained by Tier One operators.
“You win, Instructor,” I said quietly, picking up my clipboard. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
I didn't wait for his response. I turned my back on him and walked off the mat, my heart beating steadily. I could feel the eyes of the entire room burning into my back.
I pushed through the double doors of the gymnasium and stepped into the quiet, fluorescent-lit hallway. The cool air hit my sweat-dampened neck. I leaned against the cinderblock wall and closed my eyes, cursing my own stupidity.
I was supposed to stay invisible. Now, I had just painted a massive target on my own back.
I made my way down the corridor toward the administrative offices. My hands were shaking slightly, not from adrenaline, but from the sudden, sharp memory of my old life bleeding into my new one.
When I reached my small, windowless office, the door was ajar.
I stopped. I always locked it.
I pushed the door open with my shoulder.
My desk had been ransacked. The filing cabinets were pulled open, papers scattered across the cheap industrial carpet. My computer monitor was turned slightly, and my chair was pushed back.
Someone had been looking for something.
I stepped inside, my eyes scanning the room. Nothing seemed to be missing. My purse was still in the bottom drawer, my wallet untouched.
Then I saw it.
Sitting perfectly in the center of my bare desk was a single, silver 9mm bullet.
My stomach dropped. I stared at the brass casing, the heavy silence of the room pressing in on me.
I reached out and picked it up. Tucked beneath the bullet was a small, torn piece of lined paper.