‘Hi,’ said Butcher at the reception desk for the gym. ‘I’m a member, but not locally. It’s OK to come in, yeah?’
‘Yeah, of course,’ smiled the youngster in the bright yellow gym-brand T-shirt sitting behind the desk. ‘I’ll just need your name and membership number. Do you want to use any other services?’
‘I wondered if I could get a one-to-one with a personal trainer for twenty minutes?’
‘Sure, Daryl’s free,’ said the lad. The badge on his lanyard said he was Connor.
‘That’s great, but listen Connor,’ said Butcher, lowering his voice and sliding his hand across the desk to dangle a fifty pound note where only the boy could see it, ‘I wonder if I could ask you to set me up with Emmy. Nothing sketchy, I swear. Scout’s honour.’
‘Does she know you?’ he asked, eyes on the fifty.
‘Eh,’ said Butcher, shrugging. ‘We’ve met. But she doesn’t know me. Not as well as I’d like her to. You get me?’
Connor smiled, looked around for a second then took the note.
‘She’s got a free slot in half an hour,’ he told Butcher, clicking open the trainers’ schedule on the desktop monitor. ‘I’ll put you in it.’
Butcher had spent the night before in a pretty decent local hotel. With Ball paying the bill, he had thought he could get away with something better than Travelodge as long as he stayed away from the Ritz and he judged the silence of his smartphone sufficient indication that he was right. Ball wasn’t the kind of guy to sweat the small stuff - not when you’re a multimillionaire megalomaniac with a messiah complex.
The unexpected appearance of “Miss Cook” had got him double-thinking his every move. He had imagined that BRS were going to be soft touch for at least the first week, as long as they could tell he was active and not trying to flee the country. But her appearance suggested that Ball wanted a more “micro-management” style chasing up Butcher’s work.
With a good hotel breakfast inside him, though, he had given her a call.
‘Good morning, Mister Parsons,’ she had greeted him, sounding offensively bright. Butcher woke up fast, but not well. He was an evil bastard most days until at least lunchtime.
‘Good morning, Miss Cook,’ he replied. ‘If you’re going to be my main contact, you should probably call me “Butcher”.’
‘It’s an ominous nickname you’ve got there, Mister Parsons,’ she replied. ‘How did you come by it?’
Butcher chuckled.
‘Nothing sinister, I promise,’ he replied. ‘Well, unless you’re a vegan. When I was in training I had to teach a lesson on preparing a dead rabbit for cooking. I made a complete hash of it and ended up with a lot of blood and random bits of rabbit all over the place. They called me “Butcher” after that and it stuck.’
‘Tell me what you’ve learned.’
‘Cuttler didn’t go far when he bolted,’ he had told her. ‘He rented a unit on the edge of town using his brother’s name and laid low there. He was there until about a week ago. Looks like he left in a hurry. Any idea what might have prompted that?’
Cook had been silent on the other end of the line for just long enough to tell Butcher that she at least had a clue what might have spooked him.
‘How did you find him?’
Butcher had a feeling that he should keep Emmy out of it, for now. It didn’t do to be sharing all of his secrets. Luckily, he had looked through the mail from the unit and that had sent up a solid lead.
‘He ordered a pizza from the place around the corner from his apartment,’ said Butcher. He didn’t elaborate. They would know where he’d been from his tracker, so there was only so far he could lie about what he’d done with his time. Luckily, Cuttler really had ordered pizza. Butcher had seen the menu leaflet in the pile that matched the one he’d already seen in Cuttler’s kitchen. And it wasn’t just a flyer. It had been posted to “Gordon Cuttler” at the unit.
‘Seems obvious when you think of it,’ replied Cook.
‘Most of what I do does,’ agreed Butcher.
‘But it was a dead end?’
‘Not completely,’ replied Butcher. ‘I took the video surveillance footage from the unit. I’m going to review it and see if it turns up any other contacts who knew he was there - anyone I can track down for a clue.’
‘Excellent work, Butcher,’ said Cook. ‘I’ll tell Ball you’re on the case.’
Butcher had hung up on her at that point. After that, he had spent the evening reviewing his skills and stats, getting a better grasp of what the nanoids could do for him. And now, having thirty minutes to kill, Butcher got into his new training kit and hit the treadmill to take Cuttler’s procedure for a proper test-drive.
Fifteen minutes later, he was rewarded with:
Default STR adjusted to 6
Athlete 1
Endurance 1
Satisfied with that as a start, he slowed down and stepped off the treadmill, noting that he already felt less tired than he would’ve expected from what had been a pretty fast run. A little over three kilometres would normally have been harder work - especially with the diet of fast food he seemed to be surviving off, these last few days. He hit the free weights and after a few bicep curls on the ten kilo dumbbells, put them back on the rack and pulled off the twenties. That kind of weight on a curl was usually the territory of the kinds of guys he was used to meeting on the international missions - Seals and, for some reason, the Dutch Kommandos. Regiment guys tended towards lean, rather than stacked. Not that those guys were pussies when the shit hit the fan. But Butcher has always preferred being a smaller target. A fifty kilo bergen and a twelve kilo weapons loadout was a good enough weights session for him. But he knew his limits. And five bicep curls at twenty kilos was it. But now he watched his arms effortlessly pull the heavy weight up and down. After ten reps, he could feel the burn setting in, though.
Feat of Strength 1
That didn’t take long, he thought. But it kind of made sense. If the nanoids were in his respiratory system and muscles then they’d be observing the rates of oxygen exchange, his heart rate and the rate of lactic acid build-up. They’d note that his body behaved like it was already fitter than average.
But his appointment time was approaching. He put down the weights and looked around for Emmy, spotting her through a glass wall, obviously just finishing a work-out with a client on the heavy bag in the studio. He could tell, just from a few seconds, that it was more than just an aerobic thing. The guy looked like a fighter.
They wrapped up and, as the guy headed over to the changing rooms, Emmy went to the desk and Butcher saw the lad there point in his direction. As she turned to look, her expression changed to a frown, but she nodded and walked towards him.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
‘That’s a coincidence,’ said Butcher as she approached, warily.
‘Sure it is,’ she disagreed, eyes flicking up to his glyph. ‘What do you want?’
‘A work-out,’ said Butched, nodding towards the bag. ‘That looked good. Can I get some of that?’
She strolled back to the studio, without waiting for him. He stowed his weights and followed.
The door closed behind him and she crossed to the bag, not looking at him as she spoke:
‘You’re not Ron’s brother,’ she said. ‘I’m not an idiot. I can see you’ve had the procedure. It shows, you know? Over your head?’
‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘Got a routine for me?’
‘Punching,’ she replied, tossing a pair of light gloves at him, then holding the heavy bag to brace it. ‘Two to the face, two to the body. Ten reps. Why are you looking for Ron?’
‘Because someone has paid me to find him,’ replied Butcher, pulling on the gloves. ‘It’s nothing personal. He doesn’t owe me money or anything.’
He started the routine, enjoying the impact and rhythm of the exercise.
‘Keep your back straight, drop deeper at your knees for the body shot,’ she warned him. ‘At your age, you’ll throw your back out from a body shot like that. I don’t know where he is.’
‘Fine,’ said Butcher, following her instructions and feeling his knees protest more than his back did. ‘You know, I’m only thirty four.’
‘You look older,’ she replied, bluntly. ‘Tough life?’
‘Some would say so,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve known guys who had worse.’
‘Right,’ she said, stepping back. ‘Face, face, grab, knee to the body.’
They settled into a routine for ten minutes, then she called a break and pointed him towards the water dispenser in the corner.
‘What did Ron tell you about the procedure? What it does?’ Butcher asked her, filling a paper cup with a welcome draft of chilled water. ‘Did you get the tutorial?’
‘I had it from the horse’s mouth,’ she acknowledged. ‘I got some tips.’
‘Want to spar?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Show me what you’ve got?’
A half-smile forced itself onto her sullen face and she put down the water bottle she’d been pulling, looking around the studio. There was plenty of space - and another pair of gloves right in the corner. She glanced out through the glass wall for a moment - checking for a manager, he guessed - then back at him.
‘Alright, Sam Spade,’ she agreed, letting the tight smile widen enough to show a glimpse of teeth. ‘Let’s take this shit for a spin, shall we?’
She reached out a fist and he bumped knuckles. Then they both settled into fighting stances.
Butcher had done all sorts over the years, but by default he always took a left-handed boxing guard to kick things off. He saw immediately that she favoured muay thai, which told him to watch out for knees and feet. And, sure enough, she kicked things off with a couple of searching front kicks. He dropped back and knocked the foot away, but she followed up with a punch he’d not expected and only dodged it by sheer instinct, dropping a shoulder. But she danced away before he could follow up with the body shots.
‘OK,’ she acknowledged. ‘Were you that fast before the procedure?’
‘Hard to tell,’ he replied, closing the gap. ‘I was no slouch.’
He threw a left-handed jab that she snagged with her right, using it as leverage to swing a reverse roundhouse kick straight at his face. He ducked, driving in the right cross, but she turned the roundhouse into an axe kick and dropped it right down on his shoulder. It was an awkward strike, without the kind of power it should have, but he still felt it and rolled away as she disengaged her grip on his arm.
‘You’re still leaning into the cross, Sam,’ she laughed at him.
He nodded, re-taking his boxer’s guard, then he feinted again, quicker this time, forcing her to duck back out of reach. Emmy threw a riposte with her front foot again, but he’d been expecting it, caught the knee and swept her back foot with his advance. He dumped her on the floor, but bounced away instead of finishing the strike.
‘No ground and pound?’ she asked, climbing up to her feet again.
‘I thought it would be a bit unfair,’ he admitted. They had drawn a small crowd to the window, who were watching the exchange. ‘We have an audience.’
‘I guess I’d better stop going easy on you, then,’ she told him, shifting her stance into something more kung-fu. ‘I’ve got a reputation to keep up around here.’
They closed again. But something had changed in how Emmy was addressing the fight, he could tell immediately. Before, her stances had been standard MMA stuff. Her movement had been strong and confident, but nothing he’d not seen in a hundred rings before now. But suddenly she was moving like something out of Chinese opera.
‘What the f-?’ he asked, a split second before she struck with a speed he’d never seen in his life. He barely managed to take it on his left glove but still felt her glove glance off his cheek before she seemed to vanish entirely, only to take an impact to the back of his head that pitched him forward onto the mat. He tucked into a roll and came up looking back where he’d come from to find her bouncing like Bruce Lee. ‘Was that your foot?’
Cheers and encouragement from the audience could be heard through the window.
‘You know all that stupid kung-fu bullshit that doesn’t work in the ring?’ she asked, closing the gap. ‘Well, turns out, when you’ve got Ron’s nanoids making you faster and stronger than anyone can believe you could actually be, it works.’
Butcher laughed. He’d given up all that stuff almost twenty years ago. He guessed it was worth a try. He also dropped his stance into the jiyu kamae one his karate sensei had taught him when he’d still been a teenager and started to bob and weave back at Emmy’s advance. She jabbed again and he blocked it this time, spinning into a sweeping kick that she jumped, throwing a kick to his head as she did so, knocking him back, but not hard. He bounced straight back at her, but she was already spinning again and, before he could react, her foot in his chest had propelled him off his feet and onto his back.
There was a loud whoop from the audience, and Ron lifted his hands in submission as Emmy bounced after him, fists raised.
‘OK! OK!’ he laughed. It had been a long time since he’d had that much fun in a sparring session.
Martial Arts 1
She reached down and helped him up.
‘You won’t get in trouble for that, will you?’ he asked.
‘Not if you don’t complain about it,’ she shrugged, fetching her water bottle.
‘Listen,’ said Butcher. He liked Emmy, and he didn’t owe Ball anything. ‘Investigation-wise, you’re a dead-end to me. But I can tell you this: Cuttler’s not coming back. You should stay away from the unit. Forget you saw him. If you see anyone else out and about with a glyph like ours, stay the fuck away from them.’
Her eyes turned serious and she nodded.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he replied, turning to the door.
‘Where do you go now?’
He turned back.
‘Look, if Ron calls you, I’m not going to ask you to lie,’ he admitted. ‘Tell him I’m looking for him. Tell him anything you want. But you can also tell him that, if he makes it easy for me I’ll make it easy for him. If he makes it hard…’
He shrugged, crushed the paper cup in his hand and tossed it into the bin.
*
Back in his hotel, Butcher reviewed his skills again. He saw that Driver, Merchant and Weapon Handling had all greyed out and remembered what Cuttler’s tutorial had said about invisible skills. He guessed that, if he didn’t use these skills more frequently or more intensively, they would drop into the invisible status. Well, Merchant he could live without. But Driver and Weapon Handling he could do with levels in. There wasn’t much he could do with Driver without getting pulled over, but Weapon Handling…
Emmy had been faster and stronger than she looked. Faster and stronger than damn near anyone he’d ever sparred with before, at that. She must have been working on that Martial Arts skill on top of whatever else she’d picked up from the nanoids.
He retrieved his pistol from the pocket of his coat, pulled the magazine off and began disassembling it with McCoy’s cleaning kit. For all that the Browning Hi-Power was a reliable chunk of metal, and Jock was right that you could just about get away with cleaning it with olive oil, it didn’t pay to let it gunk up if he didn’t have to. Then, as he was working a rag down into the barrel, he had a thought.
He flicked on the television for a couple of guys in a boat and left it on, ignoring it, as he set to work, taking the pistol apart and reassembling it over and over again. He was doing it blindfolded after thirty minutes or so, with no change to the Weapon Handling skill. So he pulled off the blindfold and, after a few moments, shrugged and began to run through CQB drills around the room.
He felt very stupid performing cover and clearance tactics on his own bathroom, but forced himself to stick with it for at least fifteen minutes. He switched hands with the pistol, loaded it, dummied a stoppage, crouched, did a hot exit and practised switching from prone to standing a dozen times. It was five years since he’d done these drills so repetitively, back when he’d been prepping for Selection. He had to admit, he was surprised how fluid they felt. Then -
Weapon Handling 2
The skill had popped back into the white when he pulled up his settings and he nodded to himself, satisfied.
The work waiting for him tomorrow was going to be unpleasant, so he rewarded himself with a bucket of fried chicken before hitting the bed.