Chokepoint Read online

  Chokepoint

  Copyright © 2012 by Jill Williamson. All rights reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary Inc. of Hillsboro, OR.

  Cover Designer: Kirk DouPonce

  Editor: Rebecca Luella Miller

  Character Sketches: Keighley Kendig

  Map Designer: Nichole White

  Mission League Logo and Fighting Sketch: Jill Williamson

  eBook Conversion and Design: Kerry Nietz

  International Standard Book Number: 978-0-9887594-0-4

  To the Haydon family.

  REPORT NUMBER: 1

  REPORT TITLE: I Get Beat by a Girl

  SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond

  LOCATION: Intersection of Fifth and Rose, Pilot Point, California, USA

  DATE AND TIME: Monday, October 13, 2:51 p.m.

  The visions were happening more frequently, but that didn’t mean I was used to them—especially when they popped up in the middle of the day.

  The headache came first, then the vision. The scene surged into my mind, leaving me winded and tense, the way standing too close to the freeway did when a big rig drove by.

  I kicked a pebble into the bushes and continued down the sidewalk of Fifth Street on my way home from school, my basketball tucked under one arm. Now I was faced with a choice. Confront what I’d seen or run.

  I used to think my visions showed me inevitable events, that they predicted my future or someone else’s. But in Moscow, I’d learned that they were possibilities. So today, because of my vision, I knew that cutting through the park would bring me face to face with C-Rok and his gang. They’d pick a fight by trying to steal my basketball. I’d fight back. It wouldn’t end well.

  Been there, done that.

  But I had a choice. I could take the long way home and never run into C-Rok.

  I stopped at the corner of Fifth and Rose and waited to cross—to head home around Alameda Park—the long and safe way. I spun my basketball on my finger. Life was getting pretty boring without any surprises.

  In the yard to my left, a bald man dressed as a gardener trimmed a hedge with a large pair of shears. He cut the same spot again and again, peering at me a little too often. Creeper.

  The signal changed, and I crossed Fifth, scanning my surroundings with each step.

  On the edge of the park, a tall, broad-shouldered man tramped a groove in the grass, dragging a feisty terrier on a leash. The guy had olive skin and a full head of black hair with a little extra poking out of his ears and nose. A sasquatch if I ever saw one. The terrier barked and nipped at the man’s pant legs every so often.

  So much for covert ops. Even the dog knew the guy wasn’t normal. But maybe that’s how the Mission League wanted it. Maybe they wanted the baddies to see that I had a flock of bodyguards around me at all times.

  I glanced over my shoulder. A black town car with tinted windows crawled behind me. Kimbal and his chauffer with the crooked nose. I faced forward and kicked another rock.

  Ever since I returned from Moscow, life was a full court press. Mission League Field agents were everywhere. All the time. Watching. Even the cross necklace that hung around my neck like a leash had a tracking device in the charm.

  If I were famous or rich, I might feel differently about being guarded twenty-four/seven, but I knew of no legitimate reason for the agents to keep this up. So some crazy Russian criminal named Anya had said some creepy stuff. Big deal. She hadn’t contacted me since Moscow.

  What bothered me more than the fact that I might be in danger was that Anya probably knew more about me than I did—cue the creepy music.

  At least now I knew “Spencer Garmond” was an alias the Mission League had given me years ago when they hid me in this California town. All I’d pieced together about my real identity was my first name, Jonas, and that my father was responsible for my mom’s death. Everything I’d thought I knew about life before this summer had been a lie. And Grandma, Kimbal, Mr. S, Prière—no one would tell me squat.

  Real nice, huh?

  Kimbal’s sedan sped past and turned on Maple, headed to Oak Street where I lived with my grandma, “Alice Garmond”—only that was likely an alias, too, since Anya had referred to her as Lorraine.

  Again, the criminal knowing more about me than I did. What was up with that?

  I dropped my ball to the sidewalk and started dribbling. The tiny bumps on the leather spun against my hand. With each bounce of the ball I forced the agents out of my thoughts and focused on my first League Combat Training lesson with Beth a few hours from now.

  LCT was the Mission League’s special form of combined martial arts. A smile came to my lips. I secretly relished this unexpected reward for my breaking protocol in Moscow and my loss of personal League points. Taking LCT lessons was going to be ah-some.

  The sedan was parked on the street in front of Grandma’s house when I dribbled up the driveway. Dave Kimbal sat on the porch swing, wearing a pair of jeans and the Lakers T-shirt I’d given him for his birthday last month. I stopped, brought the ball up, and shot it straight into his lap.

  He caught the ball and chuckled. “What’s got you so peppy?”

  I climbed the steps and sat next to my uncle—my dad’s brother. I was still getting used to that realization, but Kimbal’s pale freckled skin and carrot-orange hair made it easier to believe. The dude used to be my school resource officer, but I didn’t need an SRO. Anymore.

  I pushed back, and the porch swing shook. “I start LCT today.”

  Kimbal frowned. “I thought you can’t take LCT until you get your points up?”

  “Technically, I’m not taking it.” I snatched my ball back from Kimbal and spun it on my knee.

  “Technically?” Kimbal raised his bushy orange eyebrow.

  “Beth volunteered to train me. Mondays and Wednesdays.”

  “Watkins?” Kimbal laughed out loud. “That, I’d like to see. Should I send some guys along in case you get in trouble? She’s one tough girl.”

  This I knew, but the mockery was unnecessary. “Why are you here?”

  “Just a protocol visit. Wondering if you’ve seen anything odd lately?”

  I scrolled though the many ways I could answer that question. “Nothing odder than usual. Nothing odder than four agents following me everywhere. The gardener chased me into the bathroom today after lunch. That’s just wrong.”

  “Gardener?”

  “I’ve given them all names. The bald guy with the hedge clippers is Gardener. The hairy guy with the dog is Sasquatch. And your driver is Nose.”

  “How very original. No weird, creepy feelings like you had in Moscow?”

  “Nope.” Weird, creepy feelings were different from my visions. Weird, creepy feelings meant trouble. Demon trouble, according to my churcher friend Arianna Sloan.

  “Well, good.” Kimbal stood. “I gotta run. We still on for ball this Saturday?”
>
  “I wouldn’t miss a chance to cream you.”

  “For your sake, I hope you do cream me. You’ll need some pride redemption after LCT today. I’ve seen what Watkins can do to guys like you.”

  Guys like me? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll see.” Kimbal jogged down the porch steps and looked back. “Sure you don’t need a lift?”

  “I’ll walk, thanks.”

  “What about a ride home? You could be in bad shape after.”

  Like getting a ride with Kimbal mattered. He would follow me anyway, like he had every day for the past thirteen years. “Get lost, will you?”

  Kimbal chuckled and walked toward the black sedan. I went inside the house, tossed my ball on Grandma’s velour armchair, and bee-lined to the kitchen. I slathered peanut butter onto slices of wheat bread until I’d made three hefty sandwiches. I licked the knife, tossed it in the sink, and took my snack to my room. My eyes shifted straight for the digital clock half hanging off the shelf next to my bed. Only two hours until I was supposed to meet Beth.

  I had no idea what to wear for my first beating.

  • • •

  “Attack me.”

  I blinked. “Serious?”

  Beth, her brown hair secured in a ponytail, stood across the mat from me, barefoot, dressed in a pair of black combat pants and a white T-shirt that said, “Caution: Next mood swing in five minutes.” She held out her hands, palms up, and beckoned me. “Yes. Try and take me down, Tiger.”

  My stomach flipped every time she called me “Tiger.” I took one step forward and stopped. I didn’t want to hurt her.

  “It’s called grappling. Or sparring. It’s how we practice.” She pointed at me. “You’re the bad guy, and you want to attack me. So do it. Now.”

  I scanned the room. The LCT training facility, also known as C Camp, was located at 95 Juniper in a non-descript brick office building with no sign out front. The guard had only let me in because Beth had put my name on “the list.” Once I’d passed through the men’s locker room, I’d discovered that the place was like an athletic club with mats and punching bags instead of stair climbers and exercise bikes. A couple weight benches sat off to one side.

  At least Beth and I were alone. I mean, nice that she thought I was concerned I might hurt her. But she was a tough chick, and I didn’t want to get whipped in front of an audience.

  Maybe I could play on that concern. “Okay…” I inched toward her, wearing what I hoped was my most pathetic and worrisome expression. “But what if…?” Two more steps. “I’m just not really sure how to, you know…” Another step. I was two yards away now.

  She put her hands on her hips and blew a loose wisp of hair out of her eyes. “Stop whining. What kind of opponent are you gonna be if you—”

  I rushed forward, blitzing like a linebacker. I wrapped both arms around Beth’s waist and threw all my weight against her. We fell. Adrenaline surged inside. I was winning. See? I could handle myself against—

  Uh oh.

  Beth rolled into a backwards somersault, pulling me with her. I caught a glimpse of my bare feet in the air. My head filled with pressure.

  I hit the mat like an egg in a science experiment. Oof.

  Beth was sitting on top of me—sweet! But her forearm crushed my neck in a vise that bordered on choking. I kicked my legs, but they only flailed about, hitting nothing.

  How pathetic.

  Beth’s eyes stared into mine, fierce green and catlike; her lips twisted in a smirk. “Distraction. Nice try, Tiger, but you gave up control of your weight, and I used it against you.” She held her position. “Tap out.”

  I turned my wrist until I could slap the mat with my palm. Beth released me and popped to her feet. I scrambled to mine before she tried anything.

  “Where’d you get the Special Forces duds, anyway?” she asked me.

  I looked down at my tan T-shirt and fatigues. “They gave them to me in Moscow.”

  “They who?”

  “Jake and the Scene Investigation Department people.”

  Beth crouched down beside me and rubbed the hem of my pants between her fingers. “Lucky dog. These are real BDUs.”

  “BDU?”

  “Battle dress utility.” Beth stood and placed her feet apart on the mat. She bent her knees. “Let’s go again.”

  I circled her slowly, heart thudding in my chest. I had no clue what I was doing. Wasn’t she going to teach me anything? That was why I was here—I wanted to learn.

  Beth closed her eyes. “Come on, Spencer. I won’t even look.”

  “What’s the point? So you’re better than me. Teach me something so I can actually fight you.” I didn’t mind her pinning me—it was fun. But I didn’t want to look like a wimp, either.

  At Beth’s slight smile, a dimple formed in one cheek. Her eyes were still closed. “I have my reasons.”

  I leapt forward and threw a punch, wincing the whole time. I so didn’t want to hurt her.

  Beth’s eyes flicked open. She blocked my punch with her palm, grabbed my wrist, turned into me, and bent over. I twisted, rolled off her back, and landed flat on mine. My jarred brain ran an injury inventory. Loss of air to the lungs: major problem. Everything else: intact.

  “Again. Get up.” Beth clapped her hands in front of my face.

  I flinched.

  Thirty minutes later I felt the scowl burn into my face as Beth slung my body onto the mat for—I’d lost count of how many times. A million, maybe. I gritted my teeth as she walked away.

  What was I doing wrong?

  I scrambled to my feet and charged. I jumped on her, piggyback, and locked one arm around her neck. She sagged, but managed to hold my weight. She wedged her chin into the crook of my elbow and walked backwards. Her hands flew to my forearm, fingernails digging in, but I held on. I clenched my jaw, tensing against the sharp pain of nails cutting into flesh.

  She flung herself back against the cement wall. My head bounced off the concrete with a dull thud. I winced and loosened my grip. It was enough for Beth to throw me again, sending my body rolling several times across the padded floor. I stopped on my stomach, face buried into the mat, eyes closed to merciful darkness, rubbing my scratched arm. I focused on the blackness of the inside of my eyelids.

  “Okay, enough torture.” Beth’s voice seemed far away. “I can see I have my work cut out for me.”

  Brutal, emasculating female. I rolled over and found Beth standing over me, hands on her hips. I rose onto my elbows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She flopped down beside me and sat cross-legged. “If you’re going to learn LCT, you’ve got to separate your emotions from your actions—in your brain. If I throw a punch at you, your brain freaks out and thinks, ‘A punch will hurt me.’ Then your brain reverts to survival instincts and you do something dumb like you just did.”

  “That’s the best I did.”

  “No. You lost control ’cause you were angry. People who fight from emotions don’t fight smart. LCT isn’t about hurting anyone. It’s about accomplishing one of two objectives: subduing someone without harm or protecting yourself so you can get away.”

  I held up my arm so she could see her cat scratches. “How’s this not harm?”

  “I protected myself to get away. You were out of control and stronger than me. I did what I had to do to avoid getting choked.”

  “I’m not stronger than you.”

  Beth raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, you are. I just know how to use my muscles. Besides, it isn’t always the size of the muscles; it’s the size of the brain. If you fight smart, you’ll fight best.” She massaged her throat. “First you’ve got to separate your emotions from the experience. You can’t think, ‘I’m fighting Beth. I’m going to hurt her, or she’s going to hurt me.’ You’ve got to think about your objective. Subduing without harm or getting away.”

  “But how can you stay calm when someone’s punching you?”

  “I concentrate on
the number method.”

  I shook my head. The girl spoke nonsense.

  Beth smiled big, both dimples emerging. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.” She snagged a flyer off the wall and grabbed a pen from her bag. She flopped down on her stomach, flipped the flyer over, and began to draw. “The number system works like this.” Beth drew a stick man with numbers around him.

  “Okay. Number one and two are high hits coming from the left or right. Number three and four hits come from the sides. Five is anything in the middle from a high five to the face to a low five to the groin. Six is straight down on the head, seven and eight are low hits from the ground, and a nine is between the legs.”

  I cringed.

  Beth tapped the paper with the back of her pen. “Most attacks are a one, two, three, four, or five. You want to think about a hit in terms of the number it’s coming from and not what it can do to you. This is what keeps you from panicking in a fight. Get it?”

  “I think so.” But why was her stick man smiling?

  “Good.” She slapped the paper against my chest. “Memorize that.”

  REPORT NUMBER: 2

  REPORT TITLE: A Male Manicurist Saves My Neck

  SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond

  LOCATION: 95 Juniper Avenue, Pilot Point, California, USA

  DATE AND TIME: Monday, October 13, 6:37 p.m.

  I hobbled out of C Camp toward the intersection of Juniper and First, carrying my backpack by the straps. It was almost dark. The black sedan at the curb started its engine and flipped on its headlights. I paused to glare at the tinted windows, knowing Kimbal and Nose were inside, watching.

  If Beth hadn’t forgotten to teach me breakfalls, I wouldn’t have twisted my ankle. Thanks a lot, girl. Apparently, I was her first pupil ever.

  The sedan’s passenger window rolled down. “Need a lift?” Kimbal’s voice oozed amusement.