BLOOD BROTHERS - Sample Chapters

Chapter 1

Rydell watched the boy through the one-way mirror of the viewing room. If only his eagle eyes didn't come with the beak to go with them, forever distracting him from the subject at hand. Tired of his long hair curtailing his peripheral vision, he tied it back with a rubber band so he could more accurately monitor the range of the lad's own visual acuity.  

The fifteen-year-old Jared could already fend off virtually any number of attackers in close combat. He excelled at every form of sparring, taking naturally to his own mixed martial arts style. The pile of assailants he left prostrate on the floor just kept rising. It didn't matter if they blindsided him, got him in a choke hold, knocked the wind out of him, or temporarily incapacitated him with a cheap shot tactic of a desperate, lesser fighter; say a handful of sand to the eyes. All it earned the few who could get a couple of initial moves up on him was a quicker trip to the morgue. As exercises went, Rydell wasn't about playing games. The trainees were always in it for keeps; they knew that, and it kept them sharp. If they died before their induction was complete, oh, well; that was the price of mediocrity. As for the fodder, his budget could always afford more warm bodies to throw up against them. Even in these dark economic times, governments always had stashes of money secreted away for keeping folks under their thumbs; that was, after all, what they specialized in. 

He crossed over to the opposite wall and the other gymnasium adjoining the viewing room. Like its twin, serving as a playground for Jared, this hangar could swallow a football field, surrounding track and bleachers. With the surveillance station located near the roof, he was looking down on this arena as well.  

The fifteen-year-old Clay, unlike Jared, he noted, preferred to work from a distance. He hit bull's-eyes with a pistol from a stretch away that lesser marksmen would have struggled to hit with a scoped rifle. Remarkable. His last shot had penetrated the eye of the sniper hiding in the trees, sufficiently camouflaged that Rydell could barely detect him, even with his 20-10 vision. The distance typically required a rifle for a kill shot, explaining Clay's extreme angle of fire and his selection of the soft spot of the eye. When he threw down the Glock, Rydell figured he might be finished showing off. But the fusillade of bullets that splashed him from several quarters at once seemed to royally piss him off. He dropped to the ground and, while rolling, picked up the Shuriken from the other discarded weapons and flung the multi-pointed, star-shaped daggers. Luckily for him, his assailants had to be a lot closer to their target to achieve the same kind of accuracy. The bodies fell out of the trees like fruit in summer. 

General Cuatro stepped into the viewing area, walking up to Rydell. He hadn't gone to seed yet, but somehow Rydell expected he would sooner rather than later. He was a little too happy issuing orders from the safe cover of a desk. Not exactly a devotee of Rydell's close and personal way of working. His square jaw and head made him look like even more of a chip off the old block than the typical military grunt. His swagger had all the taint of a man with strong political connections and none of the leopard's poise and economy of movement that came from one efficient kill after another. Cuatro took a gander at the boys working through their drills in the coliseum-sized staging areas and said, "Aren't you afraid...?" 

"Let's just keep a close eye on them. Who knows? I might never have to intervene." 

"And should they become aware of one another?" 

"Let's see that they don't." 

"But if they do?" 

"They're fraternal twins. So still no need for them to suspect, unless we give them reason to." 

***

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

Rydell could hear Cuatro's labored breathing from three flights of stairs down. The once lithe mountain goat looked more like a warthog these days. He snorted to suit, his lungs unable to power themselves adequately past all the mucous build up in his bronchi, a consequence of overeating, and overdrinking. Not to mention the other indulgences that quickly marred those who felt they had a right to the cushy life.