Free The Seraphim Sequence: The Fifth Column 2 by Nathan M Farrugia Page A

Nasira hadn’t even broken a sweat.
    Jay nodded. Not bad.
    ‘Hey,’ one of the crew said. He was upon Jay in seconds, shaking his hand. ‘Name’s Rhyss.’ His accent was Australian. He narrowed his eyes. They were the color of ice. ‘Jay, right?’
    ‘Yeah.’ Jay cleared his throat, tried to make his voice deeper. ‘Arming the torpedoes, huh?’
    Rhyss blinked. ‘What? Nah, just training with Nasira, mate.’ He scratched at an impenetrable beard beneath his thin, tapered nose. ‘Crew call me Chickenhead.’
    ‘Chicken … head?’ Jay said.
    Another crew member approached, laughing.
    ‘When he gets excited on the sonar, his head does this,’ the guy said, jerking his head back and forth. It reminded Jay of a pigeon. ‘Like a chicken.’
    Chickenhead gave a forced laugh. ‘And if you haven’t had the misfortune of being introduced, this is Big Dog.’
    Next to Chickenhead’s slender six-foot frame, Big Dog was compact and, well, kind of hairy. If his imposing arms were any indication, he was a regular user of the Perseus ’s gym equipment. He wore a gray beanie over shaggy black hair and was one of the few crew members Jay had seen with a clean-shaven face, except for a strange patch on his chin that reminded Jay of a martini glass. But instead of an olive in the martini glass, there was a piercing.
    Big Dog must have seen him staring. ‘First thing I did when we jumped ship off the Fifth Column.’
    Chickenhead pulled back the sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal a small tattoo of a ship’s anchor on his shoulder. ‘Fuck the system, right?’
    Jay peered closer. ‘That’s … small.’
    ‘I was hesitant,’ Chickenhead said.
    Big Dog winked. ‘Commitment issues.’
    Chickenhead flashed a mischievous grin. ‘Hey, you should join us.’
    ‘Nah, I was just going to do a few sets—’
    Big Dog was shaking his head. ‘That wasn’t a question, dude.’ He slapped Jay on the back. ‘It would be an honor to train with a black operative.’
    ‘That wasn’t racist,’ Chickenhead quickly added.
    ‘Black as in covert,’ Big Dog said. He glanced at Nasira. ‘Well, another one.’
    Jay was quite happy just lifting weights, but now that half a dozen crew members and Benito and Nasira were looking at him he couldn’t really back out.
    ‘Nice of you to join us.’ Nasira didn’t smile.
    Jay shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to cramp your style.’
    ‘We’re just finishing up,’ she said.
    ‘Come on!’ Big Dog said. ‘We’ve been dying to see two of you … um, people go toe to toe.’
    ‘That would be so awesome,’ Chickenhead said.
    ‘You people?’ Nasira repeated.
    ‘You know, operatives,’ Chickenhead said.
    ‘ Retired operatives.’ Nasira eyed Jay carefully.
    ‘An operative never retires, right?’ Jay said.
    She squared off, game face on. ‘Since they insist, let’s see what you got, big boy.’
    Jay allowed himself a tiny grin. ‘Famous last words.’
    He moved in, slowly at first. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. He circled her, watching how she moved, where her attention was. Her gaze stayed firmly on his. She didn’t give anything away. Her steps were minimal, even-footed. He’d expected as much. She’d been trained throughout Project GATE, just as he had, including an exhaustive close combat program. Wing Tsun Kung Fu, Bruce Lee’s Jeet Kun Do (the Inosanto way), Filipino martial arts Kali and Modern Arnis, Russian Sambo and even a touch of Japanese Jodo, which employed a short staff as a weapon. In the life of an operative, this came in handy more than one would think. Many things could be improvised as a short staff. But the way Nasira moved suggested she’d learnt something new—or old. Whatever. He still had the edge and he knew it.
    He stepped in and tested her with a sudden jab to her stomach. The last place she would expect. Her fist was a blur, moving into an open hand over his head. Quickly, he withdrew the jab, then realized too late that it was a decoy.