Bulletproof - Xavier Neal Page 0,4
person he is. The mad dash across the room to attack before he can be attacked gives Tortorella a slight advantage to evade the head-on assault. He blocks and counters only to be met by a block and counter. Their back and forth fast-paced movements continuously build up proving this to be the well paired match Nikita Davis promised it would be.
Her job is much harder than it looks.
Pairing operatives together for training encounters requires not only knowing a vast amount about the agents on paper but off it as well.
Perhaps that’s why I typically prefer inanimate objects.
The majority of the data I need is always written down.
I don’t know secret codes or second guess the information regarding the non-human variables I’m dealing with.
People complicate everything.
Tortorella lands a solid punch in Reynolds’ face that successfully stumbles him backward.
At the sight of him momentarily stunned, I command, “Now.”
Ali taps a button on her tablet causing flames to burst through the slits on the floor.
Neither of them wastes time being distracted by the environmental challenge they knew would be added.
Instead, they continue the skirmish, both wanting bragging rights in the breakroom over the other.
Their slender yet toned bodies swiftly cover the length of the room back and forth in a determination to take down their opponent. Despite how much I would love to see Reynolds lose a tooth or perhaps a kneecap or even both, I oscillate my focus between both pairs of feet where my latest design is being put through a multitude of tests and the tablet recording the information using the sensors installed inside.
Numbers seem to stay steady where they are expected to as well as in the avenues I am hoping.
Needing to push the prototype further before we’re out of time, I quietly instruct, “Increase temperature and intensity.”
“One or two?”
“Two.”
Ali doubles the volume of flames significantly shorting the amount of time the exercise has left. Between the smoke and their consistent strikes, breathing will be the biggest issue of concern. Their persistent nimble movements repeatedly have me studying the information being charted to the same degree I do their actual bodies. Everything below the waist of the two individuals is rapidly filtered and documented of importance in my mind. Little things that the program isn’t designed to track are embedded right alongside the data that is; however, I push the ticking clock further than most would in my position, waiting until the winces of discomfort on Reynolds’s face are undeniably too constant to continue to ignore.
“He’s getting burned, Dr. Rothwell,” my twin brother, Brandon, unexpectedly states over my lab coat-covered shoulder.
Only if I’m lucky.
Rather than say that out loud, I cut Ali a glance. “End.”
The flames extinguish as abruptly as they were born. Immediately afterward, both men cease their attacks and glance in our direction for confirmation to exit. I give a casual nod that’s followed by a finger point to medical to tend to any of the minor damage they may have received.
“Fuck, it hurts!” Reynolds shouts as soon as he’s outside of the secluded room.
Maintaining an air of innocence is difficult but not impossible. “What does?”
“My fucking legs,” he grouses while flopping down on the nearest chair.
“Ah, but I was concerned about your fucking feet,” I casually counter. “How are they?”
His gray stare lowers to an unmistakable glare. “Fine.”
“Thank fuck you’re not in charge of giving me a firsthand detailed experience about the shit.”
Brandon does his best to stifle his chuckle.
“Tortorella?” My attention swings to him. “Status report?”
“Feet and ankles felt thoroughly protected from the flames.” He drops down into the other chair. “There was no lack of gripping in the footbed or smashing of my toes into the tip.”
A nod of approval is followed by additional questions. “The chart recorded inconsistent lags between certain maneuvers. Were these due to fighting techniques or something else?”
Tortorella looks hesitant to respond confirming the concern I already had.
“They’re still too heavy, aren’t they?”
He sheepishly nods while a member of medical rolls up his pant leg to access the possible burns.
“How bad?”
“Noticeable.”
There’s no stopping my dark espresso-colored nose from scrunching in discontent.
“But they’re functional?” Brandon professionally inquires.
Tortorella shifts his attention to one of the men he is currently employed under. “Yes, Sir.”
“Functional is good,” my brother warmly states like I need the encouragement. “Functional is what we want, Dr. Rothwell.”
“No, functional is what we have, elite is what we want, Number Four,” I counter at the same time I send him a disapproving stare. “State-of-the-art isn’t accomplished by merely meeting