Page 56 of Prodigal Son

The big guy winced – a reaction Charlie found odd. “Ah, sensei…you sure you don’t want to use one of the others?”

Abe flashed a rare grin; all teeth, no humor. “Leave your hands taped.”

After a prolonged moment of fiddling with his gloves and delaying as long as possible, Len and Abe were finally squared off from one another on one of the training mats. Len dwarfed their teacher, sweat-slick muscles gleaming beneath the industrial lights, body poised and taut, hands held at the ready. His face was pale and doubtful, though.

Charlie didn’t understand. How could someone so massive and so capable – he’d watched Len spar with the other boys in the ring often; seen the others hang off the ropes, winded, bruised, done – possibly be intimidated by someone built like Abe. Abe was quick, and knowledgeable, and regularly trounced Charlie during their instructional bouts. But Charlie was only little. Surely Len would–

Abe attacked. His explosive burst of speed was so sudden it took a second for Charlie’s vision to register it. He was already across the mat in the span of a blink. Len threw up his forearm to block, teeth gritted. But he was too slow, and Abe ducked down low, besides. He landed a blow at Len’s waist, in the soft meat just under his ribs, then whirled away, out of reach of Len’s retaliatory swipe.

The whole thing had happened in the span of a breath. Len clutched at his side, breathing in short, pained little gasps. “Damn, sensei, that really–”

Abe struck again. He went high this time, leaping, spinning, kicking. Len reacted, but too slowly. The heel of Abe’s foot connected with his shoulder with a loud smack.

The match devolved from there. Abe’s assault was measured, precise, and relentless. He exerted the exact amount of force needed to inflict pain, to distract, to get Len doubled over – but without breaking any bones or leaving the kind of bruises that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

At some point, Charlie realized his mouth was hanging open, and didn’t have the wherewithal to shut it. Abe was…he wasincredible. Len was bigger, stronger, and more menacing, but Abe decimated him.

When it was over, only a few minutes at most, Len was kneeling on the mat, coughing, holding his ribs. Abe stood in front of Charlie, barely sweating, face placid save for one lifted brow. “The world is a big, cruel place,” he said, firmly. “And size does matter in some things. But not in this. You don’t have to be big to kill a man. You don’t have to be strong in your arms – only in here.” He tapped his own chest with a single finger. “Are you strong there, Charlie Fox?”

“Kill?” Charlie asked, heart beating wildly.

Abe snorted. “What do you think you’re here to learn, boy?”

~*~

The balcony was the same as he remembered: narrow, paint flaking, thriving palm tree in a pot and an ash tray on the tiny table at elbow-level. It overlooked a courtyard of sorts, a rectangle of dirt where the backs of four buildings converged, sealed behind a locked iron gate, littered with bits of paper rubbish and a tangle of dead weeds. Lights burned in the window across the way, warm and fuzzy through a veil of curtains.

The slider opened and shut, but Abe made no sound, as usual. He came to mirror Fox’s position, elbows leaned on the rail. He already held a lit cigarette between two fingers, smoke pluming from his nostrils.

Fox sucked down the rest of his own cigarette and flicked the butt over the rail.

“Don’t litter,” Abe said, rote.

“We need to get on the road,” Fox said. “We can’t linger. I won’t ask you to come with us…but I wish you would.”

“Ah. You don’t have to be worried about an old man. No one wants anything to do with me.”

Fox straightened. “Fine. Suit yourself.” He heard the hard edge in his voice but couldn’t get it under control. Frustration built like heartburn in his chest. Why was this old bastard so stubborn? Just like Dad. Were they all like this? Maybe the world would be a better place without them. “Far be it from me to…” He turned, reaching for the door, and trailed off when Abe pinned him with a look. It was dark out, only ambient light to illuminate their faces, but it was enough to give Fox a glimpse of his old sensei’s weaponized disapproval.

He lingered, caught between staying and leaving.

Abe stared at him a long moment, then turned back to the courtyard. “Do you know why I went to Israel?”

“Because you’refromIsrael?”

Abe nodded, solemn. “It’s the same reason I chose the name ‘Abraham’ for myself. It took me a very long time to find out where I’d come from originally. The others didn’t care, but I had to know. I had to make sense of it. Why us? What was so special about thirteen orphans? I thought, maybe, if I could understand where I’d come from, my blood, that I could realize what I was supposed to be doing.

“I found my old file, finally. Not all of them had survived, but mine had. I was born in October of 1948, in Jerusalem, just five months after Israel’s founding. I thought that was important. That it meant something – thatImeant something. And I chose a Jewish name for myself, and I went there – back home.”

Fox realized that he’d taken hold of the balcony railing, and had squeezed it so tight that his knuckles had turned white. “Why are you telling me this?” His voice came out as a whisper. “You never have before.” And he would never have dared to ask.

“I’m telling you,” Abe said, calmly, “because it’s important. Shut your mouth and listen.

“I went home to Jerusalem to figure out who I might have been if it wasn’t for Project Emerald. And what I might do after, now that I knew. But itwasn’thome. And so I moved on.

“I’ve lived in Tokyo, and Moscow, and Bangkok. I’ve backpacked through villages without names, and spent months on trawlers in the Artic. I’ve seen the world, kid, and I ended up here again. In London, teaching schoolkids how to kick ass in every language I know.”

He turned to Fox again, and Fox was struck by the motion, the way it wasn’t at all casual. Like a bird of prey swiveling around to look at you.

---