Chapter 150: Advanced Training (2)

Inside the CQC house, Joey charged through the open doorway and immediately panicked.

​Forgetting every instruction on room clearing, he held his Colt revolver out at full arm’s length with one hand. He swung the muzzle toward a cardboard silhouette set six feet inside the room, completely ignoring the second target posted directly in the blind shadow behind the doorframe. Joey squeezed the trigger wildly.

​BANG!

​The shot rang out against the timber walls. Joey stumbled into the main chamber, saw the red hostile silhouette standing behind a green civilian target, and fired two more panicked rounds.

​BANG! BANG!

​Both bullets punched clean holes through the center chest of the green target, leaving the red hostile silhouette behind it completely untouched. Joey rushed through the rest of the course, missing two more blind corners before stumbling out through the exit frame, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily.

​Up on the observation boardwalk, John clicked his pocket stopwatch.

​"Three minutes, forty seconds!" John called down, writing the time on the slate board.

​Joey lowered his revolver, his face flushed red with embarrassment as he looked up at the boardwalk. "I blew it, didn’t I?"

​Ricky walked to the edge of the railing, looking down at the young recruit. "You rushed the entry, Joey. You missed the first target tucked behind the door hinge because you didn’t check your immediate left before stepping through the frame."

​"I didn’t even see it till I was past it," Joey muttered.

​"That’s why you slice the pie," Ricky explained, using his hand to demonstrate the angle. "You use your center of gravity to lean and peek around the frame before your boots ever cross the threshold. And when you panicked in the main room, you reverted to a single-handed grip. That lost you your muzzle control, and you put two rounds straight into the hostage."

​Joey swallowed hard, looking down at the dirt floor.

​"It’s your first time inside a dynamic breach room, Joey," Ricky said, his tone turning grounded and encouraging. "Nobody clears a hot floor on day one. Take a breath, remember your angles, and you’ll get it on the next run."

​Joey wiped his forehead, nodding as a relieved grin broke through his tension. "Thanks, Boss. I’ll get it right next time."

​Down on the floor, the rest of the men took mental notes, eagerly stepping up for their turns.

​The next few recruits learned from Joey’s mistakes and checked their corners, but they swung too wide around the doorframes. In checking one angle, they stepped directly into the open line of sight of the target in the opposite corner, leaving themselves completely exposed.

​Ricky called down from the railing, halting the drill. "You’re prioritizing the corner you can see while exposing your shoulder to the entire room. Control your positioning. Only reveal as much of your body as you need to clear one angle at a time."

​Floyd was the next man up. Taking a deep breath at the entrance, Floyd ignored the clock entirely. He moved with slow, deliberate precision—leaning his head and shoulders around the frame, keeping both hands firmly locked on his pistol grip, and clearing every blind spot before taking a single step forward.

​BANG!

​He dropped the first target behind the door. He moved through the narrow hallway, checking every table and corner without exposing his flanks. His footwork was steady, though his trigger press was slightly hesitant and his reflexes were slow. Still, he didn’t miss a single target, and every green hostage silhouette remained untouched.

​Floyd stepped out through the exit, exhaling a long plume of white steam.

​John checked the stopwatch. "Six minutes, fifty-two seconds!" John announced.

​A few recruits chuckled at the long time, but Ricky raised a hand to quiet them, looking down at Floyd with an approving nod. "Good run, Floyd."

​Floyd wiped his nose with his sleeve, looking up. "A bit slow, Boss."

​"Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast," Ricky said, addressing the entire group. "Floyd cleared every room without leaving a blind spot and without taking a single hit. His trigger discipline and reflexes will sharpen with practice, but his awareness was spot on."

​Ricky leaned against the handrail, looking over the attentive faces lined along the boardwalk.

​"I want you all to understand why the clock matters eventually," Ricky explained. "When you fire a round inside an enemy house, that first gunshot is a signal flare. Every armed guard in the building is going to rush that hallway. You have less than three minutes to clear your objective and get out the back exit before you are surrounded and outnumbered. The only time you take longer is if you’ve already rigged the place with explosives, or if you’re deliberately drawing them into a funnel."

​Taking the lesson to heart, the remaining men adjusted their approach, prioritizing smooth angles, proper two-handed grips, and careful positioning over raw speed.

​Two and a half hours passed in a steady cadence of gunfire and tactical instruction. With sixty men in the company, more than half had still not taken a turn through the training house when the afternoon light began to fade.

​Seeing the men’s eagerness, Ricky spoke up. "We’re pausing the formal evaluations for today, but the CQC house stays open. During off-hours, you can run the floor in teams of three. One man shifts the overhead wall panels and sets the target positions, one man runs the course, and the third man stands up here with a stopwatch to evaluate the run."

​The recruits grinned, visibly relieved that they wouldn’t have to wait until the following week to practice again.

​"All right, clear the floor!" Arthur barked from the platform. "Fall out and line up on the lower training field for CQC hand-to-hand drills! Double time!"

​The men hurried out of the timber building, gathering on a wide, snow-cleared dirt field near the edge of the forest. Cold wind rustled through the high pine trees as the sixty recruits formed a large circle around Ricky.

​Ricky stepped into the center of the ring, unbuttoning his heavy winter coat and handing it to John.

​"What we are covering next isn’t standard army boxing or street fighting," Ricky began, looking around the circle. "This system originates from an ancient close-quarters combat art practiced in the Philippines. It was refined over centuries by native warriors for guerrilla warfare, jungle ambushes, hit-and-run tactics, and edge-weapon fighting."

​The men watched intently, listening to the unfamiliar background.

​"Because they were often outgunned by foreign forces, they focused on leverage, speed, and immediate lethality in tight spaces," Ricky continued, pulling a dull, unsharpened steel training knife from his belt. "To demonstrate how it works, I need a volunteer. Anyone confident in their knife work or fist fighting."

​The recruits looked around at one another, hesitating. Having seen Ricky move, none of the younger tenement boys were eager to step into the ring with him.

​Ricky reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a small roll of bills, and held up a five-dollar bank note.

​"Five dollars cash to any man who lands a single solid hit on me," Ricky said with a faint smile. "Land three hits, and you’ll go back to the city rich come spring."

​A low murmur rippled through the older army veterans. Five dollars was more than a week’s wages for a laborer.

​Miller—a broad-shouldered thirty-five-year-old former infantry sergeant with thick arms and scarred knuckles—stepped out from the crowd, pulling a wooden training knife from his belt.

​"Five bucks a hit?" Miller grunted, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the ring. "Don’t mind if I do, Boss."

​"Whenever you’re ready, Miller," Ricky said, standing relaxed with his training blade resting casually at his side.

​Miller dropped into a low, classic U.S. Army knife stance—knees bent, blade held forward, probing with quick feints. He tested the distance twice, flicking his wrist, before launching a sudden, hard lunging stab straight for Ricky’s chest.

​Ricky didn’t retreat. He stepped inside the thrust, slipping his torso half an inch off the line of attack. His left hand shot out, trapping Miller’s wrist mid-strike, while his right hand brought his dull blade up in a swift arc, pressing the flat steel firm against Miller’s exposed throat.

​"Hit," Ricky said calmly.

​The entire exchange had taken less than a second. Miller froze, feeling the cold steel pressed against his neck.

​"Notice what happened," Ricky said, addressing the watching recruits while keeping Miller trapped. "Miller committed his shoulder before his front foot was planted. When you over-extend with a blade, you surrender control of your arm to your opponent."

​Ricky released Miller and stepped back. "Try again."

​Miller wiped his mouth, a competitive edge entering his eyes. He reset his stance, threw a fast left jab to draw Ricky’s guard up, and followed immediately with a violent diagonal thrust toward Ricky’s ribs.

​Ricky parried the jab with his forearm, caught Miller’s knife wrist with a circular trapping motion, and twisted Miller’s forearm downward. In a fraction of a second, Ricky tapped Miller three times in rapid succession—once across the neck, once across the inner wrist, and once into the side of his ribs.

​Tap, tap, tap.

​"Three lethal cuts," Ricky said, releasing the hold. "All delivered off a single parry before Miller could pull his blade back."

​The recruits leaned forward, amazed by the fluid speed of the defense.

​Miller’s face flushed red. Irritated that his years of army knife training were being effortlessly picked apart, he dropped all caution. He grunted, lunged forward with full force, and drove his wooden blade down in a heavy, reverse-grip strike aimed to forcefully overpower Ricky’s guard.

​Ricky anticipated the charge. Sidestepping the heavy downward plunge, he caught Miller’s wrist mid-flight, redirected the big man’s forward momentum, and swept his back leg behind Miller’s ankle.

​Miller went down hard, crashing onto his back in the packed snow. Before he could roll over, Ricky pinned Miller’s knife arm flat against the frozen ground beneath his knee, holding his training blade an inch from Miller’s ear.

​"This system requires patience, timing, and precise angling," Ricky said down to him softly. "You don’t fight the strength of an opponent—you use his own weight against him."

​Ricky lifted his knee, stepped back, and offered Miller a hand. Miller grabbed Ricky’s arm, pulled himself up, and dusted the snow off his trousers.

​Despite losing out on the money, Miller let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "I didn’t even see your foot sweep coming, Boss. That’s frighteningly fast."

​"Good pressure, Miller," Ricky said, patting the veteran on the shoulder.

​Ricky then walked over to John, unholstered his Colt revolver, dropped the magazine into his palm, and racked the slide to eject the chambered round. He caught the live bullet mid-air, showed the empty chamber to Arthur, and held the unloaded pistol in his right hand while keeping the training knife in his left.

​"In close-quarters combat, a blade and a sidearm should work together," Ricky told the company. "Shooting creates noise and alerts every guard in a building. Using a blade allows for silent takedowns, while the pistol remains in your grip as an immediate insurance policy if things go wrong. I need another volunteer."

​Another veteran named Davis stepped into the ring, holding a wooden blade. Davis stepped in with a cautious jab-and-stab combination.

​Ricky slipped beneath the thrust, wrapped his left arm around Davis’s neck from behind, and pulled Davis tightly against his chest. In the same movement, Ricky raised the unloaded Colt over Davis’s right shoulder, pointing it straight at the perimeter.

​"If you get ambushed or rushed in a doorway, you turn your attacker into a living shield," Ricky explained to the group while holding Davis locked. "Your left arm controls his airway or blade, while your weapon hand stays free to cover the hall ahead."

​Ricky then demonstrated a disarm sequence, using the heavy frame of his empty Colt to strike the nerve on Davis’s forearm, causing Davis to drop his wooden blade. In a fluid spin, Ricky brought the pistol barrel straight under Davis’s chin.

​"A single-handed pistol grip is essential for this style," Ricky noted. "You won’t always have two hands free to shoot when you’re wrestling in a narrow corridor."

​Tommy, a tall, lean young recruit from lower Manhattan, raised his hand. "Boss! What about throwing the knife? Can we throw ’em to take out guards silently before entering?"

​"You can throw a blade, Tommy," Ricky answered. "But if you throw your knife, you lose your primary CQC weapon if you miss or fail to drop him instantly. On top of that, throwing forces you to step out from cover to draw back your arm. A pistol peeked around a corner only exposes two inches of your head and hand. Use every weapon you have, but never trade leverage for flair."

​The recruits nodded, taking in the practical logic.

​"Form six lines of ten," Ricky commanded, stepping to the front of the field. "We begin with basic footwork and wrist-trapping entries. Step by step."

​The sixty men quickly spread across the snowy clearing, raising their hands as Ricky began drilling them in the fundamental entries of the discipline.