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  DEADLY PROMISE

  BRIAN CRAWFORD

  Maverick BookWorks

  DEADLY PROMISE

  Copyright © 2020 by Brian Crawford.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact:

  [email protected]

  ISBN-13:

  First Edition: March 2020

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEADLY PROMISE

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  Hi, Mom. Thanks for the idea, even if my version doesn’t sound anything like what you envisioned in your head at the time.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For those of you that follow me on Facebook, you know what a chore writing the third book in the L.T. McCain series was for me. If you don’t follow me, I’ll catch you up. This book almost didn’t happen. Why you ask? Because someone (me) lost the first 55,000 words of the book due to a catastrophic hard drive failure and couldn’t find the backup copy. My initial reaction was to write the final book in the series and move on to other projects. (Such as remodeling the kitchen for my wife).

  Fortunately for me, cooler heads prevailed and I started over. I want to acknowledge and thank each of you that contacted me on Facebook or supported me in person to take up my pen keyboard and try again. Your support made this book happen.

  I’m even thanking those of you who persistently teased me online about backing up my project as I provided progress updates. (You know who you are, and, yes, I have heard of The Cloud).

  Unfortunately for my wife, the kitchen did not get remodeled. I’ll get to it before the fourth book…maybe…probably. Okay, I’ll do it. (Note to readers: I’m taking volunteers to help with the remodel. I’ll even dedicate the next book to you).

  Finally, I want to once again thank my wonderful cast of beta readers, old and new. I couldn’t do it without you. Well, I could, but Grammarly and I already miss too many typos.

  If you want to join the group teasing me about implementing regular backups, or if you want to lavish praise down on me, or if you simply want to be notified of new book releases, please follow me at on Facebook at www.facebook.com/BrianCrawfordMBW/.

  CHAPTER 1

  Experience matters. It matters a lot. In combat, in a situation when the losers don’t live long enough to learn from their mistakes, experience matters more than a normal person might appreciate. Losing in combat isn’t like losing a Friday night football game. The consequences are potentially permanent. It’s why every intelligent young military officer wants that grizzled veteran on his team when the bullets start flying.

  Experience told me a lot about the man standing in front of me. Left hand down at his side at a peculiar angle. His body partially turned to block my view of his hand. Eyes darting to take in as much of his surroundings as possible. Nervous, yet aggressive stance.

  Experience, instinct, and training all screamed knife.

  I hate knives.

  I’m big. I’m fast. I am trained in numerous styles of martial arts. Maybe I was approaching the end of my physical prime, but I was battle-tested, with more than one life or death situation behind me. It was because of that experience that I hated knives. I’d seen firsthand what they could do. Up close, they worried me more than guns. Most people, myself included, can’t hit a moving target with a gun. Guns shoot a projectile in a straight line, meaning if you don’t line up your shot, you don’t hit your target. Knives are different. The attacker can move the knife through a nearly infinite number of possible arcs and angles. The result is even the worst fighter on earth can get lucky and cut his opponent.

  “Hey, mister, what’s happening?” The man spoke for the first time. A small smile on his lips, as if he knew something he thought I didn’t know.

  What did I know?

  I knew we were standing in a small room, wider than a hallway, but not much. About the size of a foyer in an expensive home. I knew the man was standing eight feet away, which was currently outside his striking distance. I knew he was a little under six feet tall, around 190 pounds. Fit. Lean. With eyes that never seemed to stop moving, as if in constant surveillance. I couldn’t see the knife, but I knew it was there. I knew that like I knew the sun would come up tomorrow.

  I glanced around the room, looking for anything to use as an improvised weapon. A glass. A bottle. A chair. It was empty. Nothing but me and the man holding the knife.

  “That’s a heck of a party going on in there,” I answered in an energetic and friendly tone.

  He smiled. “You can say that again.” He took a small step forward while he spoke. Eight feet became six. I didn’t like six.

  I took a step back. Eight feet again. “You have your eyes on any of the girls in there?” Most people feel the need to answer a question when asked. I was buying time.

  “Why settle for just one.” He took another small, seemingly strategic step forward.

  “More than one, how do you do it?” I stepped back, keeping the strange pre-battle tango going as long as I could.

  “Some people got it, and some people wish they did.” The dance continued as he stepped forward again.

  “Sounds like you are the man. What do you say we head back in there so you can show me how it’s done?”

  Another question. Another step back. My last step back. No more room to retreat. A small shift in his stance told me he knew I was out of room. He stepped forward. Less than five feet between us. Bye-bye safe distance.

  “I don’t think so. Right now, I’m interested in what’s in your wallet.”

  I tried to fake surprise. “My wallet?” Buying more time with another question.

  His left hand came forward. I quickly realized I was partially wrong about the knife. The blade was six inches long and symmetrical. Both edges were sharp. So, technically a dagger and not a knife. It didn’t matter; I hated daggers as much as knives.

  “Your wallet. Give it to me.”

  He was headed for a disappointment. Whatever cash I had on me, I carried in my front pocket, not my wallet. “Sure.” I pulled my wallet out of my left back pocket with my left hand before transferring it to my right hand to give it to him.

  His eyes squinted in irritation. “Hand it to me with your other hand.”

  He realized what I h
ad done. He wanted to keep his knife hand free and at the ready. That worried me. The fact that I was complying with his request did not seem to pacify a hidden need or desire inside of him. I was torn between watching his eyes and watching his knife-hand. I chose his eyes, hoping he was content with the wallet, and if he wasn’t, then I hoped he had a tell.

  His furtive eyes finally settled on mine. That’s when I saw it — the look a gunfighter might give right before drawing his weapon. It seems the amateurs always have a tell.

  His left hand shot forward in an attempt to slice my abdomen, barely missing as I backed up just enough to avoid injury. A small smirk formed on his face as he lined up for another strike.

  Fight or flight? That’s what I asked myself, although I already knew the answer. I chose fight. That’s when my brain went to that place my brain always goes in these types of situations. Where time slows down. Where I see everything before it happens. As if my brain has violated some basic laws of physics and time travel. My brain was as hard-wired for speed as my body was. Or so it always seemed.

  I knew the stakes. This was not a fight for money. This was battle, and the man in front of me would soon wish he had not picked someone so battle-tested. Experience always matters.

  I tossed my wallet into his face. Instinctively, the man flinched and withdrew. An effective diversion. I quickly reached out and grabbed his wrist. He was able to twist the blade into my wrist causing me to let go. A superficial injury. Something that could be taken care of with simple first-aid if I managed to survive the next few seconds.

  He backed up to re-assess the situation. I didn’t like that. It meant he was patient.

  I reached down and hastily started to unbuckle my belt. A belt is not as deadly as a dagger, but it would give me a reach advantage. He stopped for a split second, shaking his head in wonderment. He didn’t realize it, but the tables turned at that moment — now he was reacting to me instead of the other way around. I wondered if he noticed the small smirk on my face.

  My assailant moved forward, going on the offensive again, less aggressively, less sure of himself. I quickly moved to his side reaching for his knife-hand again. I was able to grab his wrist, pushing it down until it was pinned against my thigh.

  As long as I could hold his wrist, the man’s knife-hand was temporarily neutralized. As expected, he focused all his attention, all his struggles, into freeing his knife-hand. The man stepped in closer to increase his leverage, and probably to get in close so I couldn’t effectively punch him.

  I pushed his body back with my left hand to increase the distance between us before allowing him to pull me back in again. At the last second, I fully bent my left elbow, twisted my torso with all my might, and drove my elbow into the side of his head. He didn’t know about my affinity for elbows. His head bounced back as the full force of my 240-pound frame smashed him in the head. As his head rebounded from the blow, I hit him a second time. Then, a third.

  His eyes started to glaze over. The knife dropped to the ground as his brain was no longer able to send the proper signals to hang on. I let go of his wrist and kicked him hard in the chest, sending him flying backward onto the ground.

  I reached down and grabbed the knife. It was my turn.

  ***

  “Break!” yelled a man to my right standing amongst a group of onlookers. The man was David Murray, owner of a local martial arts studio. David offered one of the best self-defense classes I had ever seen, one that emphasized the importance of situational awareness and practical instruction in real-world situations. He called it Reality Training.

  The man who attacked me was Keith Reed, one of David’s instructors. Keith jumped up from the floor and pulled off his protective headgear. “Holy crap, David, you didn’t tell me he was so fast.”

  David said, “By the way, Keith, he is very fast.” The comment brought a chuckle from the group of approximately 25 students who had recently witnessed the mock attack.

  “You okay, Keith?” I asked. “I thought I saw your eyes glaze over a little.”

  “I’m fine. I let go before you jacked my neck so bad I needed two weeks at the chiropractor.”

  David said, “Before Dr. McCain explains his strategy for surviving a knife attack, I think we should give both men a round of applause for showing us what a real knife attack might look like. As you can see, it looks a lot different than the ones you see in the movies or on TV.”

  Both Keith and I took a bow while the class expressed their gratitude. I had taught martial arts for several years. At one time, I taught self-defense classes to the police department in Huntsville, Alabama. I always enjoyed the question and answer portion afterward a demonstration.

  “Thank you, David. Before I get started, notice David said knife attack and not knife fight. Which brings me to rule number one — if you see a knife, you are not in a fight, you are in combat. If you treat a knife attack like a fight, if you stand there and engage in a long, drawn-out contest, you will get cut. You will lose. You will die.”

  “Rule number two — nothing but your own survival matters at that moment in time. Run. Run and scream. Scream and run. Someone intends to cause you serious harm. The easiest way to keep the attacker out of the kill zone is to retreat.”

  “Would you run?” The voice belonged to a young man in his mid-twenties.

  “I’ve won every fight I’ve avoided, so yes, I might run.”

  “You said might. What might be a reason for staying?”

  “Defending someone else.”

  A few heads nodded at my answer.

  “The third rule is an extension of the second. If you can’t run, if you are cornered, if the a-hole across from you is intent on harming you, then you have to put your attacker down as quickly as possible. You must be committed. You can’t give it 99 percent. You can’t give it 99 and a half percent. Your survival will come down more to your willingness to become as savage as your attacker than to any particular technique. I have nearly twenty years of martial arts experience. I started wrestling when I was five. The presence of a knife erases that advantage for as little as twenty bucks. Your will, your grit, your heart, will save you long before any particular technique.”

  A man in the front raised his hand. “If it’s our mindset that saves us, then why practice technique?”

  “To borrow from a knife metaphor, you still need to hone your skills. You need to fail in a safe environment so you can live long enough to learn something.”

  The same man asked another question. “You told us to be 100 percent committed, but you looked almost nonchalant during your demonstration.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Our instructors tell us to have our hands up so they are ready. Yours were down at your sides. You were joking around about girls at a party.”

  “First, remember I didn’t know in advance if Keith was supposed to attack me. For all I knew, this was a lesson in verbal defusing. I engaged him in banter. I asked him questions. I didn’t care about the answers so much, but questions help disrupt your opponent’s OODA loop, his decision-making process, which I know David has stressed over and over. Second, don’t let my posture fool you; I was ready. My hands were down because I didn’t want Keith to think I was willing to engage with him. I wanted to look like an easy mark. That way, when I exploded from nothingness, it caught him off guard.”

  “Explode from nothingness?”

  David interrupted. “We still want you to keep your hands up. Y’all saw how fast Doc is. He keeps his hands down because he can. It’s that simple.”

  “Rule number four — you have to keep the knife away from you. All but one of the guys I know who have survived a knife attack did so by trapping the knife, by pinning it up against their body or their opponent’s. David tells me he is prepared to pass out some training markers and let you practice for the next half hour. We’ll come by and give you pointers during your training.”

  I helped Keith and David hand out Sharpies to use
as practice knives. The class spent the next half hour trying to trap their opponents’ knife-hands. Most failed. One particular woman screamed like a Scottish Banshee at her opponent, throwing him off his game so much she successfully survived her mock attack. I congratulated her on her technique.

  David re-assembled the group and asked if anyone had any additional questions. A young woman in the front raised her hand. “This question is for Dr. McCain. We spent the last 30 minutes practicing with markers, and we have marks all over demonstrating our failures. You made it look so easy.”

  She didn’t actually ask a question, but I understood what she was implying. She did not doubt I could disarm someone. She had seen me do it. She was wondering if she could ever survive a knife attack.

  “It wasn’t easy, and you can’t see the effects the adrenaline had on me. Like some people, I get nauseous after a big adrenaline dump. That’s another reason to practice — to get used to the effects of adrenaline.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You didn’t really ask one, ma’am.”

  “Okay, may I ask if you’ve had any real-world experience with a knife fight?”

  “Knife attack,” I said, correcting her. “And yes, unfortunately, I’ve had experience.”

  “Could you describe an incident?”

  I glanced at David for approval. Being a reality self-defense class, he permitted me to proceed. I thought back to my first encounter involving a man with a knife. At sixteen, I stopped a grown man from attacking his wife. The man was big and drunk and had knocked his wife to the ground and kicked her in the stomach. The incident ended favorably, but I wasn’t about to tell that example. It was too personal, and that night seemed to leave an indelible mark on the rest of my life.

  “As a younger man, I was a Navy Master-at-Arms, which is the Navy’s version of a military policeman. I was stationed at Subic Bay in the Philippines, long considered an Adult Disneyland of bars and easily available women. It was my job to make sure thousands of drunk and horny Sailors and Marines behaved themselves while they were on liberty. One particular night, I was called to help two Navy Shore Patrolmen who were having trouble with an unruly Marine. He was drunk and disorderly and refused to comply with any request from a Navy squid, even if there were two of them. My presence only seemed to enrage him more. He pulled a knife and told us he would cut the first person to lay a hand on him.”