Chapter 18. Control or Eliminate

“Can you give me a ride, Tom?” Alex’s voice cut through the nighttime silence of the parking lot, lacking any trace of combat readiness, almost pleading.

I looked around. The other club members had long since left, some on roaring motorcycles, others in solid SUVs. The parking lot was nearly empty, and only the dim streetlights pulled our silhouettes out of the darkness.

“Why’re you without wheels?” I crossed my arms over my chest and narrowed my eyes. “How’d you even get here if you live downtown?”

Alex hesitated slightly and pointed at a foldable electric scooter leaning against a pole.

“Well, I figured I’d catch some wind… But look at the sky now. It’s going to pour soon, and I’m in shorts. I’ll catch a cold and won’t be able to go to the gym.”

I lifted my gaze. The sky was only lightly covered with clouds, and the chance of rain was extremely low. The excuse was clearly far-fetched. Alex simply wanted a reason to stay alone with me and dig for the truth.

A thought flashed through my mind: just tell him to get lost. I was currently playing the role of a cool operative, and real professionals do not give rides to talkative beach boys. But reason quickly followed. Alex was part of this closed community. I had been damn lucky to get into their circle when a spot opened up, and ruining relationships over something as trivial as refusing a ride was a stupid risk.

“Throw your ride into the trunk,” I nodded toward my Audi.

“Thanks, man! You’re saving me!” he lit up instantly, his tone shifting to excitement. “Coffee’s on me next time, I swear!”

I only grunted. The whole scene felt surreal: a beach boy dropped into the interior of my not-so-fresh Audi, with its worn upholstery. His unnaturally bronze tan, the kind that clearly washes off in the shower, and his bleached white hair clashed with the harsh atmosphere of the paintball club.

I pulled away and merged onto a half-empty road, pressing the radio button. Slow, strained blues guitar filled the car. Rain, sadness, loneliness, exactly what was needed.

“You seriously listen to this?” Alex turned to me, raising an eyebrow.

“Got a problem with that?”

“No, it’s fine,” he quickly corrected himself. “I just thought you were into heavy metal or something like that. It fits your style.”

I left that without a response. I did not care about his stereotypes. Though, to be fair, with his beach style he should have been listening to some surfing pop, but I wisely kept that to myself.

Minutes stretched along with the blues, broken only by the hum of the tires. Alex was clearly nervous, fidgeting in his seat.

“About the steroids…” he finally forced out. “I mean…”

“There weren’t any steroids,” I cut him off without taking my eyes off the road. My voice came out cold and firm. “You made that up yourself.”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” he stumbled over his words. “I didn’t know you were one of the serious guys. I thought you were messing with street chemicals for definition. Anyway, sorry, I was wrong.”

“Forget it,” I decided to shut the topic down for good. “It’s settled.”

Silence fell again, but this time it carried tension. Alex clearly was not the type who could keep his mouth shut for long.

“Still… what was that?” he leaned forward, curiosity burning in his eyes. “Back at the gym. You looked like a zombie! You didn’t notice anything around you, just the target. It was scary.”

“Self-hypnosis,” I said shortly.

“What?”

“Self-hypnosis. It’s a deep immersion technique. You program your mind for a specific task, cutting off any external stimuli. The world stops existing for you, only the action algorithm remains.”

Alex sat there with his mouth slightly open. He was clearly trying to process it, comparing it with what he had seen in action movies. Why did I feed him this story? Because he had already noticed my abnormal productivity, and pretending to be an ordinary accountant no longer made sense.

“So you can hypnotize yourself into anything?” his eyes widened. “Can you learn to fly?”

“Only within human limits,” I maintained an icy calm.

“Oh… I see,” he exhaled in disappointment, then suddenly lit up again. “Hey, Tom! Teach me!”

I shot him a quick glance. “You don’t have clearance, Alex.”

“What do you mean?” he shifted in his seat.

“This skill’s only passed within special units. I’ve got no right to disclose it.”

He nodded as if I had just revealed a secret of the universe. Now I was, in his eyes, a walking legend from some secret agency.

“By the way,” I decided to take the initiative, “what do you do for a living? Which department are you in?”

Alex straightened up, squaring his shoulders.

“Beach police!” he said it with the pride of an FBI director.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Beach?” I muttered under my breath, barely holding back a laugh. “You mean the guys in shorts who patrol the sand and catch beach towel thieves?”

His enthusiasm noticeably faded.