Killer Instinct

Chapter VI

VI.

I refused to sleep anymore during my stay at James Henry's Manhattan sky-rise.

For the remainder of the day I locked myself inside of the state-of-the-art training room and gym. For starters I maxed out the treadmill and ran 5 six minute miles, before moving on to tai chi and various yoga poses. To finish it out, I did level 10 tumbling passes across the gym floor until I was dizzy.

Moving onto the fighting aspect of my training I warmed up for ten minutes by shadow boxing. Ten minutes on the training bag until my fighting muscles were good and warmed.

Then I retrieved a bokken from the wall, a well-balanced wooden practice katana before running through all ten kendo katas, holding each pose until my muscles burned with effort.

"I know you're there," I called out to the silent presence who had been watching my workout.

"I'm sorry." The voice said, sauntering towards me. The accent was slightly British, although only my good ear for accents picked up on the subtle lilt to his syllables.

I turned to face him, bokken lowered yet in a ready stance. "And you are?"

"Call me Misha." He smiled. His smile was golden, quite like the rest of him. With his golden strawberry blonde hair, vivid aquamarine colored eyes and broad shoulders and 6"4 muscle stacked stature he looked too beautiful. Almost godlike. But after further examination, like a scar bisecting his top lip, another underneath his left eyebrow, a nose slightly crooked due to constant breaking and resetting proved my initial evaluation to be incorrect.

"Misha." I repeated. The name sounded annoyingly familiar although I couldn't place why.

"I must say, your name is notorious at the MIA. And having heard countless stories, it is something altogether different to finally meet you." Misha continued, stepping closer.

"You work for the MIA?" I arched an eyebrow. And then it clicked. "You're James' source."

"One of few." Misha inclined his head. "But I'm the most powerful of his sources. Until now, of course, with you being Doug Spielman's daughter."

"I'm not his daughter." I said involuntarily. That much I truly did believe. It was easier to swallow with every passing second.

"But aren't you?" Misha asked, looking thoughtfully into my eyes. "You may not share his DNA, but he raised you, he trained you, and he taught you everything you know. You are the product of his efforts, whether you'd like to believe it or not."

I tilted my head. "And who exactly are you? One of my father's elite soldiers gone rouge?"

"Bingo." Misha smiled, as if impressed by my deductions.

"I only know his elite soldiers by codename. Which one are you?"

For the first time the supreme confident look on Misha's face faltered.

And then for the third time I made a realization.

"No." I covered my mouth. "You're Warrior Codename Lancelot?"

Misha bowed his head. "I know that makes me somewhat of a questionable source."

Questionable? That was the hugest understatement. Warrior Codename Lancelot was my father's fiercest warrior, known for his ruthlessness concerning all things MIA. Misha had claimed my name was notorious, but if that were the case then his was legendary. He was my father's most trusted and valuable asset. And there wasn't a single mission Warrior Codename Lancelot had not accomplished through blood and sweat.