Hard Knocks by Zoe Sharp

from his prominent Adam’s apple right up into the roots of his hair.
     
    Gilby paused and momentarily closed his eyes during McKenna’s performance. The show of mild irritation was natural enough, but that wasn’t what bothered me. It was the sudden utter immobility that came over him.
     
    The way he did it made my skin tighten.
     
    I’d come across men before who had that same innate stillness and it always put the fear of God into me. Gilby may have carried off a civilised gloss, but underneath was something dark, that coiled and slithered. And just for a moment his flash of temper had let it show. I’d thought him another out-of-touch officer, a borderline upper-class twit, but I’d been wrong.
     
    I glanced sideways at the others, but the majority of them hadn’t noticed the change that had come over him. The ex-policewoman, Elsa was one of the few that had, I saw. Declan was just looking bored.
     
    “The days of muscle-bound heavies in dark glasses are over,” Gilby continued, as though nothing had happened. “There will always be occasions when you’re called upon to provide a visible deterrent, but most of the time you’ll need to blend in with the rich, the famous, and the powerful.” He cast a critical eye over the disparate bunch of us as we wilted in our chairs. “I imagine for some of you that’s going to take quite some learning.”
     
    He checked his watch, nodded sharply, then swept up his papers and walked out with his back ram-rod straight.
     
    “I wonder how well your man there blends into a crowd,” Declan muttered as we gathered our notebooks. “You’d spot him for army brass even if he was wearing a dress.”
     
    ***
     
    We went straight from there into a class for unarmed combat with Blakemore. The instructor must have been using an ice pack on his knee since the morning’s run, because when he sauntered into the room designated as the gym there was no sign of the limp.
     
    After spending more than four years teaching self-defence classes for women, it was interesting to be on the receiving end. Blakemore was showy, I considered, but with the underlying grace that denotes an expert. The coarse construction of his face, the heavy layout of his features, could have fooled you into thinking he was little more than a thug. I hadn’t been expecting such finesse or delicacy of technique, but it would seem my first impression of him had been the right one.
     
    Now, he demonstrated half a dozen moves for restraint and removal of someone who might be approaching your principal in a threatening manner.
     
    I was surprised to see that he was using O’Neill as his guinea pig. The Irishman was clearly unhappy to be put into repeated arm- and head-locks, and then dropped onto the crashmats under foot. A couple of times I caught him passing a hand over his ribs as he got to his feet. The looks he levelled towards the impassive Blakemore should have been enough to make him shiver.
     
    Blakemore, however, absorbed each barbed glance without reaction. When he was done he picked up a pair of big sparring pads and tossed one across to the other man hard enough to almost make him stagger. What the hell’s going on here?
     
    “OK,” he said, turning to the rest of us, “that’s the kind of thing we’re going to be showing you over the period of the course. To begin with, though, I want to find out what kind of a punch you can pack. Form two lines and let’s see what you can do.”
     
    I watched the big blond German I’d sat next to the night before line up in front of Blakemore. He had a bodybuilder’s stance, with his arms pushed out away from his sides slightly by the sheer over-development of his upper arms and lats.
     
    I’d learned that the German’s name was Michael Hofmann and he was ex-army, from an elite regiment that was the German equivalent of the Paras. No great surprises there, then.
     
    Now, he squared up to Blakemore, who was holding the pad up across his chest