The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions Book 2) Read Online Free Page A

mind.
    “Just some training,” Caleb’s thought comes to me in response. “You seriously need to focus. You’re on the right track, seeking out the violence, but you’re still in the wrong person’s head: mine. Get back to Haim. Remember what we came here to do.”
    I try to remember. It feels like years ago when we came to Brooklyn Heights to Read this Israeli guy. And as I recall this, I realize that I’m still there with Haim and Caleb, still conversing with Haim’s/Caleb’s/my sister Orit. The shock of becoming a double—no, triple—mind is still with me, but at least I can think on my own again.
    “Hurry,” Caleb hastens me. “We’re about to fall into each other’s memories again.”
    I don’t want that , so I make a herculean effort to properly get back into Haim’s head. I try the trick of feeling light. I picture myself as vapor in a fog, as weightless as a dandelion floret floating in a light morning breeze, and it seems to work.
    As I get that now-familiar feeling of going deep into someone’s mind, I try to zero in on and recall just a fraction of what I saw in Caleb’s mind.
    It seems to do the trick . . .

Chapter 4
     
    The attacker in front of us leaves his midsection exposed for a moment; it’s the last thing he’ll do in this fight, we think as we unleash the burst.
    “You did it, kid,” Caleb’s thought intrudes . “Finally, we’re both in Haim’s head.”
    “I got as much. You don’t exactly think in Hebrew, do you?”
    “Right. Now shut the fuck up and let me see this.”
    The ‘burst’ is what we mentally call this quick succession of punches to our opponent’s solar plexus. We walk into our opponent as we strike, making the force of our punches that much more potent. We count twenty hits before he tries to block and stage a simultaneous counterattack.
    Fleetingly impressed with his economy of movement, we grab his arm and use his own momentum to throw him off balance. He hits the ground, hard. Before he tries to pull us down with him, we kick his jaw—and feel the crunch of bone as the outer edge of our bare foot connects with his mandible. He stops moving.
    He’ll probably be fine. A couple of rib fractures and a broken jaw are a small price to pay for the opportunity to fight against us. Anyone who tried this outside our training module wouldn’t learn a thing. They would die instead.
    The training module is our response to the immense pressure from our friends at the Shayetet to teach our unique fighting style to their people. They know we’ve left Krav Maga, the martial art style of Israel, far behind. What we’ve developed transcends Krav Maga, transcends every fighting style we’ve ever encountered.
    Fighting in these modules is a compromise. No death strikes, no aggressive groin assaults; no one dies in the training module. Such a compromise defeats much of the original intent, of course. This style was designed with a single purpose in mind: killing your opponent. Now much of our energy is wasted trying not to use the style as it was designed. Not killing our opponent feels unnatural, counter to everything we’ve spent our life working toward. A hollow imitation of what we envisioned. Much to our dismay, no one else seems to care about these nuances. They clamor for a school where civilians will learn this for their own amusement, refusing to understand that it’s impossible to tame this training. This is not a sport for civilians; this is life or death. Anything less dishonors the work we have done, the lives taken in the evolution of our unique fighting style.
    “Ha-mitnadev haba,” we say in Hebrew, which, I, Darren, understand to mean ‘next volunteer.’
    We recognize the man who comes in: Moni Levine. He’s a renowned Krav Maga teacher. They probably want him to learn from us in the hope that he can teach it afterwards. We hope that it works out somehow. We would welcome any opportunity to be left out of this futile teaching business.
    I,