Point of Contact

Bone-tired and sore, Jack still leaped at the opportunity to fill in a chink in his combat armor. Around his neck he wore a small silver pendant engraved with the Japanese ideographs for kaizen—continuous improvement. It was more than a piece of token jewelry. It symbolized his personal drive to be the very best he could be at everything, no matter the cost.

Jack’s exhausted mind began to wander. He knew part of his incessant drive for personal excellence was because of his dad, Jack Senior. Not that his dad ever forced him to do anything or held him up to some impossibly high standard. Just the opposite. His father had only shown him unconditional love and support as he grew up.

There was the old saying that “familiarity breeds contempt,” but in Jack Junior’s case, just the opposite was true. He saw his dad as a heroic figure even before he was privy to all of the clandestine work Senior had accomplished when Junior was only a kid. So it was hard for Jack Junior not to try to live up to the example his father lived in front of him — not in order to earn his love and respect, but rather out of love and respect for the man he had the privilege of calling Dad.

His mother worried when Junior was younger that he was trying too hard to compare himself to his father. “Well? What did you expect when you named me Junior?” he once joked with her. She shrugged, conceding the point. As the chief of ophthalmology at Johns Hopkins, she was no slouch herself. His parents demonstrated the value of disciplined lives devoted to the service of others. It was the best inheritance any kid ever received from any parent, and he and his siblings started collecting that inheritance the day they were born into the family.

Jack was pulled out of his memories when Martinez entered the dojo, followed by a dark Asian man, short and slim. He appeared to be at least twenty years older than anyone else in the room, and he carried himself with an easy, determined confidence. The man held a small leather bag in his hand, rolled up like a towel. Jack assumed he was the special instructor Dom had arranged. He and Dom stood.

The four men briefly bowed toward the framed photo of Martinez’s Brazilian jiu-jitsu master on the eastern wall, then Dom and Jack bowed to their instructors, who bowed in return out of mutual respect. Such was the etiquette of a properly disciplined dojo. Jack’s father had often said that many of America’s problems could be lessened if not solved if the concept of mutual respect was ever recovered. Junior agreed.

Martinez smiled and held out a scarred hand, the skin puckered and slicked by extreme heat. Dom took it. “Bruiser, this is my friend, Jack. Jack, this is Sensei Martinez.” Jack involuntarily bowed again slightly, but Martinez reached out to shake Jack’s hand. “Any friend of Dom’s is a friend of mine. Call me Bruiser.” They shook.

Martinez then pointed to the man he’d brought in. “This is Master Amador Inosanto, an expert in Kali, Silat, and other fighting arts, but he is known for his work with the blade. He has trained military and police units all over the world. It’s an honor to have him back here in my dojo this morning.”

Amador’s unassuming face broke into a gentle smile. “Such formalities. Please, let’s all just be friends.” Amador shook hands with Jack and Dom and then finally said, “Let’s begin.” He motioned with his hand for Martinez and Dom to sit, but that Jack should remain standing.

While Martinez and Dom took to the floor, Amador unrolled the leather pouch on a plastic folding chair standing near the mirrored wall. He removed three knives and carried them carefully to the men, handing one each to Martinez, Dom, and finally Jack.

“These go by many names but most commonly are called karambits. These particular knives I forged myself,” Amador explained.

Jack examined the karambit in his hand. The small knife had a razor-sharp double-edged blade that curved inwardly — almost a semicircle — and ended in a vicious point. The knife fit perfectly in his hand, was well weighted and comfortable in his grip. The form and function reminded Jack of a tiger’s claw.

The karambit also featured a large round steel finger hole on the end of the handle, and the ring hole itself featured a sharp point on the end. Jack followed Martinez’s example and put his index finger through the hole and clutched the curved handle in the palm of his hand.

“This knife is just begging me to use it,” Jack said, twisting his wrist in a circular motion.

Dom agreed. “It’s a nasty piece of business.”

“Ever used one?” Martinez asked.

Dom and Jack shook their heads.

“I’ve seen them before at the knife shop, but they’re so unusual I thought it was a gangster knife or something out of a graphic novel,” Dom said.