A New Beginning (4)
The next day, I headed out to the training ground expecting the usual eighteen movements like last week. Instead, they handed me the military packs I'd worn during the mountain climbs. Figuring the training had changed, I geared up. A car approached from the distance—this time a Toyota pickup. I climbed into the back with the pack on, rode for about ten minutes, then got told to get out. It looked like a valley. I could hear running water. While I stood there confused, I got hit.
Snapping out of it, I followed the Trio brothers to a container. The youngest opened the door with a key. Inside were all kinds of firearms. He pulled out a rifle under a meter long and handed it to me. The weight felt familiar—the exact same as the iron greaves from the mountain climbs.
That day, I was back in week three. The sensation was completely different from training on flat ground versus in the mountains. And why was the rifle so cumbersome? When I picked it up, the Trio brothers' eyes changed. Tension, maybe. I rolled around like a dog all morning and afternoon. When the sun hung low on the ridge, I climbed to the sandbag area. The eldest came over and told me to watch the youngest. I watched carefully. I had to—if I didn't, I'd get hit.
Was that a magazine? I'd know if I'd served. He pointed the muzzle forward, slammed a square box into the groove under the barrel, tapped it twice, then yanked the charging handle. A metallic clack echoed. He aimed and fired. Whoosh—then BOOM. The echo rolled like thunder. No earplugs for me, of course. They wore them themselves.
On the ride back, I ran the motions in my head. No live rounds, apparently. Muzzle forward, insert magazine, tap, pull the handle, aim, squeeze. Two hours of that? When it got dark, they smacked my helmet and said we were done. I thought training was over and followed—only to watch them drive off without me. I ran after the truck. What choice did I have? Fall behind in this jungle and you're dead. I did that for two more days.
The next morning, I naturally grabbed the packs and headed for the range. I'd grown attached to the rifle. Even learned its name—AK-47. In my head, I was already a marksman. My teacher was YouTube, after all. There were videos on how to shoot well.
Afternoon brought my first live fire. Morning? Mountain runs to burn off excess energy. Then I was back in week one—beaten like a dog. I only got one round. Did exactly as told: tapped the mag, aimed at the target, fired, called "all shots expended," and looked at the Trio brothers. What had I done wrong? That day I climbed the mountain again. One shot, then back to running.
That evening the curriculum changed. Range safety rules. Now I understood why I'd been hit. Why not explain these things upfront? The next day I fired ten rounds after training. Got hit again—for missing every single one.
Suddenly I wondered: I hadn't paid these people a cent. Why were they teaching me? Had my brother paid? On the way back I asked the eldest. The other two wouldn't answer anyway. I got hit, of course. He wasn't about to explain.
The next day the Trio brothers must have decided I was ready. They gave me far more ammunition—I stopped counting after a hundred rounds. Morning mountain run as usual. Afternoon until dark: shoot, check, get hit. Standards were brutal. Miss any target and you paid for it. After another day I could hit most of them. Did the brothers ease up? No. They just moved the targets from ten meters to fifty. Now I had to sprint out, replace targets, and run back. No more beatings for misses—just no rest.
Week nine ended that way. On the final day I ate jamón with tequila. Grateful just to be alive. Then they switched me to a different firearm—one that fit in the palm. I repeated the cycle. I fired so much the air itself seemed to turn nitrogen into gunpowder. A whole day vanished. Unconsciously, I found myself running the eighteen movements with a pistol. Damn… habits carved into this body.
Mornings were martial arts with the Trio brothers. Afternoons were live fire. On the last day of week ten, Uncle Gonzales arrived. Good to see him. "Pack your things." I packed and rode that same confident car back into Cancún. They dropped me at a motel-style hotel and said they'd return tomorrow. I waited without thinking. Somewhere along the way I'd become someone who simply did what he was told.
After one night, I woke at five sharp, stretching, when Gonzales walked in and said we were leaving. We drove to Cancún Airport and boarded a light aircraft. Ever ridden one? The vibration, the sudden drops… I must not be built for mobility—boats or planes. Not as bad as seasickness, but rough enough.
The plane descended toward a military base. It landed on an unpaved strip. A man who felt like the Trio brothers approached—and hit me. These people really do start with violence. I tried to read his shoulder and dodge, but still caught it. Glancing blow, at least. He smiled with his eyes, amused. Sorry, but a man's eye-smile does nothing for me. He gestured for me to follow.
Inside the base he pointed to a barracks and told me to unpack. Five minutes later everything was squared away and I sat on the cot. Soon the eye-smile instructor returned and told me to come outside and show what I could do.
Sparring began. I got hit, of course. He was good—same level as the Trio brothers. But the look on his face when I held my own said "passed." That felt good. Then came shooting. After everything the Trio brothers had put me through, I drilled all five rounds into the ten-meter target without effort. He smirked. A thirty-meter target rose. Nice setup here—no need to walk out and change targets. Hit it and it drops automatically, then resets. Thirty meters was basic. Then fifty. Wait—what about the one-kilometer target on that mountain?
I got hit again. Difficulty scales differently with distance. That evening I learned the AK-47's effective range is only 450 meters. They'd made me shoot a kilometer just to beat me. Bastards.
The next day they rotated weapons. Pistol work from the Trio brothers, then a long gun they called a sniper rifle. Day one: zero hits on the kilometer target. Beaten like a dog. Day three they dragged me to a container forest for urban combat training with a Glock 17. I thought it would involve hostage rescue or room clearing. Instead, targets popped up and I had to engage. When people-shaped targets appeared I froze—thinking they were real—and got beaten again. They took the gun and pointed it at me. I panicked and shouted in Spanish, "Please don't shoot!" He laughed and fired into my thigh. Bang! Agony. My leg—except it was fine. Just a bruise. Rubber bullets.
Mornings: range work. Afternoons: urban combat. Evenings: tablet study. Theory. For rifles, inside a hundred meters, sight alignment and a steady trigger finger were enough. Beyond that you had to account for wind, bullet drop, trajectory, shooter and target positions, distance. In slow motion a bullet doesn't fly straight—it yaws and climbs and drops with spin. 5.56mm and 7.62mm behave differently. You had to learn those intervals and practice ranging. Week eleven ended that way. Week twelve was more of the same.
On the second day of week eleven I finally matched the instructor's body. Got beaten like a dog for it. The next day I experienced the joy of facing two instructors at once. Fifteen rubber rounds. Thinking it was still one man, I burned all my ammo on suppressive fire—missed everything. While I prepared for close combat, I got dropped by a shot to the back of the head. That was how I learned concealment and psychological tactics—by living them. Engraving lessons into the body made progress fast.
On the final day of week twelve, I met yet another "opportunity"—three instructors, just like the Trio brothers.