“Well, we have a week and a day here, right? So we can do all the sightseeing we want and not have to be in a rush. Let’s have a relaxed breakfast, then think about what to do with the rest of our day. How does that sound?” I suggested.

“Room service breakfast?” Emmy asked, hopeful.

“Sure,” I said, amused by her laziness. I handed Emmy the binder with the hotel information, including the room service menus.

We didn’t actually do anything to speak of at all that day. We just lazed around the hotel, using the rooftop pool once the sun had set. The humid, warm weather really didn’t cool off much after the sun went down, so the night was just as good for swimming as the day would have been as far as Angela and I were concerned, but much better for Emmy.

The next morning Grant and I made our way to the gym that his contacts had suggested. It was in a part of town that hadn’t changed much since the English colonial times, with shops of various kinds on the ground floors and apartments on the second floor. The tightly packed buildings were a mix of colorfully painted or rough and peeling, their decorative plaster ornamentation also in various states of repair.

The wooden shutters of the second floor apartments were open in the cool air of the early morning, but the shops were all closed behind folding security gates at that time of the day.

Grant led me into an alley between a large salmon-colored place with an awning sign in Chinese and a smaller cream-colored building with, oddly, an Irish pub on the ground floor. Amused by the sign proclaiming O’Fong’s to be the oldest Irish pub in Singapore, I followed Grant down the winding alley. It was crowded with trash cans, piles of packing crates, parked scooters, and even, oddly enough, little street food stands. If I hadn’t already eaten I would definitely have tried some of it- the smells were amazing, even though the conditions were a bit questionable.

Even that early in the morning the innumerable air conditioner units on the back sides of the second floor apartments gave off enough noise to muffle all other sounds of the city outside the little alley.

Finally arriving at a roll-up garage door painted blood red, Grant opened the similarly-painted man door next to it and walked in, with me right behind.

I must admit that given the surroundings I was definitely expecting some sort of scene from a bad Van Damme movie, and honestly, the gym didn’t disappoint except in that it was a lot more brightly lit than I would have thought.

We got nothing but curious stares from the locals working out, and even the fighters sparring in the two rings stopped what they were doing to check us out.

A stout middle-aged guy of Chinese ancestry approached, his wide smile prominently displaying more than one gold tooth.

“Mist’ Gran’ Henry!” he called out. As the two shook hands like old friends, Gold Tooth indicated me. “Dis de fighter tell me abou’?” he asked.

“Stanley Han, this is Leah Farmer,” Grant said. “Leah, this is Stanley Han. He owns this gym.”

“Farmer? Good name,” Mr Han said as he looked me up and down after shaking my hand. “She really bi,” he said, skipping the last part of the word ‘big’. I’d detected a little bit of that accent in some of the hotel staff, but this guy did it with almost every word.

“She ready figh’?” Mr Han asked, and when Grant assured him that yes, I was ready for a test spar, he hollered to somebody and almost immediately a powerfully built woman nearly a foot shorter than me materialized. They spoke rapidly in Chinese, and she nodded that she understood.

She indicated I should follow her, so I nodded to Grant and shouldered my bag. She led me to what was apparently the women’s locker room, which was functional, if small and basic. “You can use any locker that doesn’t have a lock on it,” she said in lightly accented English. “The shower is behind that wall, but I wouldn’t use it. You’d probably get a foot fungus or something.”

“Hey, I didn’t catch your name,” I said. “I’m Leah.”

“Elizabeth,” she said. “But everybody calls me Liz.”

“Are you going to get ready?” I asked as I wrapped my hands.

“Me? No, no. You’re going to spar with Dad. He does all the evaluations,” she said. “He’s excited to work with you, you know. Mr Henry told him that you’re a real fighter, and he respects that. The two go way back.”

“I hope I can live up to the hype,” I said. “Grappling gloves or…?”

“Oh, uh, bring all your gear to the ring. Dad’ll tell you what to use.”

“Alright, then,” I said, shouldering my bag to carry it back out. Really, all I’d done is strip off my shoes and socks, followed by my sweats. The only actual gearing up I’d done was my hand wraps, so all my stuff was still in the gym bag.

I slipped my sliders on and followed Liz back out, where Grant and Mr Han were waiting by one of the rings. Mr Han had ditched his own sweats and was now wearing a snug singlet and a pair of loose boxing shorts. He had his headgear tucked under his arm while they waited, but when we approached he pulled it on.

“Shin guards, padded gloves, head gear,” Grant said, so I set the bag down on a convenient bench and geared up as instructed.

“No rounds, just go until Stanley says to stop. Don’t hold back, either. Mixed, not just Muay Thai,” Grant said as he checked my equipment.

I climbed between the ropes and Mr Han held out his gloves, so I tapped them and we stepped back.

I took a tentative step forward and he fell for it, as guys so often do. He moved forward to engage, thinking to come at me hard but I laid a kick and two punches on him before he even got within his striking range. He backpedaled, re-evaluating.

“She fas’,” he said to Grant, who was resting his arms on the ring rope, watching intently.

“I told you,” Grant replied.

He stepped forward to engage again and I went in for a low kick, but he anticipated it and turned his leg to let the shin guard take the hit, allowing him to pivot in closer.

I saw his move almost before he did it and countered with a quick hip throw, tossing him to the canvas. He took a bit longer than necessary to get back up, making me think he’d been trying to sucker me in somehow, but I didn’t go for it.

Back on his feet and in a good, powerful stance, Mr Han gave me a little nod of respect. He’d underestimated me and it had cost him twice.

This time I moved in on him, using my reach to keep him honest. He was surprisingly quick for a guy who might well have been in his fifties, but I was faster and caught him with a few blows he wasn’t able to counter. He took a few shots at me, too, but I deflected most of them. Every time he tried to close, I held him off and laid a flurry of punches and kicks on him, lulling him into a certain expectation until I finally surprised him by pulling him into a very strong knee and throw combination.

Following him down, I wrapped my long arms around him for a clinch. To my regret he was a stronger wrestler than I’d expected and it went back and forth for what felt like forever before I slipped away and stood back up. He’d shown me that I had no advantage on him on the mat, so that wasn’t the way to go.

Mr Han sprung up far more quickly than he had earlier, confirming my suspicions. He lunged forward to bring me down again, but I wasn’t having any of that. I stepped aside as he shot in, avoiding the takedown and landing a few really solid undefended blows as he passed by.

It had become obvious (to me, at least) that I was faster and that gave me the ability to control the flow of the fight. He was stronger and had better technique, but he could read the way things were going just as well as I could. We both knew that in a stand-up striking match, chances are I would outlast him. His only real path forward lay in the close game, and he’d have to suffer to bring me inside.

Stepping back, Mr Han clenched one hand over the other fist, signaling the end of the session. I matched his move and gave him a bow of respect and he did the same.

Glancing around for the first time since we’d started fighting, I saw that every single person in the gym had stopped to watch.

Mr Han announced to the assembled crowd that I was Leah Farmer, and I would be training there for the next week.

Turning to me, he said in a low voice, “You’ll start early. Be here at four thirty. We'll work on special techniques before anybody else gets here.” Then, louder for those assembled to hear, he said, “I gon’ train her real har’ this week. She gon’ remember this gym!”

The gym rats all laughed as they returned to whatever it was they’d been doing, looking forward to seeing this giant American chick get the treatment.

“I’ll be heading back to the hotel,” Grant said. “Have fun!”

“Thanks,” I replied, ducking between the ropes to exit the ring. “I think I’m gonna like it here.”

“Alright,” Mr Han said quietly once Grant had gone and the gym settled back into its normal routine. “Now that we’ve established that you can fight well, it’s time to evaluate your strength and fitness,” he said, all trace of his Singlish accent gone.

I was going to say something, but I just gave him a smile, remembering a line from a movie I’d watched many years before with Stephanie. ‘I never did mind the little things’, I thought to myself.

Mr Han ran me through a series of weight tests, repping to failure on squats, bench presses, rows, and more until I was pretty well done. He noted everything down on his clipboard but not really commenting any. Of course, this left me wondering where I stood in his estimation, but I let it go. He’d tell me eventually.

After the weights he had me on a primitive rowing machine- no electronics, just a spring and a fan to provide resistance, but that was enough. Again, he had me maintain a high rep rate until I simply couldn’t go anymore, at which point Mr Han clicked his stopwatch and noted the time.

“I think we’re done for the day,” he said. “I only have you for a week, so we need to maximize our efficiency in developing workouts for you. I’ll have a plan worked up by the time you get here at four thirty tomorrow morning. The door will be unlocked- just come on in, and lock it behind you.”

“Alright,” I said, my legs almost too wobbly to stand. “I’ll see you then.”

I’d recovered by the time I got back to the hotel, but the idea of a relaxing day of doing not much had a lot of appeal. Emmy and Angela were both awake and ready to go out and do stuff, though, so I showered and dressed for a day in the equatorial heat and humidity of the unique city-state.

Angela had worked up an itinerary, and yes, it did include the Gardens By The Bay, with the giant metal tree things. They were actually cooler in real life than in the photos I’d seen, and well worth the visit. The Supertrees weren’t the only things to see there- the rest of the gardens were amazing, too. We were careful not to spend much time in the direct sunlight, but thanks to Emmy’s big sun hat and long sleeves (plus her extra heavy duty sunblock) she was fine.

Right around sunset we took a boat tour that circled Singapore. The boat captain did an excellent job of being at just the right place when the setting sun reflected off the towers of the downtown Marina district, the glass of the tall buildings shining like diamonds.

When I commented on that fact, Emmy mentioned that she’d set up an appointment with a diamond merchant the following day.

“I want to buy something special for Angie,” Emmy said in a low voice when Angela had gone to the rail of the boat to look down at the water. “I had seen it online, and thought it was perfect for her.”

“Does she know?” I asked.

“No, all she knows is that I wish to see the diamond market here in Singapore. It is among the finest in the world.”

“I do kinda feel bad that her ring isn’t as, well, as spectacular as it should be,” I agreed. “But I feel the same way about yours, you know.”

“I know that you do, but I am very satisfied with my ring,” Emmy said, holding up her hand to show off her ring’s green garnet I’d bought when we were still in high school. “This means more to me than I could ever express, Leah.”

Finding my way alone to the gym the next morning, my way down the alley was blocked by a tough-looking guy.

“Wha’ you do here?” he demanded, as two more guys moved in from behind and to my right. “You not belon’ here.”

“Good morning,” I said, setting my gym bag down. “I’m here to get a workout.”

“Workou’?” the first guy asked. “We give you workou’.”

He stepped forward menacingly and I knocked him on his ass with a quick push kick, then swung around and hit the guy to my right with a left cross that spun him around. The guy who’d been sidling up behind me tried for some kind of wild haymaker, but I ducked and blocked, coming inside with a vicious uppercut that sent him down to the ground.

Spinning around, I saw the first guy had regained his feet so I hit him upside the head with a round kick, taking him right out of the fight. Turning to the other two, they backed away and ran, leaving their comrade on the ground.

I stepped on his chest as he tried to rise again.

“Next time, I’ll kill you,” I said, pushing him down flat on his back. “Got it?”

He nodded he understood, so I stepped off him, grabbed my bag and continued down the alley. I was at least fifty per cent sure that Mr Han had set this encounter up as some sort of final test, but I did keep a wary eye back the way I came to make sure the three weren’t going to rush me.

As promised, the door was unlocked, so I went in and locked it behind me. Mr Han was off to one side, getting some things ready.

“Did you have any problems getting here this morning?” he asked, more or less confirming the three guys were a setup.

“No, none at all,” I said.

He nodded, then said, “Mr Henry was very… specific as to what he wanted me to work with you on. This is why we’re here before we open to anybody else. These are things that should not be talked about, is that clear?”

“I know the routine well,” I said.

“Alright. We’re going to work on knife technique this morning for the next two hours, then targeted strength for another two. This will be our routine every day this week. Mr Henry says that you’re quite talented with a knife, and your preferred weapon is a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife. An odd choice, if you ask me,” he said, laying out a selection of knives on the counter. “Is yours like this?” he asked, handing me a knife very similar to my own.

“Yes, but the blade on mine isn’t blackened like this, and the black paint on the grip is wearing off, showing the bronze, I guess it is, underneath,” I said, examining his obviously unused replica.

“Interesting. So it’s an original?” he asked.

“Passed down on my father’s side,” I said.

“Fortuitously, the Singaporean special forces are issued with these,” he said, taking the black dagger from my hand. “So I have decades of experience with just these blades. You didn’t bring yours with you on this trip, did you? No, of course not. How could you ever get it through customs? Here, keep this one,” he said, handing me the dagger in its sheath. “And keep it on you, and also- and this is very important- keep this on you, too. If you are confronted by law enforcement, tell them that you’re armed and licensed,” he said, handing me a piece of paper, folded to fit easily in a wallet. “This is your ‘get out of jail free’ card while you’re here in Singapore. It won’t do you a damned bit of good once you leave the island, but while you’re here…”

I unfolded it and looked at the license to bear arms. It had my name, birthdate and even a photo of me, and said in clear text that I was licensed by the Singaporean Ministry Of Defense to carry and use any weapon I deemed necessary in the execution of my duties.

“Is this real?” I asked, stunned.

“Very real,” Mr Han said. “You are officially here as a special training consultant to our military intelligence service.”

I looked Mr Han in the eyes and asked, “And you’re my handler?”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding.

“What do you get in return?” I asked.

“I get to help out an old friend, and that’s always important, but Mr Henry also hinted that you have some information that will be widely known soon, but we might benefit from learning sooner rather than later,” Mr Han said, handing me a training knife that resembled Old Stabby, except it was made out of some sort of dark gray, hard but flexible plastic. He also handed me a white sweatshirt and sweatpants outfit similar to what he was wearing.

“Put these on,” he instructed.

After I suited up, we ran through a few quick exercises, and when he was satisfied I knew which end of the knife goes forward, we started in on the real training. It was a lot like what I’d worked on with Grant, but Mr Han was much quicker to change grips and attack from unexpected directions, leaving my white sweats covered in the red chalk that we used on the plastic blades.

To my satisfaction, he had quite a bit of red on his sweats, too, underscoring the old maxim about the best strategy in a knife fight is to run away.

After an hour of the two of us stabbing and slashing each other to ribbons, Mr Han switched back to instructor mode and had me practice what were basically knife-handling tricks- spinning the knife to switch to reverse grip while being jostled, for example.

“Keeping control of your weapon is life or death,” he said the first time I dropped the plastic dagger. “If you drop it, you die. It is as simple as that.”

“The first man I killed dropped his dagger when I kicked him in the chest,” I said, thinking back. “I picked his knife up off the ground and it was game over for him.”

Nodding, Mr Han said, “It really is that instantaneous. Don’t ever forget it.”

When we heard a key in the door lock, we stopped what we were doing and put the knives away.

“That will be Elizabeth,” Mr Han said. “Go change and we’ll start on the strength work.”

For the next two hours Mr Han stood right there as he put me through a series of very targeted exercises for the muscle groups in my arms and legs, ignoring my core.

When I asked about that, he said, “You plenty stro’ enough. No squa’, jus’ fine tune your punch and ki’,” he said, back to his Singlish accent dropping off the last consonant of every word.

When I got back to the hotel I was pretty well wiped out, but Emmy and Angela were excited to go out and do more sightseeing. Resigned to a lack of rest, I showered and changed into a light summer dress, but then found myself at a loss for how to carry Stabby Jr.

“What is that?” Angela asked as she entered the bathroom and saw the knife in my hands.

“A present from my new trainer,” I said.

“What kind of gym trainer gives people knives?” she asked, taking it from my hand to examine it.

“A very unusual one,” I said. “He wants me to keep it with me when we go out, but I have no idea how to hide it.”

Frowning with unasked questions, Angela disappeared back into the main bedroom, only to reappear a moment later.

“Here- use this purse,” she said, handing me a distressed leather purse that would just fit the dagger’s full length. “I think,” she said, folding the belt loop part of the sheath back and tucking the whole arrangement into one side, “That if you do it like this, you should be able to reach in and pull it out immediately with no difficulty.” Thinking about it for a moment, she said, “But that means that a pickpocket could steal it easily…”

It was about this point that Emmy joined us, wondering what we were up to. After a lot of back and forth, I wound up changing out of the dress and into a pair of shorts with a loose top that concealed the sheath running crosswise in the small of my back.

It was surreal, my two beautiful wives fussing over how best to allow me to carry a deadly weapon in public, but I guess that was just where life had led me.