Page 19 of Striker

Cold seeps through the sweater as I press my back to the glass, my gaze traveling to the chair by the vanity. It’s small, but made of solid wood, with the armrests covered in a worn blue velvet. Like the ones in those dramatic costume movies wherethe woman sits to brush her hair as she slowly goes insane. Like how I feel right now. Crazy. Driven to madness by isolation, the constant nagging of fear, and the freezing cold of the room I can’t escape.

My feet pad softly over the floor, the thin dress whispering around my shins. I stop next to the chair and inspect it. Then lift the arm to check its weight. It’s heavy, but not too heavy to lift.

Chapter 8

Striker

19 Years Ago

June

Age 11

“Again.”

My finger instinctively pulls back on the trigger. The target ripples milliseconds later, leaving a perfect circular hole dead center of the black ring.

“Again,” Fallon instructs.

I take another shot, this time aiming for the target’s head and landing it with precision. My eyes move to Fallon.

“Good.” His gaze flicks to Maxim standing behind me. “He never misses, does he?”

“No,” Maxim confirms. “Not once.”

That’s not true. I missed once, but it was on purpose.

Next to me, our brother, Sniper, shifts. The two of us lie on the rooftop platform, legs spread out behind us, rifles aimed at the target positioned several yards away in the center of the field. The sun beats down, turning the day unusually warm, making my uniform stick to my skin.

I hate feeling dirty. Any sweat or stink or grime on my skin reminds me of the darkness.

Grinding my teeth, I push the thoughts away, forcing myself to focus.

Lowering my head again, I look through the scope and click the rifle a degree left and ten down, until I center the soft red poppy in the crosshairs. With a shallow breath, I wait for the wind to die down. The second it does, I pull the trigger. The dirt explodes behind the flower, red petals bursting away like blood.

“Impressive,” Father says, crouching down next to me, his hand landing heavily on my shoulder. My heart picks up pace. Whenever he touches us, it hurts, and my body screams with alarm. But then he squeezes my shoulder and stands. “You’re doing well, my son.”

I’ve spent the last six years in the school, nameless. Viper was named early on, his entire personality earning his name.Sniper received his name last year when we began training with firearms, but Fallon says he has yet to see my skills.

As I stand up, I catch a glimpse of Sniper’s scowl. He has plain features, with a flat face, like someone pressed his nose into a wall and it stayed that way. The sunlight catches his dull brown hair, shaved close to his scalp, reminding me of dead grass in winter. He may be the same age as Viper, but he’s shorter and skinnier. Though he’s capable of being just as mean.

“Not bad for a boy who cries at night,” Sniper whispers so only I can hear. Something cruel glints in his mouse brown eyes. “Maybe you should go to the other school. Go train to be a ballerina since you cry like a little girl.”

I clench my jaw, trying to push past the red haze clouding my vision. “I’d rather be a ballerina than a skinny little shit with buck teeth.”

Sniper’s arm arches towards me with a clenched fist, but I see it coming and easily dodge out of the way, avoiding his weak punch. He stumbles, but regains his balance quickly.

He’s a shit fighter. Everyone knows it.

A low growl rumbles from him before he swings again, but I expected the move and duck, hooking my arm around his chest and taking him to the ground.

“Stop,” Maxim growls, and we both freeze.

“Fucking asshole said I have buck teeth,” Sniper snaps, still struggling under my grip. But I keep him pinned to the concrete with my knee on his chest.

Commander Maxim strides forward, hands planted on his hips, sun glinting off his silky eye patch. “Because you do.” He chuckles at the wounded scowl on Sniper’s face, his laughter echoing through the air, earning him a sharp glare from Fallon.

I suppress my own laugh, but it gets choked off as Maxim fists our collars and hauls us to our feet. I smooth my gray school uniform, swallowing a curse when I see dirt staining my shirt.We’re supposed to go with Teacher to the village for Sunday school, but Maxim insisted on showing Fallon how well Sniper and I have been doing with the firearms portion of our weapons training program.

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