Page 20 of Striker

“Pushing buttons again, I see,” Fallon says, eyeing me. His piercing gaze shifts toward Sniper, lingering for a moment, before moving back my way. “Haven’t we learned that testing boundaries leads to trouble?”

I want to tell him that Sniper started it, but I clamp my mouth shut. All that will do is piss Fallon off. We’re a unit. What one does we all do. If I tattle, I’m tattling on myself. If I act out of line, my brother’s pay the price with me. It’s rare for us to be singled out and disciplined individually, although it happens, as I’ve learned one too many times. I’m well acquainted with Fallon’s belt and solitary.

“Sniper,” Fallon says, adjusting the collar of my brother’s shirt. “How should I punish a boy who can’t keep his mouth closed?”

A cruel glint flares in Sniper’s eyes as he assesses me. He’s just thirteen, but sometimes his viciousness makes him seem so much older.

“Ten whips with the belt,” Sniper says, satisfaction making his lip curl.

Hatred burns through my chest like acid, making me tense. We have always clashed as far back as I can remember. Sniper resents I do better in classes, am faster at learning weapons, and quicker on my feet. He hates I can always hit the target, like him, but with better accuracy. And almost every single time. Almost because I deliberately missed that one time, so Sniper wouldn’t look bad after earning his name.

I bite my tongue, glaring at his plain face, regretting being so nice. I should have his name. Part of me wants to lunge forward and smash my fist into his smirk. Knock his teeth looseand keep hitting until he chokes on his blood. But then I’d be giving into my baser instincts and Fallon teaches us we must never do that. Control over bodies and minds is more important than revenge.

“A fitting lesson.” Fallon nods. He unbuttons his charcoal suit jacket, lifting the silky vest to reach for his belt buckle. The slick sound makes my stomach drop. Icy eyes land on Sniper. “Remove your shirt and turn around.”

Sniper’s brows knit and his eyes dart to me. “Go on, do it,” he snarls.

“You, Sniper,” Fallon says. He holds out the belt for me. “Striker here will teach this lesson today.”

Striker.

My heart hammers upon hearing the name, a flutter of excitement blooming in my chest, but then darkness seeps in as his last few words settle. Before I can think, I’m shaking my head and backing away, my stomach knotting up grossly. I couldn’t ever imagine hurting one of my brothers. Even if I don’t like him.

“No?” Fallon asks, eyes narrowing. “Shouldn’t he be punished for testing you?”

I shake my head, remembering to add a respectful, “No, sir.” But my nerves cause my words to stutter, so I clear my throat and repeat myself before adding, “Because I was pushing his limits, too.”

Fallon nods, and I think I see a flash of approval pass over his face, but I’m not sure. “Very well. Then you both will learn today.” Father’s glare intensifies as he turns to me. “Striker, remove your shirt.”

Without hesitation, I obey, folding my shirt, placing it neatly on the platform before I present my back. When the first lash lands, I flinch but bite back any sounds of pain. The skin over my back stings with each strike, but I force myself to focuson a distant target. Another hit lands and I can’t help but think about my name.

Striker.

After waiting six years for a name, it seems fitting that today it’s received with a lashing blow. The next strike lands on my lower back and I clench my teeth, breathing through the burning sensation. My father isn’t being as harsh as he usually is with our lesson today, which I am grateful for. Sniper could not handle it if this were any worse. He’s never been good at learning. Not in classes. Not with Father. He’s usually the one that’s kissing ass to avoid notice, so he’s rarely been at this end of Father’s belt.

When my lesson is complete, I turn and pick up my shirt, not allowing myself to wince as my skin tightens from the movement. I know there will be welts for the next several hours, but at least it won’t be days. And I’m glad we’re going to Sunday school so I can sit in a cool room and not have to continue sweating out in this heat with red marks stinging my back.

“Sniper,” Fallon says, and I glance sideways at my brother.

“No,” Sniper says with a quick jerk of his head.

The blood drains from my face, pooling at my feet like tarry oil. It’s one thing to refuse to carry out lessons on our brothers—we’d all rather take the punishment alongside each other than be the one holding the belt. But to outright refuse Fallon’s lesson is an entirely different matter.

“No?” Father’s voice drops dangerously low. Fear tingles my hands, the sensation making me gather them into tight fists. I glance again in Sniper’s direction to see if he’s lost his mind. Obviously he has, because he shakes his head again.

Father signals for Commander Maxim, who strides forward and grabs Sniper by his shoulders with his large, meaty hand. I’ve always hated his hands. They’re hairy and scared with burns.

Fallon smooths his palm down the front of his gray suit vest. “It seems my son has forgotten his place.” His arm lifts, arching back.

My heart stutters.

When the hit lands, it slices brutally through Sniper’s cheek, and I gasp, closing my eyes. Another sickening thwack follows seconds later. My breath bursts free, but I gather it back in, blinking my eyes open.

Father’s arm arches back again. I shift my gaze to just over his shoulder.

Another hit lands. Then another and Sniper screams. I suck in a breath as his scream cuts through my mind, old memories of another scream filtering through my head.

The terrified cry of a little boy sitting in darkness.

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