Page 31 of Striker

But then that’s why he’s been so hard on us. We have to be as hard as stone. He wants us prepared for graduation. But when Fallon informed our group that we lost another brother last week, our strongest one, I was suspicious. I’d seen him the day before, his body so battered and bruised it had looked like he’d been beaten with something far harsher than father’s leather belt. He’d gone to the infirmary and two days later ourotettold us he was removed from the school.

We’re down to just six now.

It reminded me so much of that day on the rooftop; I had to know the truth.

Reaper refused to talk about what happened in training that day, how Raid ended up black and blue, deep gouges slicing his face. Hunter wouldn’t talk either and when I asked Seeker, he clamped his lips shut and walked away.

And I’ve been worried ever since. Now with the three gone, it’s just been us Viper, Breaker, and me here. Fallon left shortly after them, traveling to oversee the order for supplies. This was the only opportunity we were going to get to find out what happened. Cook usually drinks his vodka after he serves us our last meal and we know we won’t see him again. It’s just Commander and Teacher here until Father gets back, but that’s not until next week.

Or until Reaper and our other brothers return.

Which I hope will be soon.

“Broken ribs and a punctured lung,” Breaker says, reading over the files. He places the papers down and I see his face. The brother who never made it out of the infirmary. “Broken neck.” Breaker flips the papers to the next one. “Cracked skull.” He lowers the papers and casts me a strange look that almost gets eaten by the surrounding darkness, but the flashlight glints off his pale eyes and I catch his flinch before he says, “Multiple lacerations.”

My brows knit as I realized he’s reading off how each of our brothers died. I lean over to see who’s file he’s looking at when my eyes land on a small pale face with plain features.

My stomach churns.

Sniper.

“It’s not your fault,” Breaker says.

But it is my fault.

He died that day. All because I showed off. Sniper died because I refused to be the one holding the belt. If I had been the one to deliver his punishment, I wouldn’t have hurt him. He’d still be alive. If I had just done what was asked of me, Sniper would still be here.

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the memory of that day, swallowing past the lump in my throat. There’s not enough time to wallow. I glance at my watch. Five minutes. I grab the next stack of papers, recognizing the first set of soldiers that were sent out for graduation when I first arrived at the school eleven years ago and never returned.

Flipping through the file, bile sours the back of my throat when my eyes land on the small typed letters. My gaze lifts to my brothers. “Drowning.”

My heart picks up pace, thinking of Reaper and Hunter out in the wilderness.

“Shit,” Viper hisses, no doubt thinking about Reaper and Hunter too. About us. How we’ll be the next group to go out for the final test before graduation.

“They’ll all come back,” Breaker says quietly, but I’m not so sure.

Because the longer they’re out there, the more likely they’ll end up with a red mark across their files.

We’ve watched Reaper and Hunter train together for the last month, preparing for the week in the wild. Seeker has always been a bit of a loner and refused to train with them. I was surprised Reaper even offered. He and Hunter are always together, training, eating, and at the range. But then, Hunter is the only one Reaper lets touch him. It’s only ever just Hunter wrapping an arm over his shoulder or playfully patting him on the back, and Reaper always smiles when our brother teases him. It’s the only time I see him smile.

If something happened to Reaper, to Hunter…

I shake my head, tossing the thought loose and focus on the wooden desk, the smooth top gleaming in the slant of light from Breaker’s flashlight. Fallon and his fancy desk. His fancy clothes. His sleek hair combed back over his head, making him look severe. He’s all we’ve ever known, and he’s been slowly killing us all.

“Are you going to look?” Breaker asks, eyeing the door, then my stack of papers. “Do you want me to look for you?”

I shake my head and slide the papers toward me. My gaze lands on the picture of the little boy with warm brown hair and golden skin. Eyes so big, he looks like he’s in shock. Like someone just pinched him before they took the picture. At five I was small, the background showing my height and weight like an old prison picture. Fitting, I guess.

I look further down to the names listed. “Mother Isabelle Pena. Father unknown,” I read aloud. “My mother was areceptionist at a dental office but was laid off, then she worked nights…” my voice trails off and I read the rest in silence.

My mother worked the streets at night, and was found dead in a hotel room from an overdose. I was found in a closet, half dead.

I slam the papers down, not wanting to read anymore.

Darkness creeps in the corner of my vision. It slips up my back, tingling my scalp, trying to take me back to that black place.

A closet.

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