Breaker (Unmasked #3)

13. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Breaker

15 Years Ago, September, Age 13

T iny pinpricks of light filter through the black fabric covering my eyes. Shadowy outlines of objects moving past, blocking the light briefly, then light flares brightly again making me wince.

I blink, trying to focus, confusion making my head swim. My head feels fuzzy, and it feels and tastes like someone stuck a sock in my mouth it’s so dry. I lick my lips. My arm hurts. I’m lying on my side, my head tilted at a weird angle, causing pain to pinch in my neck. I try to move but I realize my hands are tied behind my back with something coarse.

Rope.

Fuck. I have to pee.

Metal creaks. Something squeaks. Whatever I’m lying on lurches. My body jolts, rises slightly. Then I’m floating in an abyss of darkness for a millisecond before hitting down with a painful smack.

A groan and a loud thud to my left.

I recognize the throaty moan.

Viper.

There’s another squeal then the sound of metal grating metal.

We’re in a truck.

The fabric over my head sticks to my face as I inhale through my nose, breathing in deeply, smelling damp earth and exhaust and ammonia.

“We’re in a truck bed,” I say.

“No shit.” Striker’s raspy voice comes from behind me.

Something hard hits the top of my head.

“Sorry,” Viper grates. “I hope that wasn’t your nuts.”

“Where are we?” I ask, wishing I could rub my forehead to clear the fog. The need to drink something, feel cool wetness on my tongue is all I can think about for a moment.

“No fucking clue,” Viper says with a slight creak in his voice. Like he was yelling or a hasn’t used his voice in a long time. Or he’s as thirty as I am. “Last thing I remember was Maxy coming in my room and telling me to shut the fuck up.”

“I think I remember a helicopter or something,” Striker says. “I vaguely remember a loud engine before passing out again.”

My brows knit, the fabric sucking into my mouth as I breathe. There’s a tight knot forming in the center of my chest. It feels like panic. I swallow, trying to gulp down the fear with it.

This isn’t the first time we’ve been carted off for a training mission, but this is the first time we’ve been blindfolded and bound, unable to see where Maxim was taking us to train that day. Sometimes it was just in the large range near the school, other’s it was well past the town, in dark, dense woods where he taught us to set up snares.

Try as I might, I don’t remember Fallon or Maxim mentioning any training. They’ve been so focused on Reaper and Hunter’s first mission, and the chaos that broke out afterward, to pay us much mind the last few days. I do remember Commander Maxim’s gleaming eye patch as he crowded me, getting in my face, but it all just kind of goes black.

“He drugged us,” Striker says. There’s a thud from behind me like he kicked the tailgate. “And I have no clue where the fuck we are, but I really have to piss.”

Viper makes a huffing noise. “I already did.”

Striker gags. “Gross.”

The truck breaks hard, coming to an abrupt stop. I skid, my whole body lurching then sliding back, slamming into Striker behind me. He grunts. Cold wetness seeps into my shoulder.

“Fuck man,” I say. “Viper.”

“Nature called while I was knocked out. Not my fault.”

A male voice, harsh and gravelly breaks through the air. I don’t recognize it, so it’s not someone from the school.

“Get them out. We need to get the fuck out of here before it begins.”

“What begins?” Viper shouts. He’s always been better at picking up Russian than Striker or me. “Hey!” he calls to the voice. “Want to tell us—“

A loud thwack, like a hand hitting metal rings in the air, making my body tense. Whoever has us just slapped the tailgate. I know that sound. I heard it enough times when Cook would load us into the back of his big truck and we’d all head to the village for the afternoon.

“Fucking kid pissed himself,” someone else says, another faceless voice in the language I can barely pick up. “I’m not touching that one.”

“Maybe if you guys had not fucking—“ Viper grunts, then heaves out a cough like he’s been hit in the gut. “Get your fucking hands off me,” he yells, but the words are cut short, then there’s a thud followed by a gravelly groan.

Striker’s enraged voice fills the air. “Fuck off,” he shouts then another thud. Someone grabs my arm and one thigh and I’m airborne. I hit solid ground with painful smack, banging my head on a soft body.

Viper makes another choking sound.

“Fuck man,” he grates. “That was my nuts.”

Before I can finish the thought that this is all outside our normal training, one of the men grab my hands, kicking my heart rate up higher and I feel cold metal against my wrist as the rope’s cut away. Instantly, I move to sit up, but a brutal kick to my side makes me fall back, pain shooting sharply through my ribcage.

“Asshole,” I wheeze, but remain still. I’m a quick learner and I know I don’t want another boot to the ribs.

Behind me, the truck doors slam, and tires screech, dirt and rocks spitting up and hitting my back as the sound of the truck lurching forward drowns out Viper’s shouts.

When the sound of the engine fades, I sit up and tear my hood off. Next to me, Viper lies on his side, bound and blindfolded. Behind me, Striker’s curled into a ball, shoulders moving like he’s…

Crying?

“I can’t get these fucking knots undone,” he hisses.

My shoulders ease, realizing he’s trying to untie himself. I shift to my knees, ignoring my sore muscles, and the pain in my ribcage, and rip first Striker’s then Viper’s hoods off. They both blink, looking up at me in the bright light as their eyes adjust.

“How’d you get free?’ Viper asks. “Never mind. Just untie us.”

I reach for my knife I keep clipped to my belt, but it’s not there.

“Left boot,” Viper says. “I always keep one tucked away in case.”

I untie his boot and find the little knife and pull it free. After I cut them free, they sit, rubbing their wrists and looking around.

Now I notice where we are.

Everything is green and dark brown, with pops of orange and red in the leaves of the trees. A few bright spots of yellow scatter the foliage, like autumn is slowly creeping in. Not like at the school where this time of the year it’s already freezing at night, winter settling in, stripping the trees bare, and sometimes even snowing. This place, wherever this place is, looks similar, yet vastly different.

We’re in a small clearing, the forest around us creaking ominously. Little birds chirp. There’s a scraping sound, like the tall pines are rubbing their limbs together, excited we’re here. I’ve never seen any place other than the village and the school, but I’m reminded of the woods that lie beyond the range. There’s a mix of leafy trees here, but this place is missing the tall, thick trunk pines. There are a few scattered pines, but they are spindly, and the needles look different.

I lay my hand to the earth. The grounds still damp, not frozen over, the landscape more wet than dry. The forest circling the clearing is thick with underbrush and mossy rocks and lush greenery. Hills roll up to low mountains in the distance, lage jagged rocks in piles, pouring from the hillside.

“Where are we?” Striker says, standing on shaky legs. He turns away, taking a few steps toward a nearby tree and unzips, pissing on the gnarled roots.

I glance down to my shirt, and realize I’m still in my regular uniform, my arm and thigh wet with Viper’s piss. With a groan creaking from me, I stand and turn away to relieve myself before I’m covered in my urine too.

“Not sure,” Viper says from behind me, “but it’s no place I’ve ever seen before.”

“I don’t think we’re anywhere near the school,” Striker says, coming up behind me as I adjust my pants, trying to ignore the wetness on my thigh, my legs weak with relief.

“I wouldn’t have pissed myself if we were near the school,” Viper points out. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder to the trees and brush. “That’s not even local flora. The pines are different.” He gestures to the mossy rocks and thin leafy vines snaking along the ground. “And that’s not even something that resembles the same country.”

Striker’s brows rise as he takes in the surrounding woods, my gut growing oily with unease.

“You don’t think…” I let my voice trail off, fear skittering like mice down my arms, making me forget about my piss soaked clothes. All I can focus on are Viper’s words and the fact we’ve all been stripped of our knives. Striker doesn’t have his rifle like he usually does when we’ve gone for training outside the school, and we have no rucksacks full of supplies to get us through the day.

We have nothing.

Just like the stories we heard.

Three go out.

Only two come back.

A choice has to be made.

“Fuck,” Viper hisses, scrambling up to stand, eyes flashing in panic as his brows turn down. He glances around, chest heaving. “Neither of you have gone through training. You’re both too young. Hell, I’m too young.”

“There’s no way.” Striker steps closer to me, grabbing my shoulders to turn me to face him. “What do you remember?”

I shake my head, my gaze snagging with his golden eyes. My stomach dips at the obvious fear reflecting back at me. “Nothing. Just Maxim. Maybe in my room?” I shake my head, trying to remember. A flash of books, a long wood table, dusty moonlight filtering in through the grimy window. “No, I think I was still in the library after Maxim announced an early lights out over the speakers.”

“Why were you in the library?” Striker asks.

My eyes drift to Viper. “I was looking for Viper.”

Viper’s jaw tics, purposely not looking at Striker, and he licks his lips. “What else do you remember?”

“Maxim.” My face grows hot as I close my eyes, picturing the last moments before things when dark. I don’t want to tell Striker because I don’t want to embarrass Viper about why I was meeting him, but Maxim already found out. “He grabbed my shoulder scaring the shit out of me and asked what I was doing. I told him Viper needed help with vocab, and he laughed.”

“Asshole,” Viper snarls, his face growing red. “He knows I suck at French.”

“Go on,” Striker says, shooting a glare at Viper. “What else, kid?”

Kid.

Sometimes, most of the time, all the time, I hate being the youngest. I’m too young for real training, not yet fifteen like Striker. I can’t go to the yard or fight in the pit yet. I may be good with locks and languages, but I’m still too small, too young, and everyone treats me like I am.

I hate when Strike calls me kid. He’s only two years older.

And I really hate it when Viper does.

The worst part is I feel like a kid.

Especially right now.

“Focus, Break,” Viper says, gripping my arm to face him. “You’re getting all in your head.”

I blow out a breath, my cheeks puffing out as I blink to center my brain and focus on his blue eyes. “Maxim said something like, ‘Always the favorite. I can’t wait to see his face when he finds you.’”

“Who?” Viper snaps, gripping my arm tighter, the same moment Striker says, “Fuck.”

They exchange a look and bile burns my throat.

“We’re here, aren’t we?” I whisper, shrugging off Viper’s grip and turning in slow circles to look around. It’s just like Hunter said. Slightly dank. Thin trees and thick woods. Clearings that pop up out of nowhere. The craggy looking rocks.

The rocks should have told me right away.

That’s where Hunter told us they slept for a week. Until it was decided.

Seeker made the choice, he said. And Reaper refused to leave him behind, tying downed limbs with their laces to make a sled so they could drag his body back with them, risking bears and wild cats, after Hunter slit our brother’s throat.

Because that’s the only way to survive the wilderness.

Loyalty. Courage. Duty. Discipline. Honor. Respect.

That’s what we were taught and at the end of our training, we must prove we’re ready to be his soldiers with the ultimate sacrifice. Prove to our Father we are worthy.

Our father who’s tortured us, and killed us off, one by one.

“This is not fucking happening,” Viper says, but I barely hear him.

My limbs grow heavy, my shoulders drooping from the weight of the realization. The words Hunter whispered to me that night Reaper and him returned, come back, making my stomach churn.

My eyes dart to Viper. Pain stabs into my chest.

Our father sent us out here, to the wilderness, untrained, unprepared, and too young, forcing us to make a choice.

Three go in but only two come out.

We’re here for our final test.

We must make a choice.

We are either killers or the one who is killed.