Free Strikers by Ann Christy

my feet.
    “Less chance of breaking the gun,” he adds and it takes me a moment to decide if he’s actually joking with me at a time like this. I want to ask him to do it for me. But this is Jovan, and I don’t think I could bear watching anyone else do him harm. Plus, I’ve got to pull the blow so as not to hurt him too badly.
    I shake my head at the bad joke and grab the stick. It’s more comfortable to me, less alien than the gun. I know better how to heft and control the simple piece of hard wood. When I look at my father, he quirks one of his eyebrows up as if to tell me he understands, but wants me to get on with it.
    One of the soldiers pipes up and says, “Don’t do it. You’ll kill him. Please.”
    His plea is more for himself because he’s just a regular soldier and worth less than nothing if Jovan dies. They can’t see us well in the dim light, but their imaginations are probably more than making up for that.
    I pull back the stick exactly as I do when I’m going after a raccoon running loose in the garden. When I let the stick come down, I realize I’m not holding back enough a fraction of a second after it’s too late to fix it. I meant for it to be a tap, something he could point to and show a nice lump but not really hurt him. Him pretending to be out—maybe taking an actual nap—was the goal. The sound of the impact, dull but wrong, is loud in the room and the soldier who spoke lets out a groan.
    Jovan folds as gracefully as a bird onto the hard floor but his head impacts the cement floor anyway. That sound is even worse than the one my stick made, if that’s possible. I cringe.
    Then the worst thing that could happen for Jovan happens. Worst aside from death, that is. He groans, rolls over and starts making incomprehensible noises that are probably meant to be words. He’s not out, but not coherent enough to play like he is.
    While I want to help him and apologize till the sun comes up, I step backward and out of the cell instead. Connor and Maddix grab all the soldiers’ gear and make for the reception area, eager to put distance between us and this place. My father is probably no less eager. Every line of his body seems taut with suppressed energy. Even so, he seems to sense that I’m in a little over my head and having difficulty processing the sudden change in my existence.
    His steps are quiet. He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder and whispers, “We should go.”
    The soldiers are quiet, perhaps thinking that we’ll hit them too if they make noise. Jovan, on the other hand, rears up even as I turn to go and looks around with unfocused eyes. They slide over me, then back like he’s having difficulty nailing down exactly where I’m at. He says, “Sorry, Karas. Thought this would work. Just wanted you to see your father.” He snuffles a little, his eyes wandering back toward me and adds, “You have such pretty eyes, like the sky.”
    His words are a little slurred, but unfortunately clear enough for anyone who can hear them to understand. That last bit proves he has no clue what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter because the first part is logical enough.
    The taller soldier gasps but the short one laughs. It’s a bark of a laugh, bitter and victorious all at once. His voice is low and mean when he says, “Nice try.”
    I really don’t like the look on his face. There’s no question now what will happen when we leave. Jovan will be found out and this soldier will be only too happy to let the information flow. Whether Jovan can deflect it or deny it and do a good enough job is something I doubt. He may have dropped our friendship, but he has always been an honest soul. He’ll crack.
    My fist clenches around the night-stick and the soldier’s eyes dart toward it, then back to my face. The victory slides off and uncertainty comes back. He knows what I’m thinking and what I’m thinking is that I’ll have to bash his brains in.
    My father grabs the nightstick and says,