Free Hit by Delilah S. Dawson

as I am, unable to comprehend a world with no consequences and no safety.
    â€œHow do you feel?” I ask.
    â€œEmpty? Blank?” Wyatt turns away and pokes his pinkie in a bullet hole in the truck’s metal wall, right behind where Dave was standing. “I have no idea.” He collapses beside me and runs a hand through already-wild hair.
    â€œThat’s how I’ve been feeling too. Just totally lost.”
    â€œIt’s like, I know they deserved it. They were bad guys, and they were going to . . . Well, you know what they were going to do. But I’ve never killed anything bigger than a mouse for my snake, and I always feel a little bad about that, anyway.”
    Wyatt’s eyes sweep over to the dead guy by the truck seats, and I can’t help looking too. The body is hard to ignore with our feet almost touching it. Him.
    He’s facedown, with a bald spot on the top of his head and these weird spiky things that look like a fence coming out of his scalp, which I guess must be hair plugs. Behind his mask, he probably looks like your average derp. But I’m glad I can’t see his eyes.
    I realize my finger is still on the trigger and have to pry it off. I’ve shot this gun three times. I’ve killed three times. Each time, I’ve died a little inside. How much of me is left?
    â€œWhy’d you put on your shirt and hat?” Wyatt asks, and my eyes dart up to him.
    â€œI don’t know. I wanted to cover myself. Maybe look official to scare them away.”
    And that’s when I realize that the shirt isn’t choosy. It sees everything that I see, maybe more. Maybe someone’s watching. And maybe they’re seeing Wyatt.
    Oh, shit.
    â€œDo you trust me?” I whisper.
    â€œNo,” he says.
    â€œGood. You shouldn’t.”
    I stand up, aim the gun, and pull the trigger for the fourth time.
    Light and sound explode again, and the truck rocks when Wyatt slams into the wall. Even before the gun can recoil, I’ve turned, a handaround that bugged button. I pull the shirt over my head and wad it up into a ball with the button in the very center of the shirt and my fist.
    â€œJesus freaking Christ,” Wyatt says, voice shaky as he huddles on the floor, arms covering his head. “What the hell was that?”
    I shove the shirt into the fridge before looking at him—really looking at him—by the light of dawn. His eyes are huge, the pupils tiny pinpricks in the center of speckled brown. Less than a foot away from him, there’s a bullet hole in the truck, with a weird little metal rip around it. I notice that it looks nothing like those fake sticker bullet holes tough kids at my school paste all over their moms’ old sedans. Now Wyatt’s got his hands over his stomach like I actually shot him, just like I shot the guy outside.
    â€œMy shirt,” I say, surprised that I can breathe, much less talk. I was cold before, cold and tense, but now I feel hot and quick and hyper, like my wires got crossed and I’m overheating. “I told you it was bugged. The top button is a camera, maybe a microphone. It saw you. And if they knew that you were alive, that you were here in my truck, that you knew what I was doing, what I was sent to do . . .” I pause, my chin quivering. “They’d kill you. Or make me kill you. Maybe they’d send someone else. I don’t know. I was just told not to tell anyone else what I was doing. Hand over the card and leave. Or else.”
    He uncovers his head, rubs his ears. “What’s the or else ?”
    â€œHow would I know? Do you think they answer questions? Doyou think there’s a freaking FAQ online where you can go click on ‘Indentured Assassins’ and see frequently asked questions? It just seemed like pretending to kill you would be a lot better than waiting around to see the consequences of letting you live.”
    â€œBut you could have shot