That’s how we ended up out here in the woods, holding paint guns customized to look exactly like the real thing. I shift the weight in my hand, examining it. They’ve done a good job. The metal is cool and smooth against my skin, the texture and balance nearly identical to the live weapons I’ve trained with for years.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think it could kill.
I pull the slip of paper from my pocket and double-check the name of my victim.Nelson. That smug little bastard I’ve never liked. He’s a know-it-all, rude, condescending, always acting like the rest of us are wasting his precious time. Even though he and I have never gotten along, it strikes me as odd that I’ve been assigned to takehimout. I’m sure the High Council didn’t pick our victims randomly. Everything they do is a twisted mind game, and I doubt this is any different.
I’d assumed they would give me Jackson, since he and I have spent our entire lives vying with each other for the number-one spot. We’ve competed in every arena, academically, socially, physically, always trying to outdo one another. It would make sense to pair us up now. A final showdown to determine which one is better. But they picked Nelson instead. I don’t understand it. Is part of the game me figuring out why he’s my mark? Is this a test of mental strength as much as it is of physical skill?
Noise breaks out through the trees, distracting me from my thoughts. A scream, sharp and fearful, sounds in the distance, followed by maniacal laughter. The kind that raises the hair along the back of my neck.
Immediately, I’m on the move, dodging and ducking as I head in that direction. I want to see what’s going on. To get a better sense of how the others are playing. To know who’s making stupid mistakes and who’s enjoying this a littletoo much.
Ahead of me is a clearing filled with white flowers and moonlight. For a minute time distorts, fractures. I see a hundred poles there and Henryson dead on the ground. I shake my head and force the image from my mind.
This isn’t that clearing.
This one was formed by nature.
Instinct, which I’ve honed for years, kicks in, screaming that I need to run, duck, hide. I act on it without thought, dropping to the ground as a blur of white comes at me from the side. A paintball hisses past my shoulder, smacking into a tree next to me with a sickening wet splatter.
I roll and spring up into a crouch with my gun raised, but no one is there. My attacker is gone, faded into the background.
My heart pounds and adrenaline buzzes through my body, lighting up every nerve with sparking electricity.
Whoever it was had gotten close. Too close.
I stay there, frozen for a moment with my breathing shallow, eyes scanning the trees.
Then I smile. That’s how they want to play?
Fine by me.
Within minutes, I’m the one in pursuit, following the trail they’ve left on the ground. A broken pine needle here, a crushed tree root there. The path is easy to follow. We’ve all had similar lessons in firearms, boxing, and martial arts, but I don’t know any other son who’s had the extensive tracking lessons I’ve received.
I also don’t know any other brother or sister who’s been sent on live assignments yet, like the ones I’ve done. The ones in the desert that end with my finger on the trigger and blood in the sand. It’s possible the others have killed before, and they’re hiding it. Possible they’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I doubt it. Those missions leave a mark on your soul. They etch themselves into your body language, the way you speak or stay silent. They leave your eyes haunted. I know because I see it when I look in the mirror, and I think I’d recognize it in the others.
Movement up ahead. Someone’s hiding in the bushes. I see the glint of the gun’s barrel before I hear it fire. The paint bullet flies through the air, but I’m already gone, rolling into the underbrush, then crawling forward on my elbows and knees. My attacker stands up, searching for me with the gun clutched tightlyin his hands. He’s in the shadows so I can’t see who it is beyond the fact that it’s one of the brothers, given how tall he is and the way his body is built straight up and down. Not a curve in sight.
Now that I’m a few feet away, I rise to my feet and pad noiselessly to the left, circling around him. He doesn’t hear me, doesn’t know where I am. Finally, he steps out into the light, and I see who is hunting me. It’s Richardson. I freeze, not out of fear but confusion. None of this makes sense. Richardson is one of the weakest of us. He’s slow on his feet, still held back from that bicycle accident when he was ten. He’s a weak fighter, every punch a few seconds too slow and never hard enough to do real damage, like he’s shadow boxing underwater.
Something’s off.
It’s like the High Councilwantsme to win. Like they’re handing it over, making it easy to eliminate the threat to me. For a second, I wonder if my father arranged this, as a gift to me. A favor? I crush the idea before it can take root, before it sends those pathetic tendrils of hope crawling through my body, winding up my chest and into my throat just to choke me. I should know better by now. That man never helps me. If anything, he does the opposite. Constantly stacks the odds against me, makes everything harder. He sets the bar high, then kicks it out from under me the second I reach it.
No, this isn’t an act of kindness, which means it’s one of cruelty.
My father’s words come back to me.
Trust no one.
This is a trap. I’d be an idiot to believe otherwise.
But how? Why?
Before I can figure out the mystery, Richardson fires. Right at me. The paint bullet whizzes by my ear, missing me by an inch.
What the hell?
I drop, roll behind a fallen log, and come up low right behind him. Richardson’s out in the open now, scanning the dark, his weapon trembling slightly in his hands. He still doesn’t know where I am. Didn’t even know I was that close. He fired out of panic, notstrategy.
