Soldier Mine (Sons of War #2)(2)

“My pleasure.” Standing, I grab the small rucksack I bring with me filled with coins for the kids, pieces of memorabilia I scored overseas and other odds and ends. Depending on the age of the students, I sometimes don’t need anything but my story. The younger kids often need props or something to occupy them while they listen.

“Is it hard to kill someone?”

I pause before looking up. The boy’s voice is pensive and hushed, shy almost, and the way he asks the question … unusual. My instincts flare. One of the best ways to stay alive during missions is to know when you’re in danger, to sense when the tribesman you’re negotiating with is stalling you while his men set up an ambush.

The boy is hiding something.

“Todd, that’s not an appropriate question,” the teacher chides.

Todd is what I expect him to be: a lanky teen with haunted eyes and an uncertain expression. He ducks his head at the teacher’s words. He’s clutching his book bag to his chest like it’s a shield.

“Sorry. Thanks for the presentation,” he mumbles and hurries out.

“Great grades but a little troubled by all accounts,” the teacher says when he’s gone.

“Troubled how?” I ask curiously. “Needs to be in JROTC troubled?”

“He transferred in two months ago, after school had started, which is highly unusual. I keep telling the administrator – you can’t uproot a kid and expect him to adjust properly. It’s no wonder he had issues at his last school.”

“Hmmm.” I’m not at all interested in the explanation. It’s not telling me what I want to know. I have a soft spot for people in distress, an impulse to help that’s only grown stronger since the issue with my leg taught me about the bottomless depths of pain. It bothers me to see someone else suffering.

Whatever it is, though, it’s none of my business. I’ve run across a lot of kids I’d designate as troubled or ill adjusted, and most seem to be in a stage where they turn out fine with time. I push Todd from my thoughts.

“Can I ask you something?” the teacher continues.

“Sure.”

“You’re family is the Khavalovs who live outside of town?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so.”

Our town of Glory Glade, near the coast in Massachusetts, is small enough that no one is more than one degree apart. My siblings and I attended private schools, but my father sponsors athletics and summer programs for the kids and community facilities in town, which is how most of the town knows us.

The quiet ringtone of the phone in my pocket goes off.

“Thanks for hosting me, ma’am,” I say and reach in to grab it.

“Have a nice weekend, Petr!”

I smile and turn away, emerging into the now deserted hallways. The text is longer than my father’s five-word maximum and far shorter than my sister’s text-novels. My step slows as I read it.

Having a bad day. Thought you might want to talk? If not, I understand. But I’d be happy to see you, Petr.

My heart skips a beat, as usual. And as usual, I know I shouldn’t be drawn in again. My ex has a way of yanking me back no matter how many times I swear I won’t let her.

The old me, the person I used to be before the incident, would’ve been able to walk away by now. I have more than enough reasons, and only one reason why I can’t close that door completely.

I’m not who I used to be, as much as I wish I were. I didn’t just lose my leg in battle, I lost my best friend and brother, and he took pieces of me with him the night he gave his life to save mine. I honor – and question – his sacrifice every day. There’s a small part of me that doubts I’m good enough to be the one who survived.

So even knowing I shouldn’t agree to meet her, I continue to do so, because the sliver of me that remains broken from the incident in Iraq fears taking a chance on anyone else. I know I’m a back up, just like I know that the walls around my heart are never at risk when it comes to Brianna.

It’s a safe existence. I take no chances. I don’t get hurt. Living with Mikael’s death daily is enough suffering for me.

Even if I don’t like how this feels.

I send her a response and pocket the phone. Reaching the doors leading into the courtyard of the sprawling compound, I push them open and stride out into the chilly mid-November air. The sky is overcast, and piles of maroon and gold leaves are at the feet of the trees in the grassy square at the center of the cluster of buildings making up the middle and high schools.

“What’s the best way to kill someone?”

I face Todd, who pushes away from the wall of the building. He’s still clutching his backpack. He’s clearly waiting for me; no one else is in the courtyard. The children are boarding the buses lining the crescent driveway in front of the school or hopping in the cars of their parents through the side entrance.

“It depends,” I start slowly, trying to assess where this is coming from. My initial thought, that there might be some kind of abuse going on in his home, ignites a flame of anger. “You okay? Someone threatening you?”

He shakes his head. “What does it depend on?”

“To start with, their size and whether or not your opponent has weapons or martial arts training.”

He chews on his lower lip, pensive. The kid is a few inches shorter than me and skinny in the way of someone who recently had a growth spurt. “What if I don’t know those things for sure?”