Page 17 of The Most Dangerous Games

There it is. The smart mouth. He hears it the moment it leaves him.

Silence.

“Listen, you people say you’re looking for a leader,” he says, jumping right back in. “I’ve been one my whole life. I was voted captain of every football team I ever played on. I was the senior enlisted leader in my platoon. Men depended on me.”

“We’re well aware,” she says, “as we’re aware that you were awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for extraordinary heroism during combat overseas. We’re aware of what you did. And why.”

“I protected my brothers,” he says. He’s heard men justify anything with words like that. He doesn’t like how familiar this feels.

She points at his left arm now.

“I can’t help but notice one of your tattoos,” she says. “The one that says you never lose.”

He waits, sensing she’s not quite finished.

“So let me ask you a question, Sergeant Major,” she says. “How does a man who never loses end up alone, pulling shifts on an oil rig?”

The woman pauses. Jack feels it—the old heat behind his ribs. The shame that still makes him want to swing first.

“Would you like to talk about your nightmares?” she asks.

“No,” he says, jaw hard, eyes down.

The woman waits. Patient.

Jack leans forward just enough for her to feel it and looks her in the eyes.

“But I’ll tell you this,” he says. “I’m not here to be handled. I’m here to win. So ask what you came to ask.”

13.

Tent 19

“How old are you, Rupert?” the man at the desk asks. His voice has the same smooth flatness as the loudspeakers outside. Rupert doesn’t know why that scares him. It shouldn’t matter. It does.

“Fourteen,” Rupert replies.

The man looks down at his notes. “Rupert Chadwick: Manchester. From a poor section of the city known as Moss Side West. Only child. Unusually high-level reader.”

“That’s me,” Rupert says, “but I don’t know about unusual.”

“You seem to be quite an athlete, aren’t you, son?”

Rupert’s chest lifts despite himself. “Center middie at the Man City Football Academy,” Rupert says proudly, “after I earned my scholarship there.”

“But you must know it’s your mind and not your skills on the pitch that earned you the invitation,” the man says. “We’ve never seen test scores like yours for someone your age.”

Rupert’s smile fades. When the man smiles, he reminds Rupert of his uncle Freddie. Freddie’s eyes always stay kind, but the kindness feels like a costume.

“Why did your parents allow you to come here?”

“Because of my mind, I guess,” Rupert says. “My mum and dad think I can do anything I set my mind to.”

“I can see why,” the man says. Then, changing topics: “In school, you can recite long passages from famous works with ease, isn’t that right?”

“It’s just a skill, like kicking a ball,” Rupert says.

“What’s a good one you’ve memorized?”