G.U.A.R.D. Book #4: Tracked

-7-

06:01, November 4. Station 3:

It was the third month—November—when Cleve and I were put in the same team. We had had several rough moments in the cabin, as well as some snide remarks in passing. She continually called me Black Eye. Every time I heard it, it made me feel worse about myself.

As a fighter, I was only average. At the beginning, I was better than most of the recruits here, but as time went on, and the training became more intense, they began thriving while I began failing. I was a little better when it came to medical things, at least.

At the end of each day, Wendi, Cleve, and I would go to the kitchen to study. I continually struggled to write with my pencils and pens. It was the first time for me to carry one since losing my finger, and I never realized how much I relied on it to write. I had the same problem for nearly everything else. Eating food. Throwing a knife. It was now wonder I was nowhere close to the top. I wondered if Mom would be disappointed.

Abrafo Estyn, a huge African dude, was the instructor of Team Green. We jogged to the training facility first thing after eating breakfast and doing a little gardening (our chore for the first week). Cleve, Jensen (the lanky guy who stole my bed), Jacks (a short, but stout African-Canadian), and I stepped into the facility with Estyn leading us. I could barely see over his gigantic height.

The day before, we started shooting guns. I could barely hold the handguns with my missing finger. It was humiliating. Cleve added to that humiliation by being uncannily good. Honestly, I had no doubt this girl was thoroughly trained before coming to G.U.A.R.D. She barely even paid attention to Estyn as he explained the parts of the gun, but still loaded and unloaded hers in record time.

"Ryder," Estyn said, drawing my attention. He motioned to the mat. "Cleve."

I felt my eyes widen in alarm. Cleve just casually got on the mat, looking at me with a cool countenance. But I could see the slight smirk on her lips.

"Sir?" I asked.

"Get on the mat, Ryder," he ordered.

My heart gave a small tremor as I remembered Cleve's pounding hands punching my face, cutting and bruising. I slowly took off my shoes and socks and touched the cool, blue material.

"The instructors have noticed your constant arguing," Estyn said in his deep, African-accented voice. "And we have heard about your match at the start of summer. So I want to see you fight for myself."

"Are you sure that's safe for him?" Cleve asked.

I gritted my teeth.

"You have been here for two full months," Estyn responded calmly. "Techniques have improved; your reactions have become quicker. I want to see what differences have been made."

Jensen snorted, crossing his arms.

"If you like, Jensen, you can go up against Cleve next," Estyn told him, glancing to the guy from the corner of his eye.

Jensen's smug expression instantly dropped, and he shifted his weight. Cleve had made it known pretty quickly she was a good fighter—and an unmerciful one. She had already given several people sprains and didn't hesitate to hurt them in the face.

"Positions," Estyn instruction, taking a few steps back. Jensen and Jacks did the same. I sank to a high crouch, bringing up my arms. Cleve did likewise, never wavering her eyes from me. My arms shook a little, and I forced them to stop. Estyn said, "Begin."

The two of us stared each other down. Last time we fought, I made the first move, and I didn't want to make the same mistake again. She seemed to sense my hesitation and waited patiently. After circling each other twice, she finally spoke.