Read Flight for Free Online Page B

knew.
    Art takes out his pistol and presses it against Junior’s forehead. Poor Junior barely even reacts. He’s already given up.
    I look at Elk and Horse. They’re smiling. I realize they aren’t freedom fighters or anything like that. They don’t care about protecting the poor and defenseless. No, man, these guys just like to hurt people. And I look at the weird light in Art’s eyes. He isn’t a lawman. He doesn’t protect our country. He just likes to hurt people, too.
    “All right, Junior,” Art says. “You get one chance. Tell me what I want to know.”
    And then Junior, amazing little Junior, he gets this look in his eyes. It’s peaceful and defiant at the same time. It’s like he’s saying, Kill me if you want. It doesn’t matter. I’m still a better person than you.
    “Are you going to talk?” Art asks.
    Junior shakes his head.
    “Are you going to talk?” Art asks again.
    “No,” Junior says.
    Horse and Elk release Junior’s arms and step back. He could run now if he wanted to, but he wouldn’t get far.
    “Are you going to talk?” Art asks for the third time.
    “Fuck you,” Junior says.
    Art shoots him in the face and Junior drops. He’s gone.
    “You got blood on me,” Elk says to Art.
    “We all got blood on us,” Art says.
    He’s right about that.
    Art looks at me. I stare back. And then I spin around and vomit all over the place.
    Art killed that guy so easily. You don’t kill that easily unless you’ve done it lots of times before. I wonder who taught Art how to shoot people with a real gun.
    And all of this just makes me vomit some more.
    When I look up, Elk and Horse smirk at me.
    “What’s wrong with you, FBI?” Elk asks. “It’s not like this is your first one.”
    “What?” I ask.
    “Don’t play dumb,” he says. “I know what you did. I saw you.”
    Elk smiles. I hate that smile. He knows me.
    Have I killed somebody out here on the reservation? Why don’t I remember it? Maybe Hank Storm killed people. But then I remember the bank. I’m not any better than these men. I’m not any better than the real Hank Storm.
    I am Hank Storm, too.
    “Don’t worry about Hank,” Art says. “He isn’t himself tonight.”
    “Yeah,” I say. “I am most definitely not the old Hank Storm. I’m a whole different kind of Hank.”
    “What are we going to do about Junior’s body?” Elk asks.
    “Let him rot,” Art says.
    “He’s a traditionalist,” Elk says. “His soul won’t get to Heaven if we don’t bury him the Indian way.”
    “Why do you care?” Art asks.
    “Because I was taught to,” Elk says. He’s thinking hard. Then he surprises me. “Why don’t you guys get going,” he says. “We’ll bury him the right way.”
    Horse grunts in agreement.
    Elk and Horse tortured Junior and delivered him to his murderers. But now they are going to bury him with respect. I don’t understand people.
    “All right,” Art says. “But I need something else first.”
    “What?” Elk asks.
    Art looks hard at me. “Shoot Junior,” he says.
    “What?” I ask.
    “Shoot Junior,” Art says again.
    “He’s already dead.”
    “Shoot him,” Art says and points his gun at me. “Or I’ll shoot you.”
    “I don’t understand,” I say. “He’s already dead. You can’t kill him twice.”
    “I want your bullet in him,” Art says. “I want us to be in this one together.”
    “But that’s not respectful, is it?” I ask Elk. “That’s not the Indian thing to do, is it?”
    “You’re not Indian,” Elk says.
    “Shoot him,” Art says. “Now.”
    Scared, I pull out my pistol and stand over Junior’s body. He looks so young. He’s a kid. Like me. I aim my gun at his chest. At his heart.
    I can’t do this. It somehow seems worse to shoot a dead body than to shoot a living man. Justice made killing make sense. But it doesn’t make sense, does it?
    I’m going crazy. I am crazy. I want somebody to tell me that I’m not real.
    “Shoot him,” Art says.
    I