Read Strike for Free Online

workers.
    The unit supervisor stood there staring. Apparently she didn’t understand what was going on any more than I did.
    The guy in the passenger seat twisted and pulled himself out. He wore black-and-gray Retro fatigues but carried himself more casually than the other soldiers. He rolled more than walked, as if every joint in his body was loose—the exact opposite of the ramrod-straight Captain Granger. His shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, showing off deeply tanned skin. Though he looked to be about my dad’s age, he had longish, bleached-blond hair that had to be constantly swept out of his eyes. Other than the uniform there was nothing military-like about this guy. He looked more like somebody who played tennis at the uppity Arbortown Racquet Club with Kent Berringer than a soldier at a military prison camp.
    The other three soldiers were on high alert. They kept their eyes locked on this guy as he strolled toward the pit. He may not have looked like a respected military leader, but from the body language of his own soldiers, he was somebody you didn’t dare mess with.
    He stood on the edge of the pit and leaned forward slightly to get a full view of the workers toiling below.
    “Hello!” he called down in an overly friendly tone. “Come up here for a moment, would you please? Take a break. All of you!”
    The workers in the pit looked to one another, confused. But they weren’t about to pass up a chance to take a breather, so they quickly dropped their shovels and climbed out to stand in a loose group on the edge of the hole.
    I stood apart from them, closer to the woman supervisor who still hadn’t moved since the jeep arrived.
    “Thank you,” the blond guy said with a slight bow. “Forgive me for taking you from your work.”
    Right. Like they were upset.
    “We don’t use names here,” he announced. “But I want you to know mine. It’s Bova. Simon Bova. Major Bova, if you’d prefer to be formal. I share that information only because I believe you should know who your host is.”
    He smiled at the prisoners as if he wanted them to like him. The guy came across like a gracious host, rather than the commander of a work camp. His eyes had the silver sparkle of someone who was either seriously smart, or dangerously insane.
    “Now!” he announced. “A bit of business. I trust you all know . . .” he slid over to the guy lying in the dirt and leaned over to take a look at his back “. . . Eight Six Seven Five.”
    Nobody reacted.
    “Of course you do,” Bova said with a wink. “You’ve worked next to him for days. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he has been a very naughty boy.”
    Bova motioned to the soldier in the back of the jeep. Instantly, the soldier jumped down, ran to the prisoner, and pulled him up to his knees.
    Bova took a quick step back as if he didn’t want to risk coming in contact with the filthy sand that swirled around the poor guy.
    The prisoner was a mess, but he was conscious. His hair was tangled and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Caked sand clung to his face, surrounding a pair of swollen eyes.
    He’d been beaten. Badly.
    Bova bent down so his face was close to the prisoner’s, but not close enough to risk contact. “You know you’ve been very bad, don’t you?”
    The prisoner didn’t react.
    “Go ahead, you can admit it,” Bova said, cajoling. “We have no secrets here.”
    Bova was talking to him in a singsong voice, as if he were a little kid.
    The prisoner looked to the ground. I couldn’t imagine what he might have done that deserved getting beaten like that.
    “Tell you what,” Bova exclaimed with excitement. “We’ll play a game.” He gave a broad smile to the group and added, “One of my favorites. I used to play it with my parents. It’s simply called
Please
.”
    The prisoner started to collapse back down to the ground but the soldier grabbed him and pulled him to his knees again.
    “Now, my friend,” Bova