Myrmidon by David Wellington Page A

time comes, you think they’ll even fire their weapons? Or will they toss them down and put their hands up and say, ‘please, Daddy, I was just playing!’ ”
    Andre shook his head, but there was a sort of faraway look in his eyes. Chapel knew he’d touched on something there. Andre came from a macho culture that valued how hard a man was over all else. How well a man could hit, and how well he could take a hit in return. Men like that needed to constantly prove themselves. Guard duty wasn’t going to sit well with him.
    â€œShame you’re stuck here babysitting me, while the real action is outside,” Chapel said, choosing his words carefully. “You could be on the front lines, making a difference. Instead, you’re here watching me, your biggest enemy, and making sure I don’t get hurt like a bitch.”
    â€œI’ve got my orders,” Andre told him.
    â€œI guess Belcher figured he knew what you were worth,” Chapel said.
    That did it. Andre was on him in a second, throwing him down on the floor and jumping on top of him. He rammed his fist three times into Chapel’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him and making Chapel suck for air inside the stinking gas mask.
    â€œYou know nothing,” Andre howled. “You got no idea what it means to be a soldier of the white race!”
    He reached down to his belt and drew a long, thin knife, something like a medieval dagger. He brought it up to tap the point on one of the gas mask’s eyeshields. “I should mark you,” he said. “I should carve a swastika right on your chest, so you never forget who you fucked with.”
    For the first time, Chapel wondered if he should have gone with the tattoos.

 
    CHAPTER TWENTY-­THREE
    C hapel could see the doubt in Andre’s eyes. The kid with the Hitler-­mustache tattoo wanted so badly to skin Chapel alive, but he knew he shouldn’t. He had his orders. Belcher must have really gotten through to him, to give a violent punk like this some sense of discipline—­but then, Belcher had been trained in leadership by the army, and Chapel knew how effective their lessons could be.
    Andre pulled the knife away from Chapel’s face and started to get back on his feet. If Chapel didn’t push him again, the kid was just going to go back to guard duty, and Chapel would have achieved nothing but getting himself punched in the stomach.
    Of course, if he pushed the kid too hard, Andre would just kill him.
    When the Rangers had taught him this kind of psychological manipulation, they’d been very clear that it would backfire sometimes. But Chapel didn’t see any other way to move forward.
    â€œHuh,” Chapel said. “I see it, now.”
    Andre squinted at him.
    â€œIt’s subtle. I guess maybe just half.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you jawing about?” the kid demanded.
    â€œYour nose. I didn’t really notice it before, but yeah, definitely. You’re a little bit Jewish, aren’t you?”
    â€œShut up.”
    Chapel laughed. “Wow. Talk about overcompensating. Was it your mother or your father? If you tell me it was one of your grandparents, I’ll believe you, but—­”
    â€œShut up!” Andre howled. “It just looks that way because it’s been broken so many times!”
    Ah. Chapel had hit a nerve. It had been a wild guess—­the kid’s nose was a little bent, and for all Chapel knew, the explanation was correct. But in a group like Belcher’s, such minor differences would always be observed and commented on. “If it was your mother, that technically makes you a Jew,” Chapel said. “If it was your father, then—­”
    â€œI swear to God I will cut you open if you say one more word,” the kid shouted.
    Chapel nodded. “I get it. You’re no berserker after all. No wonder Belcher put you in here with me. Keep the untrustworthy