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Dave tried to focus on the card game, ignoring the flash of a twirling blade from the corner of his eye. It was a devilish little temptation, beckoning him to make an irredeemable ass of himself. As the greenest rookie, he already had a tough time proving himself to these guys. They were all seasoned vets; decorated and warstoried, exuding the badass Dave could only dream of being. All he had under his belt was a tour of the Gulf, a little time treading sand in the east. That was nothing compared to memories of FBI raids and SEAL ops, the tail ends of Vietnam and Cold War espionage.
He had to consider himself lucky to even be watching a card game. A few weeks ago the would have ribbed him out of the room, told him to come back when he got some meat on those bones. Stupid shit Dave had his fill of in basic.
Casually, he stole another glance at the man in the corner. The Gray Fox, FOXHOUND’s most valued asset. He was a strange guy. Strange in a tempting way. Strange like a mountain lion, and Dave was the idiot tourist assuring himself that a few feet closer wouldn’t hurt. Just a few more feet, for the photo, just a little closer. Frank rarely ever spoke, though sometimes he would smile. A tired, heavy smile, under his tired, heavy eyes. No, ‘tired’ wasn’t the right word. ‘Steely’, ‘peircing’, ‘watchful’; one of those words, whatever best described the action star of paperback novels.
Dave rubbed at the back of his neck, clearing away whatever that was in his chest. He knew the embarrassment, but not the rest. Embarrassed because he was acting like a dumb kid chasing after the cool guy, ripping his style and mimicking his poses in the Goodwill dressing room. Here he was, well into his twenties, thinking about how cool that guy over there was, twirling and tossing his knife.
It was more interesting than this card game. Frank hadn’t messed up once. The rhythm, the toss and catch, was as predictable and steady as a heartbeat. Dave dared another glance, a bolt going through him when Frank’s eyes were waiting.
He froze. Should he hold the stare or look away? Which was weirder? This is exactly what Master Miller meant when he said Dave had to learn to act and not think…
The corner of Frank’s mouth tilted as he caught the knife. It wasn’t much of a smile, more of the ingrained response when someone asked ‘I’m scrubbing the shitters again?’
“Hey, rookie.” Frank called. The room stilled for a moment, as though a ghost had spoken. Dave swallowed, unsure of how to respond.
“Sir?” He asked, and Frank’s smile sharpened.
“Come here.” He gestured with a flick of his knife. All eyes turned to Dave, watching him as he stood and somewhat dumbly, crossed the floor to Frank’s isolated table. Frank had shifted forward in his seat, elbows resting on the table. “You look like you’re not having a lot of fun.” His voice was light, yet had a strange gruffness to it. Disuse and cigarettes, Dave assumed. “How about we play a game?”
A familiar sensation crept up Dave’s spine. The response to hearing a rattlesnake, to seeing eyes in the shine of a flashlight. Still, Dave nodded, and sat. Be cool. Be cool.
“It’s an easy game,” Frank shrugged. “As long as you have your knife on you.”
Dave, almost choked for words, reached for his boot knife. Frank nodded in approval at it, then splayed his free hand out on the scarred table top, and began stabbing in a pattern. Between thumb and index finger, between index and middle finger, then returned to thumb, then between middle and pinky––-
“The Knife Game.” Dave had seen it in high school, when everyone was drunk off of stolen beer and looking to make a new story to share on Monday.
“You know it.” Frank said with something of approval. “Let’s do it, then.”
Dave didn’t know when he agreed to that. Maybe it had been when he sat down, when he responded to Frank’s call. What would happen if he backed out now? Probably endless ribbing. Dave wished he could swear all of this off as sophomoric nonsense, but this was the ritual between soldiers. The ribbing, the hazing, the insults and slander; strings of a fine tapestry. Maybe he was the idiot for thinking being a rookie special operative was any different from being the new kid at school.
So, he took out his knife, and steadied himself. Frank counted down from three, and the stabbing began. One-two, one-two, one-two, Dave tried to pace himself. One-two, one-two, one-two. Frank matched his rhythm for the first round, then picked up pace. Sensing the challenge, Dave tried to match him. One-two one-two one-two one-two. Frank picked up the pace again, his stabs loud and thudding. Onetwoonetwoonetwoonetwooneone––-
“Fuck!” Dave jerked his hand back, blood welling down the third knuckle. “Shit.” The pain, first icy and slim, bloomed into something much angier. He gritted his teeth as he cradled the hand, trying to keep his composure in front of the guys. In front of Frank.
“Ouch.” Frank’s voice was dry. “Looks like I win.” After a moment of silence, he reached across the table. “Lemme see.”
Dave looked to him, hesitantly extending the bleeding hand. He was ready to jerk back if Frank had any funny ideas, like jabbing the cut with his finger. Funniest joke in the book. Frank was careful, though, one hand supporting Dave’s as he looked at the narrow incision. Just a slice, hot blood freely trickling down in an orderly line. ‘
“You’ll live.” Frank decided, leaning in to press his lips to Dave’s hand. “There, kissed it better. Go ask Gecko for a Band-Aid.”
And Dave, without any other response to give, did. He stood, catching blood with his issued shirt, and went to find Gecko. When the door closed behind him, snickers broke out. Snickers about fucking up and stabbing himself, not Frank’s gesture. Somehow Dave felt like maybe he imagined that. Maybe he made it up.
The next day, Frank asked if he was ready for another round. Dave accepted.