Anthony Jr. assumed a batter’s stance about ten feet away and took a few practice swings. Rakkim felt the breeze on his face.

“You sure you want to do this, Anthony?” said Rakkim.

“Fuck yes,” said Anthony Jr.

Rakkim stood relaxed, watching them close in. If there had been only two of them, he might have kept a wall at his back, but in this kind of situation, he preferred mobility.

“He got a blade,” said the first hyena.

“You got us really terrified, mister,” snickered the one beside Anthony Jr., a bandy-legged punk missing a couple of front teeth. He blew balls of spit when he talked. “We took down some soldier boys last month. They had knives too. Lot bigger than that little bitty thing of yours.”

“Careful of this guy,” warned Anthony Jr. “He’s not like the other ones.”

“I hit a home run on one of them soldier boys,” said the first hyena. “Blew out his kneecap and he practically begged us to take his gear.” He held up his left wrist. “This here’s his watch. What time you got, mister?”

“You can keep your watch, Rakkim,” said Anthony Jr. “My father thinks you’re hot shit and that counts for something. You want to hand over your wallet, we’ll call it even.”

“Good to see a son who respects his father,” said Rakkim.

“You going to give us the wallet?” said Anthony Jr.

Rakkim looked from one to the other, shook his head. “I’m carrying three or four thousand dollars. I’d hate to lose that.”

“Fucking jackpot,” said the punk next to Anthony Jr., lunging forward, eager now.

“I said be careful,” said Anthony Jr. “He’s Fedayeen.”

“He’s Fedayeen,” the first hyena mimicked in a high falsetto. He tossed his blond curls, pretended to yawn, then attacked, the bat raised high.

Rakkim stepped into the charge, dodged the bat, and jabbed him in the shoulder with his knife, just a little stick, turned, and poked the other hyena in the chest, felt Anthony Jr.’s bat whistle past his head, and stuck him in the belly, then slid the tip of the knife across the chin of the toothless punk as he swung and missed with the bat. It had been one smooth, continuous movement on Rakkim’s part, a dance move where he was the only one who could hear the music. A Fedayeen training game, one they played every day in boot camp, parry and thrust, feint and jab, using only the very tip of the knife, just enough to draw blood, not enough to do lasting damage. By the end of boot camp, most of the recruits had at least a hundred scars. Rakkim had barely a dozen.

The four of them came at him again and he stuck each of them in turn, dodging and twisting, always someplace where they didn’t expect him, the tip of the knife nipping their arms and legs, their back and sides, hands and face. They came at him again and again, howling with pain and frustration, cursing as he slipped out of reach, but still coming after him, blood flying, their trench coats in ribbons.

Rakkim slowed slightly, as though tired, and Anthony Jr. unwound, swinging for the fences. Rakkim backed away at the last moment, and the bat caught the first hyena square in the chest. It sounded like a tree limb cracking. The hyena made a small sound, more of a moist gasp, then collapsed onto the alley. His bat rolled across the cobblestones.

“What did you do, Anthony?” squealed the other hyena, rushing over to help. Rakkim had sliced his right ear, cartilage flapping as he ran. “What did you do?”

“I…can’t…breathe,” hissed the first hyena, as his brother bent beside him.

“You’re okay.” Anthony Jr. was bleeding too, but he still circled Rakkim, the bat cocked.

“Can’t…can’t…breathe,” repeated the first hyena. A bubble of blood inflated from one nostril. Popped.

“I’m getting him to a hospital,” said the other hyena. He slid an arm under his brother.

The first hyena screamed as he was lifted.

“We got a job to finish,” said Anthony Jr.

“We’re finished,” muttered the other hyena, carrying his brother down the alley.

“This ain’t right, Anthony,” said the punk with the missing teeth. His trench coat was spattered with blood, his face opened up. “This guy’s a buzz saw.”

“Okay, he’s got some moves,” admitted Anthony Jr. “So do we.”

The punk shook his head and trotted down the alley after the others.

Anthony Jr. stared at Rakkim. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“They don’t give medals for that. They should, but they don’t.”

Anthony Jr. hefted the bat, his knuckles slick with blood. “We still got to settle up for what you did to me at the Super Bowl. I stole that wallet fair and square.”

Rakkim held up a hand. “Take a breath.”

In spite of himself, Anthony Jr. did what he was told.

“Tell your father, I’m going to recommend you for the Fedayeen.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious.” The Fedayeen had a high fatality rate, but the way Anthony Jr. was going, he had better odds in uniform than on the street.

Anthony Jr. peered at him. “Don’t fuck with me. I won’t tolerate that.”

“I’m not fucking with you.”

Anthony Jr. slowly nodded. “Thank you.” He slipped the bat back into his trench coat, hands trembling. “I mean…I’d like that.”

“You won’t be thanking me once you hit boot camp, but maybe you will when you get through it. If you get through it.”

“I’ll get through it.” Anthony Jr. glanced around. “Is it true what they say? You know. Fedayeen…you’re amped up, aren’t you?”

“No, it’s not true.”

“Come on. Look what you just did to me and my boyos. They do something to you when you become Fedayeen, don’t they? New and improved, that’s what I want.”

“Fedayeen aren’t supermen.”

“No way you’re normal.”

Rakkim laughed. “Well, that’s true. The thing about Fedayeen…after the first month of basic, the docs take the ones who survive, the ones who haven’t dropped dead or quit, and they give them the cocktail.”

“What’s that, some magic potion?”

“Gene therapy. It’s a series of injections-”

“I knew it.”

“It’s not magic. Ninety-eight percent of what makes Fedayeen so dangerous is training. Training and…attitude. All the gene juice in the world isn’t going to help if you don’t have the right attitude, and all the attitude won’t do you any good without the training. In fact, attitude without the training is guaranteed to get you killed. What the cocktail does is allow you to train at a level no one else could physically or mentally tolerate. Fedayeen basic lasts for a whole year, a year of ten-mile swims and fifty-mile runs, of improvised weaponry and hand-to-hand combat in heat and cold, and in that whole time you’re lucky if you get three hours of sleep a night. The cocktail makes it possible. Fedayeen have quick reflexes. They have a high pain threshold, a perfect sense of direction, and their wounds heal faster, but it’s the training that makes a Fedayeen. Are you ready for that?”

“This cocktail…you still got it inside you?”

Rakkim nodded. “It’s permanent.”

“Once Fedayeen, always Fedayeen, that’s what they say.”

“That’s what they say.”

“I want it.”

“Tell me if you still believe that when you get through your first year.”

Anthony Jr. grinned. “You said when, not if.”

“You should go home and take care of those cuts. You want me to tell your father?”

“I can handle it.” Anthony Jr. stared at him, plucked at his lip. “Rakkim…sir, how could you leave the Fedayeen? Why would you want to?”

Rakkim smiled. There was hope for the kid yet.