Page 100 of Sinners Retreat

“Hey, you don’t have to kill me,” the man says with his palms held toward me. “Just let me keep going. I’ll hunker down somewhere until this is over.”

He’s not wrong. He’s in a yellow jumpsuit, which means I don’t have to kill him. I can let him keep going toward his own fate while I try to figure out mine.

But then my eyes fall to the gash in his side. Blood surrounds the tear in the fabric, but when he moves, his skin looks undamaged beneath the stain.

“You’re injured,” I say as I pull my overnight bag onto my lap. “I have a first-aid kit in here. At least let me help you.”

He takes a step back. “Why would you want to help me? Aren’t you here to hunt me?”

“I only hunt pink and red,” I say. “You’re yellow, so you’re safe. Some of us have a code we follow.”

“Right, yeah. I’m yellow.”

He steps closer now. He’s near enough that I can see the way the blood vessels have burst in his thick nose. I glance down at his shoes, which, aside from some dirt and a few small leaves, look brand new. He keeps his injured side turned away from me, though.

I keep digging through my bag.

“So how did a pretty girl like you end up in a shit hole like this?” He sits beside me on the log, and the hairs rise on my arm. He’s too close.

“Oh, you know. Life.” I offer a laugh that I hope sounds more convincing to him than it does to me. “Let me see your injury.”

He doesn’t move, and that only solidifies my decision.

With a deep breath, I wrap my fingers around the handle of a dagger, then pull it from the bag and jam it into his neck. Before he has a chance to register what’s happening, I twist the blade so that it’s horizontal, then yank to the right, opening his entire throat.

A red waterfall pours down his chest. His hands reach upward, trying to stop the death tide, but he only succeeds in pushing his head backward. He’s barely attached at this point.

As his body slumps to the jungle carpet, I step over him. Red foam gurgles around his open trachea as his body continues to function. This won’t last for much longer, though. Not with the way he’s bleeding out.

“I had my suspicions when I didn’t see a wound on your side, but what really sealed the deal was your shoes.”

His mouth opens and closes, trying to form words, but I’ve severed the connection. I don’t want to hear anything he has to say.

“With an injury to the side, you should have been bleeding like a stuck pig,” I continue as I wipe my blade with a velvety leaf. “Your shoes were spotless. That’s when I knew you’d killed one of your fellow scumbags and stolen their jumpsuit. Thanks for playing, though.”

I drop the leaf onto his face and return to my log. While he’s busy boarding a slow train to hell, I sift through my bags. Participating in the hunt wasn’t on my bingo card, but here the fuck we are.

My overnight bag houses several weapons, as well as my weapon belt. I fasten it around my waist, then begin sliding daggers, throwing stars, and throwing knives into their pouches and slots. Once that’s situated, I reach for the big guns in my luggage.

They aren’t actual guns, but they are what I consider my larger artillery. I strap my spare bowie knife around my thigh, pop a large switchblade into my pocket, and consider strapping on my sais. I decide against them in the end. I’ve done very little training with them, and I’m in a life-or-death scenario now. There is no room for error.

“Let’s fucking do this.”

I look down at my luggage. It’ll be incredibly difficult to fight my way out of this jungle while lugging an overnight bag and my suitcase, so I leave it by the log and study my surroundings. If I can remember where I left it, I can always come back for it.

Or I can just leave it behind, along with my memories of this nightmare vacation.

I toss some leaves and jungle debris onto the bags, shielding them from view. Once I make it out of here, I’ll decide if any of it is worth returning for. The vibrator is tainted now, so it won’t be a major loss. Using it will only make me think of him, as will wearing most of the clothes.

“At least you were faithful,” I whisper toward the hidden bag.

An unfamiliar tree with thick green vines spiraling around its warped trunk stands to my right, so I head in that direction. Damp air collects on my arms, legs, and face, where it mixes with my sweat. Mascara runs into my eyes, and I curse myself for wanting to look cute on the plane ride.

In my defense, I blame my warped imagination and the visions of Ezra racing after my plane as it taxied down the runway. I wanted to look from my window and give him a good view of what his actions have cost him. He’s probably still sound asleep.

He probably doesn’t even care.

Tears mix with the mess on my face. I grit my teeth to bite them back. He doesn’t deserve any more of my pain.

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