Page 14 of War Games

My guess is that it’s been abandoned for maybe ten to fifteen years. The coloring on the outside has faded with time while some of the metal sheets making up its walls are missing. Anybody could get in and out. It offers no protection, no safety.

What the fuck was he thinking coming here?

I’m almost disappointed with how easy this is going to be. I won’t even need to lure him out, set a trap, or go hunting. There’s no chase here, simply a chance to practice my skills.

Ugh. I can’t believe I wasted a good outfit for this. I should have known better than to allow myself to get so worked up and excited. Hell, his name is The Boston Maneater for fuck’s sake. I should have known this was going to leave me unsatisfied. Not even in death could a man like that satisfy a woman.

Now a man like Reaper? Damn. Killing him will be everything. Dare I suggest it will be better than sex? The adrenaline of the chase, of hunting him and subduing him will be the best foreplay I’ve ever had. And those dark, lethal eyes when he realizes I’ve got him right where I want him. Only he’s going to make me work for it. He’s going to test me in every way possible, push me to my limits, push me until I break, and it’s going to be incredible.

Silently making my way into the small warehouse, I can’t help but grin. There’s a huge fan at the back, almost as tall as the building with its blades slowly rotating and constantly distorting the moonlight that shines through the building. Maybe The Boston Maneater has a little creativity after all.

It’s like the set of a horror movie in here, and as I appreciate my surroundings, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps across the cold concrete ground.

Bingo.

Sinking deeper into the shadows of the building, I crouch down low, watching as The Boston Maneater cuts across the warehouse. He looks as though he’s preparing to go hunting. The only issue is that his movements lack motivation, and it becomes clear that his version of hunting is to go in blind and hope he happens to find someone.

Fucking rookie.

Why are assholes like this even invited to these games? It’s supposed to be the best of the best, yet here’s a guy who likes to stir his coffee with someone’s big toe. Just the thought of it has me ready to wring his neck. He deserves to die simply for being incompetent.

The Boston Maneater begins filling his pockets with weapons and shoves a gun down the waistband of his torn jeans, and all I can do is shake my head. This idiot is embarrassing himself, but before he gets a chance to load up with too many weapons, I decide it’s finally time to make my move. After all, the sooner I get this over and done with, the sooner I get back to my holiday resort and enjoy my month-long vacation.

With The Boston Knee Nibbler more than distracted, I rise out of the shadows and slowly stride into the center of the warehouse. I watch him with every step he takes, completely unaware of his surroundings. His back doesn’t stiffen once. He doesn’t even flinch at the soft padding of my footsteps on the concrete. He’s either too confident and thinks he’s luring me into some bullshit trap, or he’s just stupid.

I’m going with what’s behind door number two. The guy is a fucking moron.

With the ginormous fan at my back, my shadow stretches out across the full length of the warehouse, the slow, spinning blades distorting my shape. It’s fucking beautiful. Poetic almost. And as The Boston Guts Gobbler shoves another cheap knife into his pocket, I withdraw one of mine from the incision of my corset crop.

“I really do wish I could stand here all night and watch you fill your pockets with useless weapons, but you’re starting to bore me.”

The Boston Testicle Taster freezes, his body stiffening like a rock as the gun in his hand drops to the hard concrete. He whips around, his eyes wide like saucers as he takes me in. “How did you get in here?” he demands.

My brows furrow. “Ummm . . . You mean how did I get into the warehouse that’s practically missing all of its sheet metal? Are you serious right now? There are more holes in this building than there are walls.”

He simply just stares back at me, his lips twisting into a scowl. “You made a mistake coming here, girl,” he says, quickly recovering from his shock of seeing me in the middle of his holey warehouse as he begins to stalk me, taking one large stride after the other. “Let me be very clear. I’m going to kill you now.”

I simply stare back at him. “Do you really eat people?”

He falters for just a second, the question throwing him off. “I . . . What? No,” he yells, quickly getting angry. “I don’t do that.”

“I don’t know,” I muse. “You don’t get a name like The Boston Maneater for nothing. I mean I know all you serial killers have weird and wonderful little quirks. But eating your victims? That’s just taking it a little too far, don’t you think?”

His jaw clenches, and as the fan continues to spin behind me and he gets closer, my shadow begins to flicker across his face.

“Tell me, oh wise ankle biter,” I continue. “Is there a difference in taste between a man and a woman? I take it a woman is a little more . . . tender.”

His face turns red, his hands balling into fists at his sides, and when he reaches for one of his many knives, a deep thrill pulses through me. “I DON’T FUCKING EAT PEOPLE!” He roars so loudly that even in the dark, holey warehouse, I see the spittle flying from his mouth, and then in a flash, he breaks into a sprint toward me.

His knife is clutched tightly, ready to decapitate me, but I simply watch him, timing his every step, and just when he gets close enough, I whip my body around, my foot coming out in a beautiful spinning kick that meets his temple with the force of an eighteen-wheeler.

His momentum keeps him moving forward, and I simply take a step to the side, watching him fall right to the ground. The harsh crack of his nose breaking against the concrete gives me goosebumps.

I suck in a breath through my teeth. I hadn’t really intended for him to break his nose, but sometimes these things are unavoidable. It’s not as though I can foresee the outcome of every ridiculous situation I get myself into, but I won’t lie, I’m not mad about it.

My little love tap to the temple wasn’t quite enough to knock him out completely, and as he groans in agony, I shove my foot into his shoulder and roll him onto his back. A pang of disappointment hits me when I see his own damn knife plunged through his chest. “Ahhh shit, Mr. Liver Lover, that’s unfortunate. I was so looking forward to the two of us spending some good quality time together.”

“You’re a”—gasp—“bitch.”

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