Page 21 of War Games

“Alright. Let me know how it goes.”

I arrive at the gym within fifteen minutes and park in a side alley next to the neighboring complex. Mila wasn’t lying when she said the old gym had burned down. The place is practically a shell. Well, that’s a little bit of an exaggeration. Four charred walls still stand, and that’s all that counts.

Breaking into the old gym consists of nothing more than stepping over yellow police tape that looks as though it’s been here for years. The new gym across the road has been there long enough for the signage to start fading, so I can only assume the old gym burned down years ago and the city either didn’t have the funds to level it, or they simply didn’t care to.

I’m not so obvious as to stride right through the charred remains of what once was the front door, so I find a missing section of wall to make my grand entrance. Though, considering there isn’t another soul in sight, there’s really nothing grand about it.

I make my way inside and scope out the gym. It’s not the best location for a kill, but I can definitely see why The Midnight Killer wanted to lure 343 here. It’s dark with no surveillance, and the building, despite not having much to it anymore, still boasts the metal framework. It’s got potential, and to be completely honest, I can’t figure out why the owner has left it abandoned all these years. There’s so much that could be done with it. It just needs a little love first.

It’s clear that teens have often used the space as their weekend hang out area. What little walls still remain are covered ingraffiti while a space has been cleared in the center that’s now filled with mismatched deck chairs and loungers. Not to mention the empty beer bottles and a broken bong discarded on the ground.

I’m hidden well within the old gym when I hear the familiar sound of someone’s feet crunching through the charred remains. My gaze follows the sound, expecting to see The Midnight Killer, arriving early to set his trap, only when a scrawny tech guy cuts through the gym, my brows arch. Perhaps he knew he was being lured into a trap after all.

The Midnight Killer is a big guy. It’s clear he spends a lot of his time in places just like this, though I’m expecting the gyms he frequents aren’t exactly in this condition. 343 on the other hand, is his polar opposite. He’s scrawny and looks as though he’s never ventured further than his mother’s basement. I can only assume that guys like 343 spent their whole childhood running away from men like The Midnight Killer, and I hope that if 343 is able to make the kill, it gives him at least a little joy. Though that joy won’t last long since I have to take him out afterward.

It’s roughly fifteen minutes until midnight, and I can assume that The Midnight Killer will be arriving soon, and with what little time he has, 343 begins setting up the area, clearly unaware of his audience.

He begins moving weights around the room, putting them in easily accessible places as he tries to anticipate how this is going to go. He’ll have one shot to take out The Midnight Killer before he overpowers him, so whatever he does, he’s got to make it count.

He hangs ropes over the exposed metal beams and positions the stray deck chairs and loungers in ways that make any line of escape difficult. 343 clearly knows what he’s doing. He’s obviously very smart, which is how I assume he’s been able to get this far without getting caught. It’s probably also safe to assumehis usual victims are men just like The Midnight Killer—men who have lived solely for the purpose of making guys like 343 miserable.

Once 343 has the gym exactly how he wants it, he fixes a few portable surveillance cameras on top of old machinery, and I hold my breath as he positions one far too close for comfort. But he’s clearly not as smart as he thinks he is as he turns the camera away from me and walks over to one of the benches. He sits down, makes sure all the cameras are working and connected to his phone, and then walks straight back out of the gym.

Fucking idiot.

I take the few minutes alone to pull out my phone and give Mila a quick update.

Siren – 343 put up cameras in the gym. Can you get in?

Mila – Give me two minutes.

I wait for what feels like an eternity before I feel my phone softly vibrating in my back pocket. My finger brushes over the small earpiece in my right ear, and a second later, Mila’s voice comes through the line. “I’m in,” she tells me. “You good?”

“Mmhmm.”

She knows I can’t respond. After all, she’s got my exact location at all times. She knows I’m right in the middle of the gym, doing what I can not to get sprung, so she doesn’t push me for any more of a response than that.

“343 is in the back. I assume he’s in what used to be a storage room. It’s too small to be a bathroom.”

I nod, despite Mila not being able to see me. “And The Midnight Killer?” I murmur, keeping my voice as low as possible.

“343 set up a few cameras outside. A black charger is pulling into the parking lot of the new gym. Could be him.”

“What’s he look like?”

She pauses, waiting as the guy finishes parking his car before finally getting out. “Big guy. Looks like he’s on roids. Dressed in all black. Could be your guy,” she says. “Hold up. We have a winner. He’s crossing the road.”

A grin pulls at the corners of my lips, excitement pulsing through my veins.

“Fuck me,” Mila scoffs. “He’s not even trying to be discreet about it. I think this guy’s ego is too big for his own head. There’s something about the way he walks. He’s too confident.”

“Yeah, well he’s about to walk straight into a trap.”

“Oop. He’s got a gun. Watch your back,” she tells me just as I hear 343 creeping back toward the main floor of the charred gym. “He’s almost there. Walking through the main entrance in three . . . two . . . one.”

A figure appears right at the door, striding into the gym as though he hasn’t got a care in the world. A twisted grin rests on his lips, and as I take my phone from my back pocket and spare a quick glance at the time, I’m not surprised to find it’s exactly midnight.

It’s almost poetic. Actually, I change my mind. It’s more lame than poetic. It’s predictable, and in this line of business, predictability is what gets you killed.

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