Page 27 of War Games

Though if I allow myself to be as foolish as I was tonight, then perhaps that whole living to see another day thing won’t actually be the case. I fucked up, made a colossal mistake, and if it weren’t for Reaper’s decision to show kindness, I would already be dead. But getting caught up in that rope wasn’t the only mistake I made. I wasn’t careful. I allowed myself to be tracked.

I’ve gotten too comfortable. Careless. I need to do better.

The Midnight Killer came into this old gym thinking he had the upper hand. He was luring 343 into a trap, but instead, all he managed to do was send himself to an early grave. On the other hand, 343 managed to get himself killed simply by not being aware of his surroundings. I won’t be that foolish again.

After retrieving both The Midnight Killer’s and 343’s IDs, I add them to my small pile. I officially have six, but to be completely honest, I don’t feel great about it. I killed The Boston Maneater fair and square, and I was happy to take claim over theprevious kills he’d collected. As for 343 and The Midnight Killer, I can’t help but feel that these belong to Reaper. I may have helped 343 fall and break his back, but Reaper was the one who finished him.

They’re not mine to claim, and while I don’t doubt that he’ll return at some point to collect them, I feel wrong having them at all. Despite being a contract killer—and one of the most wanted persons across the globe—I like to consider myself somewhat of a rule follower. I play fair, and while I’m happy to hold onto the IDs just to ensure no one else gets their grubby hands on them, I don’t consider them mine.

Now, as for the two knives Reaper so happily parted with in this charred gym, I’m more than happy to claim them as my own. They can be a souvenir, something to remind me of what comes from foolishness. Though, just like the IDs, I’m sure Reaper will come looking for these too. Unfortunately for him, if he wants them back, he will have to pry them out of his own damn chest.

I pull the first one straight out of 343’s throat, and despite the blood staining the blade, it’s clear that this isn’t some run-of-the-mill knife. This is custom-made, the hilt created to fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, and judging by the craftsmanship and the etched design of the Grim Reaper on the blade, I can only assume this didn’t come cheap.

After wiping the blood off the blade, I sheath it into one of my holsters before searching the gym for the other blade. And because nothing worth having is easy, it’s hanging from the metal beam in the ceiling.

“Shit.”

I consider leaving it behind, but a knife like this, covered in his fingerprints, is practically a calling card, and for whatever reason, I feel like I need to protect Reaper. After all, he threwthis blade with the intention of saving my life, and for that, I owe him. The only issue is figuring out how the fuck to get up there.

Being the brightest crayon in the box, the best idea I can come up with is to simply launch shit at it until it dislodges from the metal beam, and with the confidence of a drunk sorority girl on the dance floor, I start hauling weights through the air.

My confidence quickly begins to run out when my arm starts getting sore, but I persist until a five-pound dumbbell finally slams into the blade, setting the bastard free. Only it doesn’t just drop to the ground, the momentum from the hit has it whipping through the charred gym, and I fly to the ground, doing what I can to protect my head until the blade finally clatters to the ground.

I quickly find it covered in soot, and after wiping it off, I sheath it next to its match before finally getting my ass moving. Then, as I start up my black Range Rover and peel out onto the main road, I press Mila’s name on my phone and wait for her to answer the call and bitch me out.

“The fuck was that?” Mila demands not a moment later. “If you were trying to get yourself killed, you should have just told me. I could have easily done it for you.”

A stupid grin stretches across my face, and I relax back into the driver’s seat, getting comfortable for the trip back to my villa. “I’m okay, Mills,” I tell her. “There’s barely a scratch on me. Besides, have you ever been hung from your hair and almost scalped? It was quite the adventure.”

10

REAPER

Frustration burns through me.

Ever since my run-in with Siren, I’ve been in a perpetual state of hardness. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get my mind off her. I can’t stop thinking about the way she smelled or how her body felt pressed up against mine. I can’t force my mind not to picture the way she challenged me or erase the sweet hint of her arousal in the air.

She was wet for me, and I was fucking ruined.

Not a single person I’ve ever met in my lifetime has ever had the balls to step up to me like that. They know who and what I am the second their terrified stares meet mine, and as a general rule, they run in the opposite direction. Yet despite her fear, she raised that fucking chin of hers, met my eye, and stood her ground. It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Sure, I could have ended it there, walked away and madly jerked off until I put it all behind me. Only when she walked out of that alley and had the audacity to suggest I didn’t have the balls to man up and fuck her, I was ruined. But there’s no doubtabout it now, the next time I see her, I will give her exactly what she wants.

The whole time her body was pressed against mine, all I wanted was to bend her over and hear her scream for me, but what can I say? I was a gentleman. I didn’t even threaten to kill her. Well, I mean, I didn’t threaten that straight away. I waited. I was enjoying myself too much, and to be honest, enjoying myself with a target isn’t something I often get to do.

I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again, Siren intrigues me, and I suddenly find myself a little less interested in War Games, and completely focused on her. It’s a real shame that I will eventually have to kill her, but I don’t see why we can’t spend the next twenty-five days making every second count.

I need to hear her scream for me. Taste her. Feel her. Watch how she rides my cock, and despite not having touched her yet, I can already tell that with her, it will be incredible. Siren isn’t the type to hold back. She’ll wind me up until I can’t possibly take it anymore, and only then will she ride me harder.

I can’t fucking wait, but what the hell am I supposed to do about this fucking erection until then? Like I said, I’m in a perpetual state of hardness. The second I think I’ve dealt with it, it comes right back, ready to cause me hell, and the only thing that’s going to put me at ease is sinking into her tight little cunt.

Until then, my only hope is the next best thing—taking someone’s life.

Striding through the city center, I track down the brothers—The Boneyard Slayer and The Texan Reaper. I hadn’t intended on stumbling across them tonight. My plans had mostly included hiding out by Siren’s villa and making sure she didn’t do anything stupid enough to get herself eliminated from the games before I settled my score with her. But now that the brothers have reared their ugly heads, I can’t possibly resist figuring out what—or who—has drawn them out.

For the past week, they’ve kept their heads down, laid low and waited for everyone else to do the brunt of the work. They don’t strike me as the type to be capable of tracking and hunting in the way a trained assassin would. They’re more like opportunists, picking their victims by whoever seems to be the closest when the mood strikes. When it comes to brains, these two have none. Which could only mean another contender is close by.

I watch them meticulously. Tracking their every step while keeping concealed. I don’t have the intention to take them out tonight. It’s too soon in the games to make such a big move. I need to lure them into a false sense of security, and just when they think they’ve got this shit in the bag, I’ll be happy to remind them of their positions—six feet under.

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