Page 4 of War Games

I don’t know what possessed me to accept this year’s invitation. This isn’t my scene. I suppose I’m getting bored and need something to light a spark under my ass, a real challenge to keep me on my toes. So when the invitation dropped into my inbox, I found myself quickly accepting.

Blue Springs is a tourist town away from the hustle and bustle of city life and the perfect location for War Games. I have to give it to the organizers; they know how to pick a great destination.Blue Springs is a small town with picturesque scenery. We’re talking impressive mountains, a magnificent lake, an expansive cave system, and that’s all before I’ve even considered what the town itself has to offer.

There’s an industrial area I’ll be sure to utilize. After all, if I’m going to make the most of this trip, I might as well have a little fun with it. Fuck knows I need a little fun in my life. There are the usual places like movie theaters, a mall, parks, and budget hotels, but as I drive through the town, these places aren’t calling to me.

I’m five minutes out from the warehouse where we’ll make the first point of contact for the games, and as I drive, I listen to the local sheriff’s department. I’m not surprised to find they’re already on top of the bullshit that’s about to come down on their peaceful town, but it also becomes comically clear that they’re not going to be an issue. They think we’re still days out from the commencement of the games.

They know we’re coming, but what little resources they have aren’t enough to even attempt to hold us back. There’s a grand total of six cops in Blue Springs, and sure, I can guarantee they’ll call in backup over the next few days when bodies begin showing up, but by the time they find any sort of evidence, the games will be long gone.

For the most part, the games have strict rules.

We’re here to play, not torment the town of Blue Springs, and while there have been slip-ups in the past, we’re not to mess with the people. They didn’t sign up for this shit, and for the most part, we’ll leave the town just as sparkly as it was when we first arrived. Minus a few slight inconveniences, of course.

After finding the industrial area, I pull my car into a dark alley, far away from the meeting spot, not wanting my car to be tagged or become familiar to any of the other contenders. After cuttingthe engine, I slip out into the night, silently making my way through the quiet streets, keeping to the shadows.

I hear footsteps in the streets of other contenders making their way toward the warehouse, too confident with their own skills to conceal themselves. It’s people like that who’ll be the first eliminated. Not by me though. People who make themselves easy targets don’t interest me. I like the ones who make me work for the kill. I like the challenge of tracking a ghost, of drawing them out, blindsiding them, and the Twenty-Third Annual Serial Killer War Games promises just that. Though, I’ll have to be patient. The prey I’m after won’t be easy to find. They will bide their time in this twisted game.

Moving through the industrial area, I slip between old buildings, cutting through the back of rundown properties until finally launching myself over one final fence and coming to a stop in the side alley next to the warehouse.

There are a few cars parked down the street, each of them attempting to be discreet as though they’re not about to step out of their cars and walk directly into the warehouse and out themselves as one of the contenders.

Despite the games not officially starting until after our induction meeting, I’m on high alert and can sense the people around me. Any of these fuckers could strike at a moment’s notice, especially when ten million dollars is on the line. And while there certainly are strict rules, there are definitely a few that the bastard organizers would turn a blind eye to.

Personally, I don’t care for the money.

I’ve been a contract killer for well over fifteen years. I charge what I want, and the assholes sick enough to hire me are willing to pay whatever it takes to get the job done. I have more money than I know what to do with, stashed in multiple accounts across the globe. I couldn’t even guess how much there is, but there’smore than enough to ensure I never have to work again. The only issue with retiring is that I enjoy working.

This next month though, this isn’t work. This is play.

Glancing down at my watch, I take in the time. It’s 11:59 p.m. One minute to go.

Contenders approach the warehouse from all directions, skeptically eyeing each other as they mentally make plans of attack. They’re all looking for the weakest link.

It’s already clear to me who the contract killers are opposed to the serial killers. There’s a different sense of stealth between them. The assassins have training. They stick to the shadows and watch the other contenders like prey, while the serial killers walk straight through the moonlight, their egos too big for their own good. They’ll be the first to go. In fact, over the past twenty-two years, I don’t think a serial killer has ever won these games. It’s always been a contract killer.

They start making their way into the warehouse and not having enough visibility, I slip over the top of the fence and drop to the ground, putting me right by the warehouse. Then, without skipping a beat, I move right into the building, bring my elbow up in a shallow arc, and shatter the side window.

Reaching in, I feel around for the window latch until my fingers brush over the cool metal lock. I quickly unlatch it before finally sliding the window open. Not wasting any time, I pull myself up and through the window before coming down inside what appears to be an abandoned office space.

An old desk sits covered in dust, and the shelves have been torn down and discarded haphazardly across the small office. I move around it, making my way to the internal door, and without a moment of hesitation, I reach for the handle and let myself out into the main floor of the old warehouse.

Most of the windows have been boarded up, and there’s a distinct ammonia smell in the air that suggests someone hasbeen cooking something up in here. I wouldn’t blame them. It’s the perfect location. Away from the busy streets, no surveillance, and it has more than enough space for the perfect setup. Either way, I don’t really give a fuck.

Sensing the people around me, I make the first move, stepping out of the shadows and revealing myself. Then, one by one, the other nineteen contenders do the same until we’ve formed a large circle in the center of the warehouse.

This part of the initiation process is simple. Reveal yourself.

We must form a circle, and once the final contender has arrived, the clock will start. We’ll stand for forty-five minutes, allowing everyone the chance to learn the faces of the other men and women they’ll be responsible for hunting. During this time, they must learn as many details as they can because it’s the only chance they’ll have to learn who they’re up against. Then, at some point during those forty-five minutes, we must reveal our aliases.

Once the clock stops, the games have officially begun and nobody will be safe. It’s life or death, no holding back. It’s imperative that we use our time wisely, read the competition, get inside their heads, and figure out who the fuck they are. Otherwise, you’ll be the first one knocked out of the games.

In a flash of blinding light, an overhead spotlight is remotely turned on, and as the shadows are expelled from the warehouse, the faces of the killers around me become real.

There’s a large clock in the center of the circle counting down the final forty-five minutes before the games commence, and I immediately begin committing their faces to memory.

My first quick scan tells me there are thirteen men and seven women, only my gaze stops on one woman . . . orgirl, and I’m too shocked to continue my initial assessment. This blue-eyed girl with dark hair is only a child. She’s no older than twelve or thirteen. There’s a darkness in her eyes that tells me she’s seenfar more than any child should witness. However, in contrast to the youthfulness of her features, it’s almost off-putting.

What the fuck is this kid thinking walking into a game like this? Does she not understand that these men and women around her won’t hesitate to brutally end her life? I have a moral compass and draw the line at hurting children, but the assholes around me sure as fuck don’t.

---