Page 5 of War Games

She’s too young to have the experience required to win these games, and without a doubt, if it came down to me or her at the very end, I would have no choice but to sacrifice myself in order to see her survive. I couldn’t live with myself afterward if I did what had to be done to win.

Fuck.

This certainly changes things.

Feeling an agonizing pain forming deep in the pit of my stomach, I tear my gaze away from the girl and try to focus on the other contenders in the competition. But seeing the way the other killers keep looking at the girl as an easy target makes my hands ball into fists.

I didn’t sign up for babysitting, but something tells me that’s exactly what this next month is going to look like.

Anger pulses through my veins. These games aren’t something you simply sign up for. You’re selected, which means some asshole in his mother’s basement tracked her down on the dark web, figured out how to get in contact with her, and then thought it would be entertaining to see what would come from offering her an invitation.

Fucking bastard.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand being good at what you do and wanting to prove yourself, but what the fuck is even happening here? Could she not have waited a few years before accepting to participate in bullshit like this? She has her whole fucking life ahead of her.

I try to shake the thought from my head, knowing damn well that I’m here to do a job. I can’t focus on this kid’s health and well-being while I’m supposed to memorize the faces of the men and women I have to kill.

Fifteen minutes in, the man standing directly opposite me in the circle takes a slight step forward. There’s a nervousness in his eyes that I understand all too well, but he holds his head high as he gives up the required information. “The name’s Stone.”

My brow arches as he steps back into position. The name seems familiar to me, though most of them will. I do what I can to keep up to date with all of this shit, needing to know what other monsters lurk through city streets, who poses a threat to me, and who needs to be handled for their own good. If this is the same Stone I’m thinking of, then he won’t be a problem, and I’d assume he’d be targeted early on in these games.

There’s at least a full thirty seconds of silence before the next contender steps forward—a woman standing to my left. “Silver,” she says, her eyes bouncing around the circle as if daring someone to try something.

Her hands ball into tight fists, ready for any threat that might come her way, but before she steps back into formation, another woman with blazing red hair steps forward, a filthy smirk on her face as she pierces Silver with a laser-sharp stare. “Gasoline.”

Silver’s stare widens with surprise before pure rage darkens her gaze, making it more than obvious there’s history between the two, which is probably the worst scenario in this situation. Every other asshole in this room now knows they’ll be so focused on taking out one another that their guards will be down, which is where you make mistakes. And once you slip even a little, you’re as good as dead.

The next contender steps forward. “The Executioner.”

Then, like a wave, the rest follow.

“The Boneyard Slayer,” a big, burly man says, his eyes dancing around the room. A cockiness in his tone suggests that he is someone I’ll need to keep a close eye on.

“Blade.”

“Grim.”

I barely make note of these two. They’re weak. They’ll be gone by the end of the night.

Next up, another woman. “Crimson Rain.”

This one might have potential. Her walls are up, and she’s not allowing anyone to get a good read on her. I like that. It could work in her favor, but the nervousness in her eyes might be her downfall. I’ll have to keep an eye on this one.

“Slasher.”

“Raven.”

“The Boston Maneater.”

This one brings me pause, my stomach churning with unease. The Boston Maneater? He can’t be serious. The majority of us have received our aliases from law enforcement or the media, and they’re generally somewhat related to our crimes. Once the name has been whispered across the media, you’re stuck with it for life. I just hope there’s been a misunderstanding here because right now, I’m picturing this guy hovering over his kill, gnawing on a bone like a dog.

Every face around the circle mimics my disgust, and clearly sensing our indifference, The Boston Maneater goes to say something, his hand inching up as his mouth opens, probably preparing some kind of defense, but he quickly hesitates. Here and now isn’t the time to get into it.

We’re well past halfway when movement to my right causes my gaze to shift. A petite woman with dark hair and blazing green eyes steps forward, and her confidence makes me uneasy. “I’m Siren,” she says without even a note of nervousness. Her tone suggests she’s here to have the best time of her life.

Siren, huh? I know that name.

She’s one hell of a threat, maybe my biggest one yet, but she’s got nothing on me. She’s a contract killer, and she’s more than efficient at her job. Some say she’s the best in the field, but that’s because most think I’m more of a legend or ghost story rather than a real man.

---