Page 13 of War Games

“Okay, fine. I promise that I will try my hardest not to die.”

“Good. In that case, I’m out. I’ll talk to your bitch ass tomorrow,” she tells me. “Try to get some sleep, then in the morning, we can start hunting these assholes.”

Excitement drums through my veins as the idea of really getting to start the hunt truly sinks in. I feel as though I’ve been waiting a lifetime for this, and now that it’s finally here, I can barely keep myself contained. “It’s like music to my ears,” I tell my best friend. “You try and get some sleep too, okay? Because we both know that you’re going to lie down in your bed and close your eyes for all of three seconds before reaching for your phone again. Reaper and 343 can wait until tomorrow. They aren’t coming for me tonight.”

Mila scoffs, and I hear the smile in her tone. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I’m hanging up now.”

A laugh bubbles up my throat, and before I can say another word, my best friend is gone, leaving me alone to figure out my game plan for the next thirty days. Only problem with a competition like this is that my game plan needs to constantly evolve. This game can change by the minute, and though I need to be prepared, I don’t need to be prepared until tomorrow.

For now, all that matters is closing my eyes and dreaming about all the fun I won’t be having with Reaper.

5

SIREN

It’s officially night two of War Games, and I’ve never been so ready to cause havoc. I fly through the moonlit streets, handling my car like the complete wreck that I am. I can’t lie, while I’m more than happy to scream from the rooftops that I’m the best career killer out there—apart from Reaper, of course—I’m not too egotistical to not acknowledge my weaknesses. And driving just happens to be at the very top of that list.

I fucking suck. There’s no other way to put it. Mila and I taught ourselves how to drive, and while we’re more than capable of making it from point A to point B unscathed, it’s never pretty. The state of my car is embarrassing, but it’s fine. When it starts looking like it’s been involved in a head-on collision with a freight train, I simply dump it and steal another. It’s a great little routine I have.

My laptop slides across the leather passenger seat with every reckless corner I take, fighting for its life as I clutch a burrito in my free hand. I quickly glance toward the screen as it teeters on the seat’s edge, following the pinned location of The BostonManeater as he makes his way through the industrial park of Blue Springs.

This shit is too easy.

Despite my stern demand that Mila actually get some sleep, she stayed up until the early hours of this morning researching Reaper, and neither of us was surprised to find that she came up blank. So while she crashed, I tried my hand at the basic hacking skills she’s taught me over the years, and after three hours and four coffees, I found The Boston Maneater.

He has a name that draws attention so finding information about him online wasn’t hard. All his kills have been in a thirty-mile radius of Boston, Massachusetts, and after seeing his face last night, I’d put him in his late thirties. From there, it was simple. All I had to do was hack into every high school system in Boston and search the graduating classes from 2005 to 2008 until I found his face. And yeah, it was easy, but fuck, it took forever.

I was about ready to give up when I found him. And not only that, but I found his real identity. Nicholas Barrington.

A quick search showed that he was born and raised in Boston. He never really went anywhere or saw anything. He had an unremarkable childhood, and although he was a strange kid, there was nothing to raise alarms. Not until his mother was killed in a freak accident during his early teens. It all went downhill after that. His father became an abusive drunk and upon getting himself a brand-new step-mommy, he was kicked out to fend for himself.

I almost feel sorry for him. I know what it’s like to live on the streets as a teen and have to figure life out for yourself, but I don’t feel sorry enough not to kill him.

Figuring out his identity was one thing, but actually pinning a location on him was another. Once I had his name, the rest quickly fell into my lap. Now, to be fair, Mila would have foundhim in all of three seconds, but me? It took just a little longer, though the second I found his Facebook account, it was over for him. Even more so when the idiot decided to log on and check his notifications using a public Wi-Fi connection.

I had his location in the blink of an eye, and before I could convince myself to let someone else take out the trash, I was already throwing a bag of weapons in the car and backing out of my spot. Then, after almost taking out one of the resort’s famous pines, I found myself heading right back toward the industrial park.

To be completely honest, it’s not very creative, and for that alone, he deserves to be eliminated from the games. But getting to be the one who delivers his fate makes me feel all kinds of soft and gooey inside. I won’t lie, getting to make my first kill of the games excites me like never before. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years, but taking out a cannibal? It’s like music to my ears.

As I navigate the deserted backstreets of Blue Springs, I give myself a stomachache from eating my breakfast burrito too quickly. I pull onto the road that runs directly behind the warehouse where The Boston Maneater has decided to temporarily call home.

Bringing my car to a stop in a neighboring building, I cut the engine and climb out before checking my reflection in the car’s window. I’m not one who usually likes to dress the part. I like comfort, but these games are a special occasion, so I’ve put in all the effort. Tight black jeans that hug my ass just right with black combat boots. I’ve matched it with a black leather-bound corset crop, custom-made with hidden incisions that are perfect for my blades.

Straps decorate my thighs with my guns holstered in various positions, but I doubt they’ll be used. I prefer knives, so you can guarantee that anywhere you look on my body, you’ll find a widearray of them. Boots, jeans, crop, hair. You name it, I have a knife there somewhere.

My hair has been pulled up into a high pony with my long, dark strands plaited right down to the end, giving me the perfect whip, and while I can’t do shit with it, I’m all about the aesthetics today. Which is precisely why I opted for a perfect black lip and a cat’s-eye liner to complete the look.

I feel better than I ever have, and as I reach back into the car to grab my bag of weapons, I can’t help but glance over the laptop screen, confirming that The Boston Maneater is exactly where he should be.

A stupid grin pulls across my lips. This is going to be as easy as taking candy from a baby.

With my weapons all strapped in place, I go to leave when I spot my favorite ring just casually chilling out in my center console, begging to be taken out for a good night. I can’t possibly resist. She’s just so pretty.

Grabbing the brass ring, I slide it onto my middle finger and twist it just a fraction so that the sharp cat’s ears are sitting right in the center of my finger. This ring is very similar to the brass knuckles Crimson Rain wore last night. The only difference is that mine is much smaller, and it’s way too pretty to get bloody. I’ve never used it, but I’ve also never been on a job without it. It’s my lucky charm, and while some people don’t feel completely dressed without a shirt and pants, I don’t feel completely dressed without this ring.

With my ring in place, I decide that I’ve spent more than enough time fucking around and lock up the car before quickly scanning the old warehouse. There’s no one here, not even a stray cat. I knew that the second I drove in, but I watch my surroundings anyway as I stick to the shadows, not willing to put my life at risk for some loser who likes to gnaw on human flesh.I sure hope he’s had his fill tonight because it’s the last meal he’ll ever have.

His small warehouse hideout is in my direct line of sight as I make my move. It’s a dilapidated heap of shit compared to the building I parked behind, and judging by the graffiti on the boarded windows and the beer bottles littered around the parking lot, it’s fair to say it has seen its share of late nights.

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