Page 22 of War Games

The Midnight Killer strides around the old gym, taking it all in as though he hadn’t bothered to scope it out before making this the location of his hit. Big mistake if you ask me. He’s done nothing more than a simple Google search, and because of that, he’ll lose his life tonight.

He searches the gym for another minute before lowering himself into one of the mismatched deck chairs, facing the main entrance. Mistake number two. As a general rule, no one is stupid enough to walk straight through the front door—except this guy of course. He should be watching his back, not the door.

“Is this guy for real?” Mila scoffs in my ear, the judgment thick in her slight Russian accent.

343 appears from the back, slowly creeping closer, only as he gets the perfect visual of The Midnight Killer, he pauses to assess, taking in his position in relation to every last possible exit. Whatever conclusion he comes to, he seems to be happy to finally make his move, silently creeping toward him.

He reaches for the rope dangling from the metal beam in the exposed ceiling, clutching it tightly in his palm before fixing his stare on The Midnight Killer. He stops directly behind him, tying a noose in the rope, and as the opposite end of the rope shifts with the movement, The Midnight Killer’s head whips around. Only it’s too late.

The noose is hooked over his head, and before he gets a chance to move one of those beefy muscles, 343 shoves one of the heavy weights he’d so carefully placed around the charred gym, and like lightning, the noose tightens around his neck and sends him flying to the ceiling, his neck snapping almost instantly.

“What in the ever-loving fuck just happened?” Mila murmurs, just as confused as I am.

I watch in amazement. I wasn’t quite sure what I was expecting to happen, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. Then, as 343 sets his sights on the dangling limp man hanging from the ceiling, I lean out from my hiding spot, trying to figure out how the hell he got up there. It takes me a moment to work it out in the dark, but it looks like he made a pulley system out of the rope, the weights, and the metal beam.

I have to give it to him. It was genius, and now The Midnight Killer is completely at his mercy. I suppose that’s what happens when kids actually pay attention at school instead of spending their days trying to get laid.

343 sits back in the deck chair that The Midnight Killer so violently flew from and simply waits, his work for the night done and dusted.

It was impressive. I’ve got to give credit where credit is due. I wouldn’t have thought of it.

The Midnight Killer is gone in seconds, and once his body goes completely still, 343 finally pulls himself from the deck chair and begins climbing up the gym equipment. He reaches toward the body, digging through the guy’s pocket, probably searching for his identification, and I figure, what better time to announce myself than now?

“Alright, Mila,” I murmur, keeping my voice as low as possible. “If you don’t want to see your hero go down, then I suggest it’s time to look away.”

“Go get him, girl.” The line goes quiet, but it doesn’t go dead, and I don’t doubt that Mila is chilling in the background, always watching my back.

Stepping out from where I’ve been hidden for almost forty-five minutes, I step toward 343, my gaze cast up toward the ceiling as I watch him struggle to balance while fishing through The Midnight Killer’s wallet.

I clap my hands together, giving him a round of applause. “Wow, that was quite the show,” I say, only my presence in the charred gym surprises him a little too much and the idiot loses his balance. He falls back with a loud cry, and I watch in horror as he crashes to the ground, the center of his spine slamming down on a discarded dumbbell and sending a sickening crack through the gym.

His body shifts, somehow releasing the opposite end of the rope that was keeping The Midnight Killer suspended in the air. As The Midnight Killer’s body slams back to the ground, the rope catches in the back of my hair, knotting itself and sending me flying right up to the ceiling.

“Holy fucking—woah! FUCK!” I cry out, suddenly dangling from my hair as I clutch onto my scalp, hoping like fuck this isn’t how I die. Not like this. I’m better than this.

A second of silence passes as I try to assess the situation.

The Midnight Killer is dead. 343 is paralyzed on the ground. And I am hanging from my hair.

How the fuck did we get here?

“Siren?” Mila asks in my ear. “Please tell me I’m not seeing you hanging by your hair when you’re supposed to be making a quick kill and getting your ass out of there?”

Well, shit. That’s embarrassing. “I’ll be fine, Mills. Just give me a minute to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to get out of this.”

“Okay. Don’t do anything stupid,” she says. “Oh wait. You already did!”

“Bye, Mills.”

“Don’t die on me, moron,” she says, and with that, the call goes dead, leaving me in peace to get myself out of this mess.

My gaze shifts over 343, not quite stupid enough to ask for help, but as he stares up at me in shock, I can’t help but smile. “So . . . that’s not how I imagined any of that going down.”

“Who—Who the fuck are you?” 343 grunts in pain.

“Your worst fucking nightmare,” I say in a stupid tone. I’ve always wanted to say that, but the right opportunity has never popped up. I laugh to myself, and seeing that he’s clearly not amused, I roll my eyes and give a straight answer. “I’m Siren. Do you really not recognize me from the initial circle meeting?”

“It’s dark in here. Give me a break.”

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