Page 3 of War Games

“Well, of course I don’t want you to do it,” she says. “But I know how much you’ve always wanted to, so I’m not going to stand in your way. I just think you should at least sleep on it first before you rush in. Maybe check out what Blue Springs has to offer and see if we can figure out who else has been invited to compete. Don’t get me wrong, I know you’ll kill it. You’re the best of the best, and I have faith that you’ll come out of this ten million dollars richer, but these other nineteen contenders weren’t selected for nothing. They’re just as good. Not to mention, they wouldn’t be afraid of death either.”

Letting out a sigh, I flop back onto my bed, hating that she has a very real, very valid point.

These games aren’t for the weak of heart. They’re brutal, violent, and bloody.

There will be a mix of twenty serial killers and assassins, each of them equally as skilled. These will be killers who have made headlines, killers who have made a name for themselves, and who provoke the most fear in the general population. These are people who are just as messed up as I am. Some of them have trained as spies, and their weapons are an extension of their bodies.

This isn’t something anybody should just dive headfirst into without at least considering the repercussions.

Could I be brutally murdered? Yes.

Could my whole world end in Blue Springs, Montana? Yes.

But would I have the time of my life and come out ten million dollars richer? Also yes.

As the invitation stated, War Games runs for a month, and during that time, twenty killers are bound to this one location. They must battle it out over the month. Hunt, track, and stalk before finally making their kills. Each contender will be pushed to their limits, they’ll be tricked, trapped, and slaughtered like caged animals. I couldn’t be more excited.

Each contender will play using their alias, keeping their true identity concealed. Mine is Siren, a name Mila gave me back when we had just met and she realized just how messed up I was. I like to lure bad men into traps, just like the way a siren of the sea lures sailors to their deaths. The name has stuck ever since, and my real name has become someone I don’t even know.

Once you’ve made your kill, you’re awarded the identification of your prey. If your prey already has kills under their belt, you also claim ownership over them. The goal is to be the last one standing by the end of the month, claiming all nineteenidentifications. If more than one contender stands by the games’ end, nobody wins, and you’re all eliminated . . . not just from the games, but permanently.

What could possibly go wrong?

It’s hunt or be hunted. Literally the real-life Hunger Games for serial killers.

At the end of the games, all the gathered identifications, along with evidence tying each of them to their many crimes, are handed to the FBI. It’s a sick way of kicking you when you’re down—the price you pay for not being good enough. Personally, I think it’s the best incentive to ensure you don’t die. Not that it would really matter, considering you’d be dead. But if you’ve worked all your life to ensure you fly under the radar and conceal yourself, it’s a kick right in the vag to have all your secrets spilled the moment you’re gone.

“Alright,” I finally say, hoisting myself off the bed and wandering back into my closet. “How much time do you need to figure out who the other contenders are?” I ask, reaching up to the top of my closet and pulling my suitcase down.

“Can you give me a day? Twenty-four hours, at least?”

“I suppose,” I mutter, tossing my open suitcase onto my bed and whipping back around to my closet.

“Wait,” Mila says. “What are you . . . Are you packing?”

My full hands pause over the suitcase. “Uhhhhhh . . . no.”

Shit.

I drop the pile of clothes and turn around to find more.

“Don’t even try to lie to me,” she scolds before I hear her fingers on her keyboard, hacking back into my home security system. “Holy fucking shit, Siren. You are!”

“Damn it. Okay, fine. I am. But I swear, I’m not going to accept the invitation until after you’ve done your research. In the meantime, I don’t see the harm in packing just a little. It never hurts to be prepared.”

I can practically feel the disapproval wafting off my best friend, but the moment I grab the shelving of my closet and push back the secret door to display my hidden weapons room—otherwise known as my happy place—all thoughts of disapproval disintegrate.

I’m going to the War Games, and without a doubt, it’s going to be the best thirty days of my life.

2

REAPER

Passing the sign that readsWelcome to Blue Springs, Montana,I reach for the dial of my police scanner and tune it until I find the local Blue Springs Police Department. It’s been a long drive from the Big Apple, but it should be worth my time.

I hope.

Whoever is behind War Games has reached out to me six years running, and each year I’ve happily declined. I don’t need this shit in my life. I don’t need the title of being theWar Games Championto prove that I’m good at what I do. I know I’m the best, and that’s not my ego talking.

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