Page 55 of Taunting Tarran
‘The closest, is a senator,’ Sal begins. ‘He’s been a regular here for the past five years.’
‘What’s his weapon?’
‘A bow and arrow. Old school.’
‘Right,’ I pull Tarran closer. ‘Tell me about the woman…with the skull handbag.’
‘Only one woman in the registry, that would be Madam Dubois,’ Sal answers. ‘She ownsLe Musee des Moulagesin Montpellier.’
‘I saw her,’ Tarran nods, ‘when the game started.’
‘A museum?’ I repeat, my brows creasing. ‘What’s someone like her doing here?’
‘Her museum’s vitrinesare filled with wax, human body parts. Grotesque recreations of skin diseases such as acne, psoriasis, syphilis, everything skin related you can think of. Supposedly wax anyway,’ Sal answers. ‘Fascinating.’
‘Supposedly?’ I ask with heavy implication. My grip tightens on Tarran’s hand as we tread carefully over uneven ground. ‘Maybe she comes here to expand on her collection?’
Sal doesn’t miss a beat. ‘It might explain that skull handbag, boss. Everyone has to have a hobby.’
She should be long gone now; her prize was eliminated quite early on in the game.
Tarran glances up at me, her smile replaced by a guarded expression.
‘Keep moving,’ I snap. ‘Sal?’
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Who else?’
‘No one particularly noteworthy, boss. Mainly bored rich folk. A few contract killers, probably here honing their skills. And…hang on…’
‘What is it?’ I glance around the dense trees, crouching low.
‘Half way down, coming up the gravel path,’ he answers. Then a pause, and Sal’s voice drops. ‘They’re tracking Tarran.’
‘Who? Damnit.’
‘The Trinity. They’re on your scent, too. I can see their heat signatures, but no GPS cues are being sent out.’
‘Who the fuck is The Trinity?’
‘Real off-gridtypes. If you stay on course, you’ll be trapped.’
‘Get us to the Fox Den. I need to hide Tarran. How far away are we?’
‘Not far, two kilometers west.’
‘How close are they?’
‘Close enough, but I’ve got eyes on them. Keep heading west, stay low.’
I tighten my grip on my rifle as we push forward. I can hear the sound of laughter in the distance, echoing through the trees.
‘That’s them,’ I tell Tarran, as we quicken our pace, sprinting down the rocky trail, our lungs burn with each desperate breath. Behind us, the whooping calls of The Trinity echo. They aren’t normal cries of pursuit, they sound animalistic, primal – their cruel melody.
‘Keep moving!’ I growl, yanking Tarran hard as she stumbles. I look behind us, and see one of them raising a hand high, something gleaming and sharp catching the moon’s rays. Then, a guttural laugh rolls across the hills.
‘Don’t stop,’ I bark as an arrow thuds into the ground near my leg.
