Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
These men are so dramatic.
I slam the door of my small villa and climb into my golf cart, grumbling. Seventeen doesn’t want Thirty's prey to be next to his in the holding cell; Twenty-One was found sneaking a phone onto the island, and blah blah blah. Put up with this bullshit for long enough and shit starts to get old.
Cranking on the golf cart, I drive to the main villa.
The small house is set back and out of sight, and I rarely use it once The Game starts.
As the game master, it’s my job to put on a show.
To put on a show and keep people in line, which bores me to death.
Unless it’s the kind of ‘in line’ that demands the use of my fists.
I’ll get one of my men to remove Twenty-One and send him back to the States on the last plane out of here.
He’s lucky I don’t kill him. I’ve learned the hard way not to kill anyone in the first twelve hours of Day One.
The slaughter makes the hunters crazy, and they start killing before they’re allowed.
It’s a bloodbath, and the game ends much faster than it should.
I take the cart down the hill of crumbling stone steps that lead to the small house.
Sunshine dapples the path through the tangled green roof of the tall, ancient trees.
Birds sing, and for a second, I take a breath, soaking in the peace of the place.
It’s nice weather here, but I always wear my waterproof sneakers and a jacket.
Never know when you could get stuck out on the map, and I hate being cold.
Suddenly, there’s a harsh ringing from my pocket. I focus, whipping out my satellite phone. Very few people have this number, and it’s only for emergencies.
“Talk,” I demand, answering it.
“Oh, hey, boss man.” The voice on the other end is relaxed. “How’s it hanging?”
I frown, trying to place the voice. This isn’t Isaac, whom I left in charge of the club. Glancing at the unknown number, I frown.
“Not one for chit chat, got it. Hey, any idea how I can two-day mail a butt plug here?”
I have to swerve to avoid a dirt hole in the path, hitting roots that jostle the cart. What the hell is this?
Faintly, in the background of the call, I hear a shouted, “Sawyer! Hang up!”
Sawyer. Slowly, I place the name. Sawyer is one of Ryder’s men. He’s taking refuge from American law enforcement on one of the nearby abandoned islands, for a steep price.
“A vibrating butt plug, please. I’ve been told I’m not allowed to use a cucumber. No flared base, and all that.” There’s more muffled shouting, this time louder.
I clench my jaw.
“Oh, hey, gotta go, boss man, get back to me will—?” There’s a clatter, then the line goes dead. Very shortly after, the phone buzzes with a text.
Unknown: Apologies. Won’t happen again.
I grip the steering wheel so hard my fingers dent into the fake leather.
Calling on an emergency phone for a joke will not fly.
I’m going to add dealing with that headache to my list of things to do, but I’m already pulling into the villa, where the place is teeming with life.
My employees move in and out, preparing food, taking care of housekeeping, and doing other tasks.
The villa is big, a square building with three stories, and the roof has corners that are tipped up.
The basement opens up to a paved path that leads into the wilderness.
The sight of that makes my heart jump for a quick second, until I remember that I don’t get to hunt anyone. That’s not my job.
Fucking Christ.
Parking the cart, I yank my balaclava on and top it with a half-face skull mask. It’s humid, but the weather is only in the sixties, so it’s a welcome relief from Oklahoma’s shit-ass, sweltering weather.
I’ll just make it through the next two weeks.
Maybe someone will fuck up enough that I can teach them a lesson.
Throw my fists into their face and watch the fear start to ring in their eyes when they realize I’m fast and mean and have no problem snapping their necks.
There’s nothing quite like that snap, although I prefer other bones.
They sound the same, but ribs and femurs don’t kill a person.
Usually, I’ve been unlucky enough to puncture a lung or two.
Thankfully, that’s not lights out right away.
I can still watch their mouth open and close while they gape like a fish, thinking about how they never should have challenged me.
One thing people learn pretty quickly is that I’m in charge, and if they think otherwise, well, then they can see the air bubbles their lungs will form outside their body.
The thought makes my dick grow hard, and suddenly, there's a pep in my step again.
When I make it to the main conference room, people are already teeming around.
The room overlooks the forest and part of the beach, and for a minute, I stare out at the peaceful landscape, remembering all the fights I’ve seen and times the sand was stained red.
The Tenth Game came to be known as the Red Carpet for how much blood the sand soaked up.
People nod at me as I go, masked with all kinds of things.
Some animals, some demons, some clowns. Some hunters have paired up, but most of them are standing alone, waiting.
They’re always so antisocial on day one.
Alliances haven’t been formed. They don’t know who they can trust. Masks are worn so blackmail is harder.
Not that it hasn’t been tried. Although anyone who wants to go back to Oklahoma and talk about The Game finds out really quickly they’ll spend the rest of eternity talking to the worms. This is my game.
I won’t have my reputation for providing the best entertainment tarnished by the law.
Still, there’s always the one that gets away.
I stand at the front of the room, and people start to quiet, turning to look at me. I don’t shout at them. I just wait, locking gazes on the ones who aren’t paying attention. Most people hear the quieting room and feel the stare, turning to look at me.
“Welcome,” I say, nodding once. “To the Fourteenth Game.”
There’s a ripple of excited murmuring.
“Some of you are new, and some are returning.” I nod to a man with a clown mask who has attended for the past five years. He’s one of the drug runners for my organization, and a damn good one at that.
“So I’ll remind you of the rules,” I say, mind immediately wandering. I’ve recited the same script for fourteen years. “The first twelve hours, no one except the prey is to leave the villa. Can’t have you killing all your fun right away.”
There’s an amused chuckle. The men don’t just come here to kill. They can go and do that on the streets every day. They come to play. To challenge themselves. To compete.
“Don’t kill a number that doesn’t belong to you or one of your group,” I pause, narrowing my gaze even though they can’t see it through the mask.
Some of the singles look around. Fucking newbies. I used to tell them what happens if they kill someone they aren’t assigned to, but I really want to kill someone myself for stepping out of line. I’ll allow myself this one luxury.
“No weapons brought from home. On day three, a supply drop will be made on the northern beach. On day five, the tracker in the ear tags goes live. On day seven, any weapons you brought from home will be dropped on the northernmost part of the island.” As I scan the room, my gaze lands on a group of three people.
One is big and looks like a character from a shooter video game, the smallest one has a doe mask on, and the other…
I pause. It’s a woman in a half-mask. She has short blonde hair, mean eyes, and a muscled body.
Right. Fucking Riley.
I clear my throat. One of my enforcers asked me for a favor a while back.
He wanted his girl to join the club. At the time, I said fuck no.
I’ve always been against women joining the club, let alone the hunt.
The game comes with certain risks, and while I may not be a moral person, there’s a part of me that draws the line at putting women at the mercy of men.
But Riley proved herself lethal and killed with as much, if not more, passion than some men in my club.
So, shoving that part aside, I said yes.
Now, I’m kicking myself. Because even though most of the men knew she’d be coming, it’s still a change. And paranoid people don’t like change. They also don’t like it when I go against the rules. They start demanding that rules be broken for them.
I realize the room has gone silent. I fix my glare across the space. “No hunting between the hours of ten PM and six AM, unless prey is within a hundred feet of this building. Anyone within a hundred feet is fair game. If prey is missing their tag, all bets are off.”
I’m talking, but my brain is spinning. People will notice that there’s a woman here. And there hasn’t been in the last fourteen years.
“Remember,” I boom, angry now. “If prey survives the fourteen days, they’ve earned their freedom. So don’t let them survive.” I wave a hand at the room. “Game starts tonight at six.” Then, I stalk out of the room. I feel eyes on me and hear a disgruntled whisper as I go, but I shrug it off.
I’m in charge. The Game will go exactly like every other game. The prey will die, the hunters will hunt, and everyone will follow the goddamn rules.
And if they don’t, I’ll kill them.
Nothing changes that.