Chapter 96.
Ant Tipton is standing in the middle of a narrow dirt path, puddles already having formed at his feet, his lace-up military boots covered in mud.
Saad al-Harbi is twenty-five yards away—maybe less—his revolver up, his arms locked, trying to look like he belongs here.
Tipton has his gun up, too. But Tipton isn’t trying to look like anything. He’s just . . . ready.
“You could have shot me in the back before I knew you were even there,” Saad says. “Why didn’t you?”
“I’m a lot of things,” Tipton says. “But I’m not a coward who shoots people in the back. Even I have rules.” He pauses. “Even out here.”
Saad tries to appear calm, acting in control of the situation, staring down the barrel of a gun. But he knows he is not in control.
Neither of them is.
Saad tries to slow his breathing, wanting to slow it to practically nothing if he can’t work something out with Tipton before either one of them chooses to pull the trigger.
“A lot of money has changed hands to get me back into this competition, I don’t know whether you’re aware of that or not,” he says. “Some of the money could end up in your hands if we can just talk about this before one of us does something rash.”
“Sorry, mate, but I don’t need your money,” Tipton says. “I’m about to win a billion dollars.” He grins. “It won’t make me as rich as royalty, mind you. But rich enough, don’t you reckon?”
It takes all the discipline Saad can muster to remain completely still. He is pleased to notice, perhaps even surprised, that there isn’t even a slight tremor in the hand holding the old-fashioned LeMat revolver.
“We can work together going forward,” Saad says. “Maybe there’s a way to game this out with The Host so that both of us win. I’ve frankly always found it a silly notion that only one of us can end up the chosen one.” Now he grins.
“Mate,” Tipton says, “you’re talking like the world is still normal.”
Saad’s jaw tightens. “I’m talking like I want to live.”
“Fair,” Tipton says. “If I’m reading you correctly here, you’re proposing a bit of a separate arrangement?”
“Precisely,” Saad says. “It would certainly be the easiest way to end our current impasse. It’s practical—”
Tipton nods once, like he’s accepted the terms.
“Here’s what’s practical,” Tipton says.
He fires a shot. One crack of sound swallowed by rain.
The initial force of the bullet drives Saad backward. Unable to break his fall, the back of his head lands hard, spraying mud in all directions.
Somehow Saad’s weapon remains in his hand.
But he can’t raise his gun because his arms aren’t working. There is no way for him to stop the pain in the middle of his chest, or the blood that’s blooming out from around his heart.
Saad can’t move.
Can barely breathe.
He sees Tipton standing over him in the rain, the gun trained on Saad al-Harbi one final time.
This time he is aiming between the eyes.
“You said one bullet,” Saad manages.
Tipton’s voice drops even lower.
“No. He said one bullet.”
It is the last thing Saad al-Harbi expects to hear.
Tipton’s eyes flicker—just for a moment—like he hates hearing the words out loud.
Saad squeezes his eyes shut. Waiting for the end.
But it doesn’t come.
Not yet.
Instead, Tipton steps back. And when Saad opens his eyes, Tipton is already turning away.
“Don’t,” Saad whispers. “Don’t leave me here. End it.”
Tipton doesn’t look back.
Over his shoulder, he says, “I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep being who they want.”
“You already are.”
“Push the button. They’ll save you. Or . . . you bleed out. Your choice.”
Then he disappears into the trees.
And Saad al-Harbi is left alone in the rain.
With his gun. With his blood. And with the sound of his own breathing getting thinner by the second.
He doesn’t push his button.