CHAPTER 26
THE PUNISHER
‘Sal?’ I whisper, the word barely leaving my lips.
The headsets, originally calibrated for receiving audio only, had been child’s play for Sal to modify remotely.
Hacking into the main server was his art; the two-way communication his flourish.
I trust him, as far as trust can stretch between two people like us.
I know he’s likely shielded my transmission from prying ears entirely, blocking the signal so no one else can tap in.
But even Sal can’t do anything about the reception. We need to descend.
Tarran stumbles behind me as I haul her out of the Rabbit Warren. Her wide eyes meet mine, searching for answers I don’t have. She pulls my coat tight, her small fingers trembling as the wind cuts through us, the icy air biting at any exposed skin .
There, inside the Warren, briefly she saw who I was, and yet she smiles.
And in that moment something inside me shifted.
It wasn’t just her fragile life in my hands – it was my own control unraveling, and that fucking scares me.
I see it in her eyes now, a mirror of my own guilt.
She’s not really afraid, but she should be. I’m not the boy I once was.
‘Don’t smile,’ I say, under my breath. But she does, and it doesn’t waver even as the storm howls.
‘What happened down there…’ I begin, as Sal’s voice cuts through.
‘Boss?’
‘Yeah, Sal, we’re here.’
‘Thank god! You have three players closing in to your location.’
‘Who exactly are we dealing with?’ I ask, keeping my voice low to lose it in the rustle of the underbrush as we move.
‘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 owns Le Musee des Moulages in 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 vitrines are 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-grid types. 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.
Shit.
The whooping laughter grows louder, the hunt closing in.
‘Get behind me,’ I order, crouching behind a boulder, as I steady my rifle to take aim.
Through the scope, I spot him – a hulking masked figure moving with unnerving precision.
I exhale slowly, finger brushing the trigger.
But as I line him up for the shot, the night shatters.
A piercing scream – a girl’s scream – splits through the darkness, sharp enough to stop my pulse.
The figure freezes, head snapping towards the sound. Then, like a pack of wolves catching the scent of fresh prey, he bolts, his whoops and cries joining the others as he bounds off into the distance.
Too fucking close.
I grab Tarran by the arm and haul her towards the Fox Den – another hidden bunker, this time carved into the hillside, its entrance concealed by thick underbrush.
‘Stay here,’ I order, shoving her inside. Her eyes meet mine, but she doesn’t argue.
They thought they were hunters. They are wrong.
I follow their trail – the three brothers.
According to Sal, they work in a hierarchy of age, the smallest and youngest of the three being the easiest to isolate.
Their camp is crude, almost primal – a circle of stones surrounding a long-dead fire, a half-burnt torch lying haphazardly, and decayed human skulls like remnants of a grim trophy hunt.
I leave a single bullet casing in the centre of the fire pit, a message they won’t be able to ignore.
The second brother is more cautious – older and wiser, harder to provoke.
For him, I weave a trail of deceit – broken branches and deliberate footprints leading back to the camp.
When they return, confusion will grip them, igniting a worry that someone is hunting them, and that fear will drive them straight to their leader, the eldest. He will be their only hope of control I’ve created.
They will take me straight to him. As the hours stretch, I hear their panic; the smallest shouting accusations, the second begging to regroup.
I can’t take either one out, not yet. It would give away my location. I need them altogether.
The static from the earpiece claws at my ears, a maddening buzz that causes a ringing long after he’s gone.
‘Sal? Hello?’ Nothing. Just silence.
The forest around me feels alive. The rustling isn’t random, it isn’t wind, and there aren’t any animals.
‘Boss?’ the radio cracks.
‘I’m here,’ I push on as Sal’s voice bursts through the earpiece.
‘You need to get the hell outta there, boss! The Trinity are scattered, seems they’re closing in on you from all directions. They aren’t clients, at least, not in the normal sense.’
I freeze, crouching into the hollow of a tree trunk. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means, there is no record of payment,’ Sal responds. ‘No transactions, nothing. But they’re there – listed in the game’s registry as late entries. Their GPS signals are locked. I can’t track them like I can the other players.’
I pause.
‘I’ve tried hacking it,’ he continues. ‘It lets me in intermittently, but then it throws me out again. It’s like something keeps blocking me.’
‘If they haven’t purchased anyone, then what the hell are they doing here?’
‘I don’t know, but it was Carlos that registered them.’
There’s a sudden rustle to my right that snaps my attention, and I swing my rifle towards the sound, catching nothing but a fleeting glimpse of a moving branch.
‘Sal? Where are they?’ the signal cuts out.
Shit.
I haven’t had the conversation with Carlos yet - the one that will peel back the layers of his scheme, the one he’s frantically trying to keep glued together.
But it’s coming, although now, I wonder if that moment will ever come.
The clock is ticking, and with every second, the questions stack higher and higher.
Carlos doesn’t know it yet, but when they fall, they’ll bury him.
The thing about my uncle is, he always thinks he’s the spider, the one spinning the web.
He would never consider himself the fly.
Especially now, while he’s sitting pretty and I’m here waiting…
Carlos doesn’t realise it yet, but he’s playing a dangerous game, and I don’t lose, ever.
I recall the dynamic he had with my father – the little cracks in his demeanour whenever they were together.
My father was the one who commanded attention – confident, charismatic, and magnetic in every way.
But Carlos? He lingered in the background, my father’s shadow always trying to stand taller.
Even now, I can see it in the way he stands, his shoulders back but not quite square, always trying, and failing, to stand taller than he can.
He studied my father, mirrored him, wanted to be him.
But never in admiration – it was hunger, he craved the power my father held.
And now, Carlos is in my sights, still chasing the legacy that was never his to claim.
Power isn’t given – it’s taken. I guess my absence has allowed him to take power here, but he’s still a pretender in a kingdom that doesn’t even acknowledge him.
He’s a ghost chasing a crown that was never meant for his head.
Had I worried about Carlos before? No, because he didn’t have the means, or the muscle, he was just a starving dog snapping at scraps. I guess that’s changed.
I never saw it coming. Crafty doesn’t even begin to cover it.
He must have known, no, he did know I’d come back eventually, that our paths would cross again.
It doesn’t seem he’s fumbling in the dark anymore.
He’s taken steps I hadn’t expected, and I played right into his hands, and now, I’m on his turf – the only obstacle left standing between him and the legacy he’s been chasing his entire life.
Me – the rightful heir, but no matter how much of a head-start he’s given himself, the throne he’s reaching for isn’t empty, because I’m already sitting in it.