War Games

1. SIREN

1

SIREN

H oly fucking shit, my asshole!

Tears form in my eyes as I tackle the toddler-sized shapewear into place. What the fuck was I thinking? It promised me a snatched waist, but all I’ve gotten is trauma. I mean, shit! Why is it so hard to breathe in this thing?

The back of the thong is getting an up-close tour of my intestines while every step I take feels like a chainsaw violently ripping me in half. This is too much. The model in the ad definitely didn’t look like she was getting the life sucked out of her, and she sure as hell didn’t have red scratches up and down her thighs from her nails as she clawed the bastard up her body.

This is so much more than just false advertising; it’s a death sentence in the form of shapewear.

The fabric bunches at my waist as I frantically try to yank it up my body, but it’s so damn tight, I can practically feel my lungs screaming for freedom. The fabric rolls over itself, making it even tighter and I madly try to find the armholes, having to use my nails to dig under the shapewear and stretch it out.

“Oh, God. Oh God. Oh God. This is what death feels like.”

Finding the armholes, I yank the bodysuit up only for the fabric to get caught beneath my tits, and holy fuck, I’ve never regretted anything so bad in my whole life.

Pinching the fabric as tight as I can in both hands, I pull it out and over my tits before finally releasing it and crying out as it compresses back around me with a tight smack.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Am I supposed to be working up such a sweat?

I fall back against the door of my closet while white-knuckling the shelf in a desperate bid to keep myself upright. I try to catch my breath, positive if I were to fall, I’d never be able to get up again. But what really terrifies me is the thought of trying to get myself out of this thing. Surely it’s not possible. The bodysuit and I are now destined to spend the rest of our lives together. I hope it approves of trashy TV and takeout because that’s all it has to look forward to from here on out.

Bracing myself against the door, I wait a few agonizing moments for my organs to adjust to their new home before finally being able to take a decent breath. I fix myself in front of my full-length mirror and shove my hands down the front of the bodysuit, doing what I can to adjust my tits until they look just right. Damn it. Why do I have to like the way it looks so much?

Beauty is pain, right? Who needs to breathe when you can look this photoshopped? I’ll put up with my ass being violated by a piece of string any day if this is how snatched I look.

Turning left and right, I check myself out, drooling over my newfound curves. I should have bought one of these years ago. Though, years ago, I probably didn’t need it. What can I say? I’ve developed a deep love for cocktails, and if I have to sacrifice my once-toned waist to keep up the addiction, I’ll happily make the sacrifice.

My phone rings across my bedroom, and I hurry out of my closet to quickly scoop it off the end of my bed. There’s no caller ID, but I already know exactly who it is. There’s only one person I would ever trust to have my number, and that’s Mila—the best hacker and friend across the globe.

“Talk dirty to me.”

“Why do you sound so worked up?” she asks with the slightest Russian accent, something she hasn’t been able to shake since moving to the US as a young girl. And by moving I mean being abandoned here by her horrible parents and left to fend for herself. Which she did a remarkable job of, by the way. So remarkable, that it’s what we first bonded over. Nothing quite like childhood trauma to bring two friends together.

We’re both screwed up, one of us significantly more than the other, but we wouldn’t have it any other way. Mila’s daddy issues seem like a vacation in comparison to mine, and that’s saying a lot. I was orphaned as a little girl after watching my father murder my mother and then come after me. He shot me twice in the stomach, and after watching me bleed out, assuming I was done for, he turned the gun on himself. If it weren’t for nosey neighbors calling the police, I would have been dead a long time ago, and sometimes I can’t help but wonder if it would have been better that way.

After weeks in the hospital, I was discarded into the foster system. My new life meant starting over every few months, jumping from abusive home to abusive home until I was finally forgotten about. I ended up as a runaway living in an abandoned office building, but that is where I first met Mila.

We were barely sixteen, and she was already on her way to becoming an evil mastermind computer hacker, and I loved that about her. She could hack into any system across the globe, no matter the level of security. Mila always found a way in, but she played it smart and kept to herself, not like me at all. I always had a gift for finding trouble.

What can I say? Those childhood years really did a number on me. But now at twenty-four, I would argue that I’m one of the best contract killers in the world, and that’s not just my ego talking. Mila and I make an excellent team, and being each other’s family, we’ve never allowed the other to fall.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, flopping onto the edge of my bed, my new bodysuit making it impossible to get comfortable.

“You’re breathing heavy,” Mila says before sucking in a horrified gasp. “Are you doing cardio?”

Before she allows me the chance to respond, I hear the familiar sound of her fingers moving across the keyboard. I let out a sigh, knowing without a doubt that she’s hacking into either my home security or my laptop camera, and within seconds, she will have a perfect view into my bedroom.

Then, just as expected, Mila’s laugh booms through the phone. “Holy shit. It’s the bodysuit, isn’t it?”

I roll my eyes and try to pull myself to my feet to show it off as a stupid grin stretches across my face. “Yeah,” I admit, turning to better face my laptop when a green light appears at the top of my screen, letting me know my camera has been turned on. “What do you think? It was a challenge getting into it, and I’m pretty sure you’re gonna have to get off your ass and come cut me out of this thing, but I can’t lie. I’m obsessed.”

“You look like a snack.”

“Oh stop! You’re gonna make me blush.”

Mila scoffs, knowing it takes a shitload more than a simple compliment to make me blush. But before she gets a chance to hurl some ridiculous insult at me, she sucks in a gasp. “Holy shit. Check your email.”

“Huh? Why?” My brows furrow as I move toward my laptop. “Wait,” I say, staring directly into the little camera. “Are you in my emails again?”

“Just hurry up and check,” she says, clearing her throat and reading the subject line aloud. “Welcome to the Twenty-Third Annual War Games.”

My eyes widen as I dive the rest of the way toward my laptop, the bone-crushing bodysuit no longer able to hold me back. “Holy fucking shit! Are you serious?” I rush out, my fingers not able to move across the keys fast enough.

My heart races a million miles an hour. The idea of actually getting to participate in the games blows my mind. It’s been an ultimate dream since before I can remember. A real chance to actually prove myself, to prove I’m the best at what I do. Sure, there might be a risk or two involved, and death is highly likely, but if you’re not risking something, then is it really worth fighting for? Plus, there may or may not be a ten-million-dollar prize.

My emails finally come up on my screen, and I quickly navigate to the newest one. There are no sender details, but I didn’t expect there to be. War Games was founded by an organization that predominantly uses the dark web to run their “business,” and it’s only because of Mila and her insane hacking skills that we discovered any kind of information about them. There’s nothing special to know, just some dude living in his mother’s basement pulling strings, but it’s the people he’s able to bring into these games that excites me.

Opening the email, I quickly scan over the subject line just as Mila had.

Welcome to the Twenty-Third Annual War Games .

A chill sails down my spine. I’ve been waiting to be recognized for what I’m capable of, and being invited to participate is the greatest honor, but to actually win the games? Well, shit. I’ve been dreaming about that for years.The anticipation is too much, so I open the email and scan every last word.

Please join us for a month of pure madness.

Dawning on the town of Blue Springs, Montana, the 23rd Annual Serial Killer War Games will commence.

You, along with nineteen other elite killers at the top of their career, will descend on Blue Springs, Montana to battle it out for the ultimate prize.

Only one will remain and be awarded the most esteemed title—Winner of the 23rd Annual Serial Killer War Games.

The winner will collect ten million dollars in cash and the ultimate prize of officially being named the best in the business!

You have seventy-two hours to respond to this invitation before your place in the games is forfeited.

*Click here to review the terms and conditions of the games*

*Click here to accept or deny this invitation*

“Holy fucking shit!”

A wide grin rips across my face, and I immediately click the link to take me to the acceptance page, more than ready to dive headfirst into this.

My mouse hovers over the button to accept the invitation when my laptop remotely shuts down. “Woah, hold up, cowgirl,” Mila rushes out. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you mean? I’m accepting the invitation.”

“Like hell you are,” she throws back at me. “Are you literally insane? I know you’ve had this big fantasy about winning the games for the past few years and have scoured your emails every day of your damn life waiting for your personalized invitation, but you can’t be serious. Were you planning to think about this before you just hit accept?”

“What’s gotten into you today? What’s there to think about? I’ve been wanting to do this since before I can remember.”

“Oh my God. Do you have any regard for your own life?” Mila scolds.

I shrug my shoulders. We both know the answer to that, and to be completely honest, it’s a sore point between us. I do what I do, not only because I enjoy it and I’m good at it, but because I have nothing to lose. Mila is my only family. I don’t have brothers or sisters, nieces or nephews, and after my father attempted to kill me and I was put into foster care, my only remaining grandparents refused to take me and left me to suffer at the hands of terrible foster parents.

I don’t exactly know what’s waiting for me on the other side, but the one thing I do know is that it’s got to be better than this.

I don’t fear death.

I mean, sure. I fear the possibility of it happening in an excruciating way, of some crazed psychopath doing his worst and sending me to the other side with horror in my heart, but I don’t fear what comes after that . . . assuming something comes after that, of course.

Mila is all about rainbows, flowers, and unicorns. She’s my complete opposite, but we level each other out.

“You really don’t want me to do this?”

“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 nineteen identifications. 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.