2. REAPER
2
REAPER
P assing the sign that reads Welcome to Blue Springs, Montana, I reach for the dial of my police scanner and tune it until I find the local Blue Springs Police Department. It’s been a long drive from the Big Apple, but it should be worth my time.
I hope.
Whoever is behind War Games has reached out to me six years running, and each year I’ve happily declined. I don’t need this shit in my life. I don’t need the title of being the War Games Champion to prove that I’m good at what I do. I know I’m the best, and that’s not my ego talking.
I don’t know what possessed me to accept this year’s invitation. This isn’t my scene. I suppose I’m getting bored and need something to light a spark under my ass, a real challenge to keep me on my toes. So when the invitation dropped into my inbox, I found myself quickly accepting.
Blue Springs is a tourist town away from the hustle and bustle of city life and the perfect location for War Games. I have to give it to the organizers; they know how to pick a great destination. Blue Springs is a small town with picturesque scenery. We’re talking impressive mountains, a magnificent lake, an expansive cave system, and that’s all before I’ve even considered what the town itself has to offer.
There’s an industrial area I’ll be sure to utilize. After all, if I’m going to make the most of this trip, I might as well have a little fun with it. Fuck knows I need a little fun in my life. There are the usual places like movie theaters, a mall, parks, and budget hotels, but as I drive through the town, these places aren’t calling to me.
I’m five minutes out from the warehouse where we’ll make the first point of contact for the games, and as I drive, I listen to the local sheriff’s department. I’m not surprised to find they’re already on top of the bullshit that’s about to come down on their peaceful town, but it also becomes comically clear that they’re not going to be an issue. They think we’re still days out from the commencement of the games.
They know we’re coming, but what little resources they have aren’t enough to even attempt to hold us back. There’s a grand total of six cops in Blue Springs, and sure, I can guarantee they’ll call in backup over the next few days when bodies begin showing up, but by the time they find any sort of evidence, the games will be long gone.
For the most part, the games have strict rules.
We’re here to play, not torment the town of Blue Springs, and while there have been slip-ups in the past, we’re not to mess with the people. They didn’t sign up for this shit, and for the most part, we’ll leave the town just as sparkly as it was when we first arrived. Minus a few slight inconveniences, of course.
After finding the industrial area, I pull my car into a dark alley, far away from the meeting spot, not wanting my car to be tagged or become familiar to any of the other contenders. After cutting the engine, I slip out into the night, silently making my way through the quiet streets, keeping to the shadows.
I hear footsteps in the streets of other contenders making their way toward the warehouse, too confident with their own skills to conceal themselves. It’s people like that who’ll be the first eliminated. Not by me though. People who make themselves easy targets don’t interest me. I like the ones who make me work for the kill. I like the challenge of tracking a ghost, of drawing them out, blindsiding them, and the Twenty-Third Annual Serial Killer War Games promises just that. Though, I’ll have to be patient. The prey I’m after won’t be easy to find. They will bide their time in this twisted game.
Moving through the industrial area, I slip between old buildings, cutting through the back of rundown properties until finally launching myself over one final fence and coming to a stop in the side alley next to the warehouse.
There are a few cars parked down the street, each of them attempting to be discreet as though they’re not about to step out of their cars and walk directly into the warehouse and out themselves as one of the contenders.
Despite the games not officially starting until after our induction meeting, I’m on high alert and can sense the people around me. Any of these fuckers could strike at a moment’s notice, especially when ten million dollars is on the line. And while there certainly are strict rules, there are definitely a few that the bastard organizers would turn a blind eye to.
Personally, I don’t care for the money.
I’ve been a contract killer for well over fifteen years. I charge what I want, and the assholes sick enough to hire me are willing to pay whatever it takes to get the job done. I have more money than I know what to do with, stashed in multiple accounts across the globe. I couldn’t even guess how much there is, but there’s more than enough to ensure I never have to work again. The only issue with retiring is that I enjoy working.
This next month though, this isn’t work. This is play.
Glancing down at my watch, I take in the time. It’s 11:59 p.m. One minute to go.
Contenders approach the warehouse from all directions, skeptically eyeing each other as they mentally make plans of attack. They’re all looking for the weakest link.
It’s already clear to me who the contract killers are opposed to the serial killers. There’s a different sense of stealth between them. The assassins have training. They stick to the shadows and watch the other contenders like prey, while the serial killers walk straight through the moonlight, their egos too big for their own good. They’ll be the first to go. In fact, over the past twenty-two years, I don’t think a serial killer has ever won these games. It’s always been a contract killer.
They start making their way into the warehouse and not having enough visibility, I slip over the top of the fence and drop to the ground, putting me right by the warehouse. Then, without skipping a beat, I move right into the building, bring my elbow up in a shallow arc, and shatter the side window.
Reaching in, I feel around for the window latch until my fingers brush over the cool metal lock. I quickly unlatch it before finally sliding the window open. Not wasting any time, I pull myself up and through the window before coming down inside what appears to be an abandoned office space.
An old desk sits covered in dust, and the shelves have been torn down and discarded haphazardly across the small office. I move around it, making my way to the internal door, and without a moment of hesitation, I reach for the handle and let myself out into the main floor of the old warehouse.
Most of the windows have been boarded up, and there’s a distinct ammonia smell in the air that suggests someone has been cooking something up in here. I wouldn’t blame them. It’s the perfect location. Away from the busy streets, no surveillance, and it has more than enough space for the perfect setup. Either way, I don’t really give a fuck.
Sensing the people around me, I make the first move, stepping out of the shadows and revealing myself. Then, one by one, the other nineteen contenders do the same until we’ve formed a large circle in the center of the warehouse.
This part of the initiation process is simple. Reveal yourself.
We must form a circle, and once the final contender has arrived, the clock will start. We’ll stand for forty-five minutes, allowing everyone the chance to learn the faces of the other men and women they’ll be responsible for hunting. During this time, they must learn as many details as they can because it’s the only chance they’ll have to learn who they’re up against. Then, at some point during those forty-five minutes, we must reveal our aliases.
Once the clock stops, the games have officially begun and nobody will be safe. It’s life or death, no holding back. It’s imperative that we use our time wisely, read the competition, get inside their heads, and figure out who the fuck they are. Otherwise, you’ll be the first one knocked out of the games.
In a flash of blinding light, an overhead spotlight is remotely turned on, and as the shadows are expelled from the warehouse, the faces of the killers around me become real.
There’s a large clock in the center of the circle counting down the final forty-five minutes before the games commence, and I immediately begin committing their faces to memory.
My first quick scan tells me there are thirteen men and seven women, only my gaze stops on one woman . . . or girl , and I’m too shocked to continue my initial assessment. This blue-eyed girl with dark hair is only a child. She’s no older than twelve or thirteen. There’s a darkness in her eyes that tells me she’s seen far more than any child should witness. However, in contrast to the youthfulness of her features, it’s almost off-putting.
What the fuck is this kid thinking walking into a game like this? Does she not understand that these men and women around her won’t hesitate to brutally end her life? I have a moral compass and draw the line at hurting children, but the assholes around me sure as fuck don’t.
She’s too young to have the experience required to win these games, and without a doubt, if it came down to me or her at the very end, I would have no choice but to sacrifice myself in order to see her survive. I couldn’t live with myself afterward if I did what had to be done to win.
Fuck.
This certainly changes things.
Feeling an agonizing pain forming deep in the pit of my stomach, I tear my gaze away from the girl and try to focus on the other contenders in the competition. But seeing the way the other killers keep looking at the girl as an easy target makes my hands ball into fists.
I didn’t sign up for babysitting, but something tells me that’s exactly what this next month is going to look like.
Anger pulses through my veins. These games aren’t something you simply sign up for. You’re selected, which means some asshole in his mother’s basement tracked her down on the dark web, figured out how to get in contact with her, and then thought it would be entertaining to see what would come from offering her an invitation.
Fucking bastard.
Don’t get me wrong, I understand being good at what you do and wanting to prove yourself, but what the fuck is even happening here? Could she not have waited a few years before accepting to participate in bullshit like this? She has her whole fucking life ahead of her.
I try to shake the thought from my head, knowing damn well that I’m here to do a job. I can’t focus on this kid’s health and well-being while I’m supposed to memorize the faces of the men and women I have to kill.
Fifteen minutes in, the man standing directly opposite me in the circle takes a slight step forward. There’s a nervousness in his eyes that I understand all too well, but he holds his head high as he gives up the required information. “The name’s Stone.”
My brow arches as he steps back into position. The name seems familiar to me, though most of them will. I do what I can to keep up to date with all of this shit, needing to know what other monsters lurk through city streets, who poses a threat to me, and who needs to be handled for their own good. If this is the same Stone I’m thinking of, then he won’t be a problem, and I’d assume he’d be targeted early on in these games.
There’s at least a full thirty seconds of silence before the next contender steps forward—a woman standing to my left. “Silver,” she says, her eyes bouncing around the circle as if daring someone to try something.
Her hands ball into tight fists, ready for any threat that might come her way, but before she steps back into formation, another woman with blazing red hair steps forward, a filthy smirk on her face as she pierces Silver with a laser-sharp stare. “Gasoline.”
Silver’s stare widens with surprise before pure rage darkens her gaze, making it more than obvious there’s history between the two, which is probably the worst scenario in this situation. Every other asshole in this room now knows they’ll be so focused on taking out one another that their guards will be down, which is where you make mistakes. And once you slip even a little, you’re as good as dead.
The next contender steps forward. “The Executioner.”
Then, like a wave, the rest follow.
“The Boneyard Slayer,” a big, burly man says, his eyes dancing around the room. A cockiness in his tone suggests that he is someone I’ll need to keep a close eye on.
“Blade.”
“Grim.”
I barely make note of these two. They’re weak. They’ll be gone by the end of the night.
Next up, another woman. “Crimson Rain.”
This one might have potential. Her walls are up, and she’s not allowing anyone to get a good read on her. I like that. It could work in her favor, but the nervousness in her eyes might be her downfall. I’ll have to keep an eye on this one.
“Slasher.”
“Raven.”
“The Boston Maneater.”
This one brings me pause, my stomach churning with unease. The Boston Maneater? He can’t be serious. The majority of us have received our aliases from law enforcement or the media, and they’re generally somewhat related to our crimes. Once the name has been whispered across the media, you’re stuck with it for life. I just hope there’s been a misunderstanding here because right now, I’m picturing this guy hovering over his kill, gnawing on a bone like a dog.
Every face around the circle mimics my disgust, and clearly sensing our indifference, The Boston Maneater goes to say something, his hand inching up as his mouth opens, probably preparing some kind of defense, but he quickly hesitates. Here and now isn’t the time to get into it.
We’re well past halfway when movement to my right causes my gaze to shift. A petite woman with dark hair and blazing green eyes steps forward, and her confidence makes me uneasy. “I’m Siren,” she says without even a note of nervousness. Her tone suggests she’s here to have the best time of her life.
Siren, huh? I know that name.
She’s one hell of a threat, maybe my biggest one yet, but she’s got nothing on me. She’s a contract killer, and she’s more than efficient at her job. Some say she’s the best in the field, but that’s because most think I’m more of a legend or ghost story rather than a real man.
Siren’s gaze shifts around the circle, meeting the eye of every killer in the room, and when those green eyes come to mine, electricity burns through me. This woman isn’t just someone I need to be cautious of; she’s trouble, but I’ve never been so intrigued.
Perhaps these games just got interesting after all.
Sensing my lingering stare, Siren watches me as she steps back into formation, her gaze narrowed as if trying to figure out who I am and why I haven’t looked away like everyone else. She’s trying to get a read on me, but she won’t be able to. I’m a closed book, unlike most of the assholes around me.
The kid steps forward next, and I can’t help but notice how quickly she has the undivided attention of the room. “Shadow,” she states in a tone that sends a chill down my spine, which is something that has never happened before.
The girl looks around the room as if this is some bullshit test at school that she’s far too advanced for, and I can’t help but wonder exactly how she got here. This level of confidence only comes with experience, which leaves me wondering how the fuck she ended up that way.
Did somebody do this to her? Because no innocent child willingly goes down a path like this without a shitload of trauma.
Apart from hearing everyone’s aliases, the warehouse has been silent since the moment I entered, but after hearing Shadow’s name come out of her mouth, the silence suddenly feels heavier. Eerie almost.
There’s a good two minutes before the next contender steps forward. “343,” he says, prompting a quizzical look in the eyes of everybody in the room. This dude looks like he barely passed high-school gym class, surely he’s here by mistake. Or maybe he’s a tech guy. Either way, he isn’t somebody I need to focus on.
Next up is a guy who looks like he’s lived every day of his life on a beach with a surfboard permanently attached to either himself or the roof of a hippie van. “Sharkbait,” he says before quickly stepping back again.
Fifteen down, five to go.
My gaze sails over the remaining contenders—four men and one woman—each of them hesitating, wanting to be last to put their name forward, but the clock is ticking, and there are only seven minutes remaining, and fuck knows that last name given will be mine.
Six minutes.
Five.
All eyes bounce around the room, waiting to see who will cave first. After all, a name not given during our initial meeting is an automatic dismissal from the games, and it goes without saying that an automatic dismissal is paid for with your life.
Four.
Three.
“Fuck,” the woman says with a cringe before finally stepping forward. “Eagle.”
I watch her closely as she steps back into formation, quickly determining that she won’t be a threat.
Two minutes.
One of the men begins to fidget, his gaze flicking between the rest of us and the clock, his hand pulsing at his side. It’s so discreet that I’d dare say some of the people around me wouldn’t even notice it, but I do. I notice everything.
His lips pull into a tight line before finally relenting and stepping forward, clearly wanting to be in the game to win, but he’s not dumb enough to risk it all for the simple task of giving up his name. “The Midnight Killer,” he says, his lips twisting with frustration before finally stepping back into formation.
He’s not bad and has certainly made quite a name for himself across North America. He’s a serial killer and lacks the kind of training required to win these games. He’ll put up a good fight though.
The clock keeps ticking, and at exactly one minute left, the next contender steps forward. “They call me Graves,” he grunts, but despite his cocky expression, he’s just like The Midnight Killer. They lack conviction. Graves won’t be a threat, this last one though . . . I don’t know.
It’s down to me and one other and he stares at me as though he could somehow make me break, but I won’t. I don’t ever break. It’s not written in my DNA.
Thirty seconds.
His demeanor begins to crack.
Twenty.
“Fuck.”
The asshole steps forward, and something warns me that apart from the beautiful Siren to my right, this asshole will be a heavy hitter during these games. “The Texan Reaper.”
No fucking way.
A grin threatens to pull at the corners of my lips. I’ve more than heard of this guy. When he first came on the scene, he claimed to be me. However as his work was sloppy and unoriginal, they quickly realized he was a different guy and ended up with the name The Texan Reaper. At first, I was flattered that I had an admirer, but now I’m just pissed. Ride someone else’s coattails.
I keep my eye on The Texan Reaper, counting down the clock in my head, letting it ten more seconds pass by.
Eight. Six. Four.
Two.
I step forward, holding his gaze, and finally say the name I know everybody in this room is dying to figure out.
My voice commands the undivided attention and respect of those lesser killers around me because, right now, they’re not just meeting another contender, they’re meeting their worst fucking nightmare.
“Reaper.”