3. SIREN
3
SIREN
A hh fuck.
I was expecting a lot to come from this bullshit midnight meeting, but standing in an abandoned warehouse with none other than the original Reaper was not it. Judging by the audible gasps that sail through the warehouse, I’m not alone.
Reaper is . . . undefinable.
He’s a ghost. A legend. Someone I had convinced myself doesn’t actually exist. Yet, here he is, in the flesh, standing less than twenty feet away. I can barely believe it, and honestly, this changes things. Since the moment I received the invitation to these games, I haven’t felt a shred of fear. Until right now.
Reaper isn’t just some contract killer like the majority of men and women in this warehouse. He’s beyond that. He’s the one they call when a ghost needs to be eliminated, or when warlords who have been off the grid for thirty years need to be extinguished. He’s better than the best, and if I had known he would be participating in this month-long trial, I would have run the other way and never looked back.
I’m fucked. Beyond fucked. Hell, the second Reaper accepted his invitation, we were all considered dead. Everything that happens now until the end of the games is considered nothing but pure entertainment—a way for Reaper to let off a little steam and try out a few new techniques, maybe brush up on some of his skills.
I wasn’t expecting him, but what I also wasn’t expecting was to be so unbelievably attracted to him. He’s gorgeous in the most lethal kind of way. Tall, at least six foot four with dark unruly hair and even darker eyes that seem to suck the souls out of the people in the room simply by staring at them. It’s dark in the warehouse, but despite that, I can clearly make out the warmth in his olive complexion, an indicator that he spends a lot of time out in the hot sun, and the way his muscles bulge under his black shirt, tells me that he more than just cares for his body.
He seems like a soldier in the way he holds himself, like he’s had some kind of formal training, but nothing on what little I know about this man would possibly suggest that, and it leaves me curious. But not as curious as the tattoos winding up his arms and peeking above the neckline of his shirt leave me.
The fear in the eyes of the other contestants matches the horror and regret in mine, but there’s not a second to dwell on it before the big countdown clock in the middle reaches zero. A loud buzzer sounds through the abandoned warehouse, the noise bouncing off the walls and creating an eerie echo that rumbles through my chest. Then, before Reaper receives another millisecond to memorize my face, I take off like lightning.
The men and women in the warehouse scatter like cockroaches, some sprinting to the front of the building while others head for the back. A handful of contenders slink deeper into the building, hiding out in old office spaces, but me? I go up. I always go up.
Diving deeper into the building, I find an emergency exit door and peek through the old plexiglass window to find a stairwell hidden behind.
Bingo. There’s nothing I like more than a good, solid rooftop with an even better vantage point.
The door is old, and I have to jimmy the old lock out of place before yanking it open. Then, to keep my ass out of hot water, I slam it closed behind me and do what I can to jam it. As I work on the back of the door, my gaze shifts up to the plexiglass window, checking the cockroaches’ locations. By now, the majority of them are out of sight, except one.
Reaper.
He hasn’t moved an inch from the center of the warehouse as he watches the chaos disperse around him, and despite the warehouse being filled with serial killers and assassins, there’s only one true predator here tonight.
What’s the point of running? We might as well line up like toy soldiers and let Reaper take us out one by one. Get it over and done with instead of allowing him thirty days to play with us. But where’s the fun in that? A man like Reaper would only accept an invite to War Games if he was bored.
I get back to jamming the door when a chill sails down my spine, and as I glance back up, I find Reaper’s lethal stare locked on me. He doesn’t move, not even the slightest twitch of a muscle and it’s the eeriest thing I’ve ever seen. Nobody has the ability to be that still. He’s like a statue in the night.
A lump forms in my throat, and I hastily try to swallow it down, hating just how uneasy he makes me. But more than that, why do I have this overwhelming need to drop to my knees and beg him not to kill me in the form of a BJ?
I wonder how a man like Reaper comes. He strikes me as the silent, brooding type. I can imagine it so clearly. The only hint he’s about to come undone is the slightest narrowing of his terrifying eyes. You wouldn’t want to accidentally lose your flow and edge him. You might end up with your throat slit. But then, what if he’s not like that at all? What if he’s the type to wrap his hand around a woman’s hair and force himself deeper into her throat while whispering what a good little slut she is?
Fuck. Now I’m wet.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve always been attracted to the reddest flags. It’s literally the first few seconds of War Games, and I’m daydreaming about Reaper’s dirty talk instead of focusing on getting the fuck out of here. But shit. To make a man like Reaper come apart inside my mouth would be the highlight of my life.
Screw winning the games. That’s never going to happen now. It’s time to adapt and give myself a more achievable goal. Who knows, perhaps Reaper might give me a merciful ending if I can give him something in return. That’s my only hope at this point, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t still try to enjoy these next thirty days. If I even have thirty days left.
I came here to shed blood, and until Reaper decides it’s time for me to meet my end, that’s exactly what I intend to do. After all, I’m just a girl with a simple dream.
Doing what I can to ignore Reaper’s penetrating stare, I finish jamming the lock of the old metal door. Then after quickly meeting his haunting stare through the window one last time, I turn on my heel and sprint up the stairs, confident that if he wanted to kill me tonight, he’d have somehow already done it.
I take the stairs two at a time, pushing myself as fast as I can go before reaching the top and breaking through the next door that leads out to the roof. The wind howls the moment I open the external door, blowing my long dark hair back behind me in a woosh of cold air. I don’t let it faze me as I make a break for the edge of the building, concealing myself in the best vantage space the roof has to offer, not daring to turn my back on the door as I duck down behind an old air conditioning vent.
I keep my eyes open, watching the scene unfold in front of the warehouse while making sure no one is able to get the drop on me up here. I’m close enough to the neighboring property that if anyone decides to look for me, I can jump to the next roof or race down the fire escape. I arrived here an hour before anyone else and cased the property before checking the surrounding ones. I know every possible escape route, and from here, there are at least three ways out that would keep me concealed in the shadows.
The sound of a motorcycle roars through the night before taking off down the deserted street, and all I can do is shake my head. Only a fool would come to War Games with a vehicle that could give away his location in milliseconds. There are a few other cars in the backstreets, each of them a little more discreet, and as they race out of here, I cast my attention on the chaos below.
There are at least ten people. Some are hiding in the shadows, waiting for their chance to secure the first identifications of the games, while others don’t have the patience to wait them out.
Without streetlights, it’s dark out, but I have just enough moonlight to make out the faces of the men and women below. Grim and Blade are the two that steal my attention first. Neither of them came off as a threat to me during our initial meeting, and judging by the way they both couldn’t stand still, I’m not surprised to see them being the first to jump into the madness. Patience is a virtue, and letting your ego get the best of you isn’t going to work in your favor.
Blade is a scrawny guy, and I’m not surprised when he pulls a long blade from a holster inside his jacket. After all, most of us were appointed our aliases for a reason, and this right here is clearly Blade’s MO. On the other hand, Grim is simply a brute. He’s big and angry like the dumb jocks in high school who were always rejected by the girls. I wouldn’t be surprised if this dude was taking steroids. No amount of gym time could naturally get anybody this big.
Fear flashes in Blade’s eyes, and he lunges toward Grim, making contact with the big bastard’s forearm, but the adrenaline hits Grim like a shot of tequila, and he continues toward Blade, not even realizing how detrimental that decision is.
Grim captures Blade’s hand in his overly big one and squeezes. The familiar sound of crushing bone fills the silent street, quickly followed by an agonized scream.
Grim yanks Blade into him, spinning him in the process so that Blade’s scrawny back is pressed against his beefy chest. He brings up Blade’s hand until the tip of his own knife rests against the base of his throat.
“No. No. No. No,” Blade roars, his eyes wide with terror, but before he can get another protest out, Grim plunges the sharp knife right through his delicate skin until the tip of the blade protrudes from the back of his neck, instantly severing his spine.
Grim releases Blade, and his body falls lifelessly to the ground, the knife clattering on the cold concrete beside him. Grim smirks down at his kill before finally sparing a glance at the deep cut running up the length of his forearm. He looks at it for just a moment before starting to sway on his feet, which is when another player enters the chat.
Stone.
He’s been watching from the shadows just like a few other contenders, but with Grim losing blood so quickly, he couldn’t resist claiming the kill, which would give him possession of Blade’s death as well.
Stone rushes in behind Grim before he even knows he’s there and grips the front of his chin. Stone violently twists, and with a sickening crack, Grim’s lifeless body falls beside Blade’s.
It’s almost poetic. I’ve always believed that karma is a bitch, and this right here is more than proof of that.
Stone hastily glances around, making sure the coast is clear, and while I admire his balls to jump in and claim the kill, he’s foolish for believing there’s no one else around. Right now, he’s a sitting duck, and he doesn’t have a single clue.
Deciding he’s in the clear, he dives into Grim’s pocket, fumbling as he pulls out his wallet to search for his ID. Then, finding what he’s looking for, he begins searching for Blade’s, only a noise across the wide entrance of the warehouse has both mine and Stone’s gazes glancing that way.
A hollow groan ripples through the night, and I search the darkness before watching with a keen eye as the guy who I think called himself Graves gets the shit beat out of him by Crimson Rain, a petite woman with deep burgundy hair. She goes in on him over and over, pointed brass knuckles secured around her fingers and stabbing into his skin with every devastating blow. Only these punches aren’t just about winning the game, it’s personal, and I can’t help but wonder what the connection is there.
Graves groans, his skin quickly being torn to shreds, all while Stone discreetly tries to slink back into the shadows. Only his foolishness knows no bounds, and when he keeps backing up, he puts himself right into The Boston Maneater’s arms. All I can do is shake my head.
I suppose this particular cannibal is getting a good meal tonight.
In a flash, a blade catches against the moonlight, and I watch without surprise as it slices across the front of Stone’s throat. The move instantly takes him out of the competition and decorates the concrete in a wave of splattering blood. The Boston Maneater has secured the first three kills of the game. It was a bold move, but a good one, and I don’t doubt that I would have done the same in his situation.
The splattering of Stone’s blood distracts Crimson Rain from her brutal attack for a fraction of a second, but it’s all Graves needs to gain the upper hand, despite the way blood drenches his clothes. He shoves into her, knocking her off balance, and sends her sprawling to the ground with a loud thud.
The anger in his eyes is off-putting, something I’ve rarely witnessed, but among killers like this, it’s not unusual. Once they get the taste for blood, there’s no telling what they might do.
Crimson Rain scrambles to her feet to retreat, but he stalks her like a starved man, not allowing her to gain any traction. She has no choice but to fight. She kicks at his legs, trying to trip him up as she frantically searches for something to use as a weapon. I won’t lie, it’s certainly entertaining and gives me a good idea of who these people really are. These two, in particular, there’s something here. Maybe this isn’t their first run-in, and judging by the way she was laying into him with those pointed brass knuckles, I can only assume he broke her heart in one hell of a spectacular way.
As he continues stalking her, another figure jumps out from the side alley next to the old warehouse. I recognize him immediately. Slasher. The name has stuck with me for years after the asshole wandered his sorry ass onto my turf and started causing the type of chaos that was drawing too much attention. I was left with no other choice but to send a stern warning, and it truly is miraculous that he somehow recovered enough to gain full use of both of his kneecaps. I can’t lie, I was surprised to see him standing around that circle in the warehouse, but not as surprised as he was to see me. That kill would have been sweet, but something tells me I’m not going to get the honor. I should have killed him when I had the chance.
Slasher sprints toward Graves, a dagger clutched tightly in one hand, but as another body begins carelessly slinking through the center of the mayhem, all I can do is gawk.
Fucking Reaper.
He takes leisurely stride after leisurely stride as though he doesn’t even notice the bullshit around him, but that’s not possible. He simply doesn’t care. It’s as though he knows they can’t touch him, not even if the three of them worked together to bring him down. Then, as if he has all the time in the world, he pauses and turns toward Graves and Crimson Rain, watching the way Slasher races toward them.
Slasher’s momentum falters under Reaper’s scrutiny, and his weak-ass knees literally crumble beneath him, taking him heavily to the ground. This fumble gives Graves the opening he needs. Abandoning his advantage on Crimson Rain, he lunges for Slasher first, deciding he’s the bigger threat, but he refuses to take his eyes off Reaper.
Graves takes him out quickly and efficiently with a boot directly to the back of the spine, snapping his neck with ease. He’s still cautiously watching Reaper, but I don’t think Reaper is even a little bit interested in getting involved. He just stopped to casually watch the show, and it also doesn’t go unnoticed that the moment Reaper stepped out into the spotlight, every other bystander mysteriously vanished.
The distraction gives Crimson Rain the precious seconds she needs to get back to her feet, and instead of fleeing as any other sane person would, she lunges for Graves again, her pointed cat-ear brass knuckles plunging deep into the side of his neck.
He cries out in agony, and while it’s a devastating blow, it’s not a fatal one. If he can escape this, he’ll give himself a second chance in these games. Assuming Crimson Rain doesn’t finish him off first.
Graves whips around toward her and lunges at her, barely noticing the way half of his skin is torn into ribbons. He grabs her head and slams it against the wall of the warehouse, and I have to lean further over the edge of the roof to see the performance properly, but as I do, I feel that same chill in my bones and I tear my gaze away from the dueling couple to the ghost in the middle of the street. His haunting stare is locked on me again.
He’s the only one who’s been even remotely capable of spotting me on the roof. Though to be fair, he saw me make a break for the stairs, and like earlier, his stare is just as chilling. I swallow hard, my palms instantly starting to sweat, and I don’t dare look away when I hear the sound of a body hitting the ground. Not even when Graves escapes with both Crimson Rain’s and Slasher’s identifications.
It’s just me and Reaper, and the five other bodies left scattered on the concrete. I can only assume The Boston Maneater took off earlier with the coveted identifications of Stone, Grim, and Blade, and he probably took himself a finger to gnaw on. Officially, the one and only cannibal competing is currently in the lead with Graves coming in a close second, but with Reaper on the loose, I doubt either of them will hold those positions for long.
The seconds seem to last a lifetime, and all I can hear is my heartbeat pulsing in my ears. This could be it. The moment I die. Even with all this distance between us, all he’d have to do is blink and I’d be as good as dead.
I hold my breath, waiting for the sweet torture of death to rain down over me, and yet all the fucker does is wink.
Huh?
A wink?
What the hell does that mean?
My heart races even faster, and when he shifts his body weight, my back stiffens, watching as the slightest smirk pulls at the corner of his full lips.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. I’m a dead woman. I didn’t even get to make him come yet.
Is he going to shoot me? Throw a knife through the night sky and plunge it into my chest? Take me out with nothing more than fear alone? Holy fucking hell. Why do I suddenly have the overwhelming need to shit?
This isn’t okay!
My hands shake, and I brace them against the ledge of the roof, preparing to push myself to my feet if I have to make a break for it. I don’t dare fool myself into believing that he didn’t notice the shift in my weight. He knew my plan even before I did.
My heart races impossibly fast, and just when I think I’m about to go into cardiac arrest, Reaper turns on his heel and walks away, gingerly putting one foot in front of the other, so casually strolling right down the center of the deserted street.