5. SIREN
5
SIREN
I t’s officially night two of War Games, and I’ve never been so ready to cause havoc. I fly through the moonlit streets, handling my car like the complete wreck that I am. I can’t lie, while I’m more than happy to scream from the rooftops that I’m the best career killer out there—apart from Reaper, of course—I’m not too egotistical to not acknowledge my weaknesses. And driving just happens to be at the very top of that list.
I fucking suck. There’s no other way to put it. Mila and I taught ourselves how to drive, and while we’re more than capable of making it from point A to point B unscathed, it’s never pretty. The state of my car is embarrassing, but it’s fine. When it starts looking like it’s been involved in a head-on collision with a freight train, I simply dump it and steal another. It’s a great little routine I have.
My laptop slides across the leather passenger seat with every reckless corner I take, fighting for its life as I clutch a burrito in my free hand. I quickly glance toward the screen as it teeters on the seat’s edge, following the pinned location of The Boston Maneater as he makes his way through the industrial park of Blue Springs.
This shit is too easy.
Despite my stern demand that Mila actually get some sleep, she stayed up until the early hours of this morning researching Reaper, and neither of us was surprised to find that she came up blank. So while she crashed, I tried my hand at the basic hacking skills she’s taught me over the years, and after three hours and four coffees, I found The Boston Maneater.
He has a name that draws attention so finding information about him online wasn’t hard. All his kills have been in a thirty-mile radius of Boston, Massachusetts, and after seeing his face last night, I’d put him in his late thirties. From there, it was simple. All I had to do was hack into every high school system in Boston and search the graduating classes from 2005 to 2008 until I found his face. And yeah, it was easy, but fuck, it took forever.
I was about ready to give up when I found him. And not only that, but I found his real identity. Nicholas Barrington.
A quick search showed that he was born and raised in Boston. He never really went anywhere or saw anything. He had an unremarkable childhood, and although he was a strange kid, there was nothing to raise alarms. Not until his mother was killed in a freak accident during his early teens. It all went downhill after that. His father became an abusive drunk and upon getting himself a brand-new step-mommy, he was kicked out to fend for himself.
I almost feel sorry for him. I know what it’s like to live on the streets as a teen and have to figure life out for yourself, but I don’t feel sorry enough not to kill him.
Figuring out his identity was one thing, but actually pinning a location on him was another. Once I had his name, the rest quickly fell into my lap. Now, to be fair, Mila would have found him in all of three seconds, but me? It took just a little longer, though the second I found his Facebook account, it was over for him. Even more so when the idiot decided to log on and check his notifications using a public Wi-Fi connection.
I had his location in the blink of an eye, and before I could convince myself to let someone else take out the trash, I was already throwing a bag of weapons in the car and backing out of my spot. Then, after almost taking out one of the resort’s famous pines, I found myself heading right back toward the industrial park.
To be completely honest, it’s not very creative, and for that alone, he deserves to be eliminated from the games. But getting to be the one who delivers his fate makes me feel all kinds of soft and gooey inside. I won’t lie, getting to make my first kill of the games excites me like never before. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years, but taking out a cannibal? It’s like music to my ears.
As I navigate the deserted backstreets of Blue Springs, I give myself a stomachache from eating my breakfast burrito too quickly. I pull onto the road that runs directly behind the warehouse where The Boston Maneater has decided to temporarily call home.
Bringing my car to a stop in a neighboring building, I cut the engine and climb out before checking my reflection in the car’s window. I’m not one who usually likes to dress the part. I like comfort, but these games are a special occasion, so I’ve put in all the effort. Tight black jeans that hug my ass just right with black combat boots. I’ve matched it with a black leather-bound corset crop, custom-made with hidden incisions that are perfect for my blades.
Straps decorate my thighs with my guns holstered in various positions, but I doubt they’ll be used. I prefer knives, so you can guarantee that anywhere you look on my body, you’ll find a wide array of them. Boots, jeans, crop, hair. You name it, I have a knife there somewhere.
My hair has been pulled up into a high pony with my long, dark strands plaited right down to the end, giving me the perfect whip, and while I can’t do shit with it, I’m all about the aesthetics today. Which is precisely why I opted for a perfect black lip and a cat’s-eye liner to complete the look.
I feel better than I ever have, and as I reach back into the car to grab my bag of weapons, I can’t help but glance over the laptop screen, confirming that The Boston Maneater is exactly where he should be.
A stupid grin pulls across my lips. This is going to be as easy as taking candy from a baby.
With my weapons all strapped in place, I go to leave when I spot my favorite ring just casually chilling out in my center console, begging to be taken out for a good night. I can’t possibly resist. She’s just so pretty.
Grabbing the brass ring, I slide it onto my middle finger and twist it just a fraction so that the sharp cat’s ears are sitting right in the center of my finger. This ring is very similar to the brass knuckles Crimson Rain wore last night. The only difference is that mine is much smaller, and it’s way too pretty to get bloody. I’ve never used it, but I’ve also never been on a job without it. It’s my lucky charm, and while some people don’t feel completely dressed without a shirt and pants, I don’t feel completely dressed without this ring.
With my ring in place, I decide that I’ve spent more than enough time fucking around and lock up the car before quickly scanning the old warehouse. There’s no one here, not even a stray cat. I knew that the second I drove in, but I watch my surroundings anyway as I stick to the shadows, not willing to put my life at risk for some loser who likes to gnaw on human flesh. I sure hope he’s had his fill tonight because it’s the last meal he’ll ever have.
His small warehouse hideout is in my direct line of sight as I make my move. It’s a dilapidated heap of shit compared to the building I parked behind, and judging by the graffiti on the boarded windows and the beer bottles littered around the parking lot, it’s fair to say it has seen its share of late nights.
My guess is that it’s been abandoned for maybe ten to fifteen years. The coloring on the outside has faded with time while some of the metal sheets making up its walls are missing. Anybody could get in and out. It offers no protection, no safety.
What the fuck was he thinking coming here?
I’m almost disappointed with how easy this is going to be. I won’t even need to lure him out, set a trap, or go hunting. There’s no chase here, simply a chance to practice my skills.
Ugh. I can’t believe I wasted a good outfit for this. I should have known better than to allow myself to get so worked up and excited. Hell, his name is The Boston Maneater for fuck’s sake. I should have known this was going to leave me unsatisfied. Not even in death could a man like that satisfy a woman.
Now a man like Reaper? Damn. Killing him will be everything. Dare I suggest it will be better than sex? The adrenaline of the chase, of hunting him and subduing him will be the best foreplay I’ve ever had. And those dark, lethal eyes when he realizes I’ve got him right where I want him. Only he’s going to make me work for it. He’s going to test me in every way possible, push me to my limits, push me until I break, and it’s going to be incredible.
Silently making my way into the small warehouse, I can’t help but grin. There’s a huge fan at the back, almost as tall as the building with its blades slowly rotating and constantly distorting the moonlight that shines through the building. Maybe The Boston Maneater has a little creativity after all.
It’s like the set of a horror movie in here, and as I appreciate my surroundings, I hear the familiar sound of footsteps across the cold concrete ground.
Bingo.
Sinking deeper into the shadows of the building, I crouch down low, watching as The Boston Maneater cuts across the warehouse. He looks as though he’s preparing to go hunting. The only issue is that his movements lack motivation, and it becomes clear that his version of hunting is to go in blind and hope he happens to find someone.
Fucking rookie.
Why are assholes like this even invited to these games? It’s supposed to be the best of the best, yet here’s a guy who likes to stir his coffee with someone’s big toe. Just the thought of it has me ready to wring his neck. He deserves to die simply for being incompetent.
The Boston Maneater begins filling his pockets with weapons and shoves a gun down the waistband of his torn jeans, and all I can do is shake my head. This idiot is embarrassing himself, but before he gets a chance to load up with too many weapons, I decide it’s finally time to make my move. After all, the sooner I get this over and done with, the sooner I get back to my holiday resort and enjoy my month-long vacation.
With The Boston Knee Nibbler more than distracted, I rise out of the shadows and slowly stride into the center of the warehouse. I watch him with every step he takes, completely unaware of his surroundings. His back doesn’t stiffen once. He doesn’t even flinch at the soft padding of my footsteps on the concrete. He’s either too confident and thinks he’s luring me into some bullshit trap, or he’s just stupid.
I’m going with what’s behind door number two. The guy is a fucking moron.
With the ginormous fan at my back, my shadow stretches out across the full length of the warehouse, the slow, spinning blades distorting my shape. It’s fucking beautiful. Poetic almost. And as The Boston Guts Gobbler shoves another cheap knife into his pocket, I withdraw one of mine from the incision of my corset crop.
“I really do wish I could stand here all night and watch you fill your pockets with useless weapons, but you’re starting to bore me.”
The Boston Testicle Taster freezes, his body stiffening like a rock as the gun in his hand drops to the hard concrete. He whips around, his eyes wide like saucers as he takes me in. “How did you get in here?” he demands.
My brows furrow. “Ummm . . . You mean how did I get into the warehouse that’s practically missing all of its sheet metal? Are you serious right now? There are more holes in this building than there are walls.”
He simply just stares back at me, his lips twisting into a scowl. “You made a mistake coming here, girl,” he says, quickly recovering from his shock of seeing me in the middle of his holey warehouse as he begins to stalk me, taking one large stride after the other. “Let me be very clear. I’m going to kill you now.”
I simply stare back at him. “Do you really eat people?”
He falters for just a second, the question throwing him off. “I . . . What? No,” he yells, quickly getting angry. “I don’t do that.”
“I don’t know,” I muse. “You don’t get a name like The Boston Maneater for nothing. I mean I know all you serial killers have weird and wonderful little quirks. But eating your victims? That’s just taking it a little too far, don’t you think?”
His jaw clenches, and as the fan continues to spin behind me and he gets closer, my shadow begins to flicker across his face.
“Tell me, oh wise ankle biter,” I continue. “Is there a difference in taste between a man and a woman? I take it a woman is a little more . . . tender.”
His face turns red, his hands balling into fists at his sides, and when he reaches for one of his many knives, a deep thrill pulses through me. “I DON’T FUCKING EAT PEOPLE!” He roars so loudly that even in the dark, holey warehouse, I see the spittle flying from his mouth, and then in a flash, he breaks into a sprint toward me.
His knife is clutched tightly, ready to decapitate me, but I simply watch him, timing his every step, and just when he gets close enough, I whip my body around, my foot coming out in a beautiful spinning kick that meets his temple with the force of an eighteen-wheeler.
His momentum keeps him moving forward, and I simply take a step to the side, watching him fall right to the ground. The harsh crack of his nose breaking against the concrete gives me goosebumps.
I suck in a breath through my teeth. I hadn’t really intended for him to break his nose, but sometimes these things are unavoidable. It’s not as though I can foresee the outcome of every ridiculous situation I get myself into, but I won’t lie, I’m not mad about it.
My little love tap to the temple wasn’t quite enough to knock him out completely, and as he groans in agony, I shove my foot into his shoulder and roll him onto his back. A pang of disappointment hits me when I see his own damn knife plunged through his chest. “Ahhh shit, Mr. Liver Lover, that’s unfortunate. I was so looking forward to the two of us spending some good quality time together.”
“You’re a”—gasp—“bitch.”
I simply smile, and as I step toward him, his eyes widen in fear.
“It seems you’ve gotten yourself into a little bit of a pickle,” I tell him, crouching beside him and looking over the mess he’s made as blood spouts from his broken nose. I reach forward, wrapping my hand around the hilt of the knife that’s currently plunged six inches into his chest. “Here’s the situation,” I explain. “This blade is currently keeping you from bleeding out, it’s also keeping your right lung from collapsing, but unfortunately for you, I don’t really care very much. I’m going to pull it out, and you’re going to slowly die right here on the ground. It’s probably going to be very painful.”
“But . . . No,” he breathes. “I don’t want to die. I—”
“Shhhhhhh,” I say, gripping the hilt tighter and tearing it free from his chest.
The Boston Maneater cries out in agony, and just as I expected, he quickly begins to bleed out, and from the sound of his gurgling, I can only assume his right lung is also beginning to fill with blood. “Now,” I say, meeting his graying stare. “I’m assuming your ID is in your pocket?”
He doesn’t respond, but at this point, I don’t really expect him to. Instead, I just offer a sugary sweet smile, and as he grows sweaty and tries to cough up the blood in his collapsed lung, I fish his wallet out of his pocket, spilling out the rest of his weapons in the process.
I sit down next to him, giving myself enough space so that I don’t get any of his blood on my outfit, and rifle through his wallet, grinning as I find not only his ID, but those of the three kills he claimed last night.
Stone. Grim. And Blade.
I officially possess four IDs, and at this stage of the competition, I’m currently in the lead.
The Boston Maneater slowly begins to die beside me, and I let out a breath, having hoped it would happen just a little bit quicker. I can’t leave until I know he’s well and truly gone because if he survives and makes it to the end without me knowing, both of us would be eliminated because of a technicality.
“So,” I say, twiddling my thumbs. “I won’t lie, the whole cannibalism thing is really gross. I don’t know what you were thinking when you signed up for these games. Surely you knew you would be a target based on principle.”
The guy groans, his face turning an odd shade of gray. “I’m not”—cough—“a cannibal.”
“No one else is here,” I say. “You can just admit it. So you have the taste for human thighs. Personally, I’m a fan of chicken breast, but I can get down with a good thigh.”
“Not . . . a cannibal,” he grits through his teeth, the blood beginning to seep closer to me on the concrete. “You know how this goes. That story . . . was planted by some tech asshole.” He stops to cough and blood spurts from his lungs. “Once you get a name, it sticks. I’ve never been able to escape it.”
“No shit, huh? You really don’t like to slurp on human sausages?”
“The fuck is wrong with you?”
All I can do is laugh as I lean back onto my palms and inch my legs to the right to avoid the growing puddle of blood. “Look, this is taking a really long time. Would you mind hurrying along the process? All I’ve eaten today is a breakfast burrito on the way here, and I could really go for a good steak and veg. Actually, scrap the veg. I want fries.”
He sputters, starting to drown in his own blood, and as I go to get to my feet, I realize the limb licker and I aren’t the only ones here. A figure stands at the opening of the warehouse, his tall, imposing body taking up the majority of the doorway as he simply watches me.
In the dark, I can’t make out a single feature of his face. He’s nothing but an imposing shadow, waiting for me to fuck up. My heart races with pure fear, which is how I know that this man is Reaper.
He stares back at me, those lethal eyes capable of the most wicked crimes.
This is it, just like last night. It’s just me and him. The ball is in his court, and I’m backed into a corner. I can try to run, but there’s nowhere I can go that he won’t find me. It’s best to surrender right here and now, save myself the agony of trying to run.
I catch my breath and hold it, incapable of anything else but staring right back.
The whole world fades around me. I haven’t even got a clue if the man at my feet is dead or alive, and I suddenly couldn’t give a flying shit. All that matters is Reaper. Only he doesn’t do a damn thing. He just stares at me.
This is a test. A warning.
Something tells me he’s not here for The Boston Maneater. He’s here for me. He’s trying to prove just how easily he can get to me, just how quickly he can find me. And damn it, the message is received loud and clear.
I’m out of my element. Out of my league.
My heart races like never before. If I’m going to try and survive this, I need to figure out a game plan. I need to get my head screwed on straight, and I need to find my zen. I don’t stand a chance while I’m panicking. He’ll end me with nothing more than a flick of his fingers, and I’ll go down like a sack of shit because I’m too busy fretting.
I need a clear mind.
I need a fucking plan, and right now, all I’ve got are the weapons strapped to my body.
My hand slowly reaches for the blade sheathed in my corset and just as my fingers curl around the custom-made hilt, preparing to defend myself when his brutal attack comes, everything stops.
The shadow disappears, fading into the night like a ghost, leaving me questioning if I imagined the whole thing. My heart doesn’t dare stop racing. There’s no way I could have imagined that. And for whatever reason, Reaper just allowed me to escape with my life.
He’s playing with me. Getting a kick out of the way I fear him, and there’s no denying just how easily he senses that fear. He feeds on it the same way that I do, and just like that, I have a full understanding of his game plan.
He’s going to wait me out. He’s going to let the rest of us battle it out as he stands back enjoying the show, watching as the rest of us crumble under his scrutiny, and just when we think we might have a fighting chance, he’ll end those of us left like the incompetent killers we are.
A chill sails down my spine, and I realize that no matter how hard I try, how much I fight, how much research and weapons I have to defend myself against this beast, I will never win. It’s not possible.
And with that thought, I simply turn on my heel and escape out the back of the warehouse, the same way I came in, knowing that whatever happens here in this sleepy town, my life as I once knew it is well and truly over.