Chapter 10
For an excruciatingly long moment, the boardroom was silent. Every player at the table was shaking and pale, but their host was relaxed and—of course—grinning. It was as if Rich wanted to give them all a chance to realize that Eric Valentine was dead. That they’d just witnessed his murder—his horrifyingly long and painful death—and they were now locked in a game where their own throats would be cut if they lost a challenge.
Quinn swallowed hard, trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they belonged. He already tasted metal thanks to the blood pooled and splashed beside him; he didn’t need to taste vomit on top of it.
More of Eric’s blood than he wanted to think about had soaked through his own clothes. It seeped through and stuck to his skin, cold and wet, and if he could’ve set his clothing on fire in that moment, he would have.
Holy shit. Holy. Shit.
He’s dead. His blood is all over me.
And I have no idea how to get out of this place.
Out of this insane fucking game.
Rich looked from one player to the next. “Does anyone have any questions?”
Everyone stared at him, bewildered and shellshocked. Uh, yeah, it was a safe bet they all had some questions.
No one asked, though. Probably because they were all far too aware of the gaping wound across Eric’s throat. Or maybe they were all afraid to speak, thinking vomit would come forward instead of words.
Or maybe that was just Quinn.
“No questions?” Rich asked. “Good. Oh, and…” He gestured at the vents above his head. “You may have noticed the room getting a little warmer since you’ve been here.”
Quinn was definitely sweating, and looking around, others were as well. He’d thought it was just because of the situation, but maybe not. Now that Rich had pointed it out, uncomfortable heat had been settling in, making all the cool spots where blood touched Quinn’s flesh feel impossibly slimier and more revolting.
Rich’s lips peeled back across his teeth. “Don’t be alarmed by the warmth. We’ve shut down the air conditioning. It’s bad for the environment, of course, but we also figured it would be a nice preview for what’s waiting for all of you in the afterlife.” He paused, then shrugged. “Or, well, if you don’t believe in an afterlife, it’s something to make you duly miserable in what remains of your current life.”
The people around the boardroom table exchanged horrified, disbelieving glances.
“This completes the challenge,” Rich said. “I’ll see you all back here in the morning.”
No one moved.
That… That was it?
Or was he waiting to take out the first person to head for the door?
Finally, without another word, Rich straightened his jacket, gestured to his men, and strode out of the room, leaving all the contestants with the carnage. The elevator doors opened, and everyone at the table just listened as the machinery worked.
When everything was silent again, they stared at each other with wide eyes. The silence rang in Quinn’s ears, hollow with the absence of Eric’s terrible cries and gasps.
“What the fuck do we do now?” Paul asked.
“I have no idea.” Charlie sounded dazed. “Even if he legally tricked us into a reality show, this can’t be legal. This is…” He trailed off as his eyes lost focus.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s legal,” Alan said. “We’re here. And he’s…” He gestured at Eric, who was still lying at the floor between Art and Quinn. “He just ordered a man’s throat cut. Do you think he gives a shit what’s legal? And what are we going to do? Take Price to court?”
There was a murmur of unhappy agreement.
What could they do? They were in the middle of the ocean on a tiny island with no means of escape or—
“Oh, fuck,” Quinn said. All heads turned toward him. “I think I just figured out why none of our electronics are working.”
Jaws dropped and eyes widened. No one had to say it out loud. It was as easy to see as the blood and the body lying at their feet.
There was no way out.
They were fucked .
Today, Quinn understood what people meant when they talked about showering and scrubbing and not being able to get clean. He’d stripped off his blood-soaked clothes as soon as he’d come stumbling back into his suite, and he’d gone straight into the shower.
This morning, he’d enjoyed a perfectly hot shower with the kind of high pressure that could almost provide a legit deep tissue massage. Now, when he desperately needed it so hot it scalded his skin, it was little more than a lukewarm trickle.
The water swirling at his feet was clear, and the only red on his skin now was where he’d scrubbed until it was irritated, but he kept at it anyway. Kept soaping. Kept rinsing.
Kept seeing that glint of metal just before Eric Valentine’s throat turned into a bloody fountain.
“Fuck,” he whispered to himself as he let the cool water slide over his face. “Jesus fuck…”
Eventually, he gave up and got out. The mirror had fogged up a little, but not from the shower—from the heat. Without the industrial grade air conditioners blasting, the air was thick and hot, almost as humid as outdoors minus the relief of a gentle breeze.
Hands on either side of the sink, he stared at his hazy reflection as water dripped from his hair.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
He couldn’t just roll over and accept his fate. He had to fight back. Try to escape. Something .
Yeah, that sounded great, but do what? Whittle a canoe out of a palm tree with his teeth? Start fires until there was enough smoke that some distant cargo ship got curious? Just stand on the goddamn beach and scream into the void?
He wiped a hand over his face and swore again.
After a moment, he pushed himself away from the counter and moved into the main part of the suite. He dressed, and then he paced in the small, sweltering room as he tried like hell to conjure up a plan. There had to be a way off this island.
If Geri had seen what she thought she’d seen, then at least some of Rich Price’s people were armed. It seemed prudent, then, to err on the side of caution and assume they were all armed. There were also more of them than there were…hostages? Contestants on a fucked-up quasi-game show? Whatever he and the others were, they were outgunned.
The men also had access to vehicles. Even if Quinn got his hands on one of those vehicles, where could he go?
He was a strong swimmer, but he wasn’t going to swim hundreds or thousands of miles through ocean currents, and even if he could, he had no idea which way to go. The wrong direction could take him out into the middle of the Atlantic, assuming the sharks didn’t get to him first.
Quinn shuddered.
A boat, if he could locate one, would be good. It would get him away from the island and would likely have a radio so he could reach out to…to someone , somewhere.
Which would do him a ton of good if he didn’t know where the hell he was.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed and rubbed his stiffening neck. With every idea he came up with that fell apart, his hope faded. There was no escape. None that he could see right now.
And… ugh. He was sweating, and not just from the miserable heat of the room. It was a cold sweat. The kind of sick, shaky sweat that accompanied a fever.
So this is what real, honest to Christ fear feels like.
He shivered, chafing his arms. He needed some air before he suffocated in this room.
He needed to vape. God, yes. That was what he needed. It wouldn’t fix a goddamned thing, but it would be something pleasant in this growing shitshow.
The resort was eerily quiet and empty. The hotel had been bustling with people up until yesterday morning when he and the others had been taken to the conference room. Now almost everyone was gone.
There weren’t even many employees left—the desk in the lobby was unattended. There was still a bartender and a server in the restaurant, and presumably someone cooking the food in the kitchen. The men who seemed to be Rich’s minions were suddenly a more menacing presence, lurking like goons and thugs instead of employees trying to make sure potential investors were duly spoiled.
Quinn crossed the restaurant to the patio. He wasn’t at all hungry, and even drinking sounded nauseating. At least the patio was still open; Mark and Tyson loomed at the edges, the holsters on their belts now visible. He supposed there was no point in hiding their handguns now that they had rifles slung across their backs.
Fucking hell. It was like going to an all-inclusive resort, only to find himself a hostage of some local cartel.
Something told him these assholes wouldn’t be trying to ransom him, though. His parents were dead anyway, but there were people who could and would cough up money in exchange for his safe release.
After what happened in the boardroom today, though, Quinn didn’t imagine a ransom would save him. Rich wasn’t looking for money from any of them. Judging by this island and hotel, he wasn’t lacking in that department.
No, what he wanted from them couldn’t be withdrawn from any account, be it stateside or offshore.
Rich Price was out for blood.
And he wouldn’t stop until every last one of them was overdrawn.