17
As the competition officially starts I try to shrug off my feeling of foreboding, and study the contents of my pack.
All the while the bachelor had been talking I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched.
That’s when I’d spotted the boat. Normally I wouldn’t pay it a second glance.
Normally. But these are not normal times, and the attack on our limousine on the way to The Games suggests my pursuers are not going to give up easily.
‘Who fishes at night on a lake known to have snakes everywhere? It’s just a boat. Stop obsessing. Get your head in The Game, or you’re going to fucking lose it, Catriona.’
I close up my pack and, reminding myself to murder the Londoner at the earliest convenience after witnessing that kiss, walk slowly towards the treeline.
It’s obvious that some of the competitors are going to wait in the woods just past the shore and try to take the packs off those they consider weaker.
That’s one strategy.
My plan is to take it slow. By the time I get off the beach the initial violence should have passed, unless the majority go with my second strategic guess — that no one will try to take any pack straight up, but will instead run to where they feel safe before reading their clue.
That seems like a stupid idea to me. I don’t want to have to backtrack if I run in the wrong direction, which is why I opened my pack on the beach. I’m going with the third option. Slow and steady.
And deadly.