Chapter 99.
Wyatt presses forward as quietly as he can, trying to imagine his feet barely touching the ground, pretending he’s a ghost.
Every few minutes—minutes that feel more like hours—he stops to look around.
Stops and listens.
Every time he does, he thinks about turning around and walking away.
Wyatt thinks about running, and not just for cover.
He thought he had a solid plan for himself from the time he’d shown up in Ohio. Except plans have a way of changing. He’d learned that fairly early in his life.
Man, have I ever learned that.
A family trait, maybe?
But what did they say in the military? Plans change when the situation on the ground changes. Jack McHenry had told him that one night when the two of them had taken an after-dinner walk in Maine. Or maybe it had been in Kentucky.
Well, now the situation on the ground—this ground—was changing with every step he took deeper into the woods.
Where’s Zhi?
Am I tracking him or is he tracking me?
This was supposed to be about me becoming a man, Wyatt tells himself.
Just not a dead man.
All Wyatt does know, one hundred percent, is that he’s more frightened than when he had been hanging on for dear life to Mount Washington, right before he watched Reg Drummond lose his own grip and fall all the way to what looked like the bottom of the world.
Right after the same thing had nearly happened to him.
Wyatt’s heartbeat? Out of control. His mouth feels as dry as dirt. His right hand, the one with the old-fashioned revolver in it, continues to shake so much he wonders what will happen if he does need to take a shot at Zhi Lin. He looks down and hates what he sees.
If I have to shoot, I’ll miss.
And then I’ll die.
Unless the Chinese gymnast gets his shot off first.
Could Zhi really shoot him dead? Zhi is an athlete, after all. A champion in his sport. One night when Wyatt was quizzing him about that, Zhi had told Wyatt that it wasn’t ever a burning desire to compete that drove him.
No.
It had been his hatred of losing.
Only he doesn’t have to hate me to kill me.
Still plenty of light left. Or half-light.
The rain had stopped, and the clouds had rolled out, making for what would’ve been a pleasant evening under any other circumstances.
Wyatt tries to slow his breathing in the hope of somehow slowing down his heartbeat.
Then looks down at the gun and still sees his hand shaking like a leaf in a strong wind.
He hears something behind him now. Something more than just the wind. Wyatt wheels around, raising his gun as he does. But it is some small forest creature scurrying away.
The next noise Wyatt hears doesn’t come from behind him.
It is Zhi landing on the ground up ahead.
He’s jumped down out of a tree.
As startled as Wyatt is, frozen in place, he manages one crazy thought:
Guy stuck the landing.
Before Wyatt can decide what to do next, he sees Zhi’s gun pointed at him.
Zhi’s hand isn’t shaking at all.
Wyatt hears Zhi say, “Winner or loser.”
In the instant before he pulls the trigger, Wyatt drops into a forward roll. Zhi fires and misses, the bullet smashing into a tree behind him.
They were told they each had one bullet.
The Host had told Zhi to trust him. Wyatt doesn’t. There’s more than one bullet in his gun . . . because that man lies. Every time.
Zhi wasn’t sent out here to “compete.”
Zhi was sent out here to win.
The Host wants him dead and, like always, the rules bend to his desired outcomes.
Wyatt doesn’t wait. He can’t.
He aims and fires because he feels he has no choice.
He aims for the shoulder. For the arm. To stop. To survive.
The recoil punches his wrist.
Zhi jerks back with a sharp cry, his gun dropping. Blood darkens his sleeve instantly. Zhi stares at Wyatt like he can’t believe it. Like losing is something that only happens to other people.
Wyatt backs away, gun still up, breathing hard.
“Don’t,” Wyatt says.
He doesn’t know what he means by it.
Don’t shoot me. Don’t die. Don’t make me live with this.
Zhi staggers, collapses against a tree, and slides down into the wet leaves. Wyatt stands there shaking, watching him, waiting for the next lie to reveal itself.
Because he can feel it in his bones now:
Nothing about this was ever going to be as simple as one bullet.