Page 59 of The Games We Play

Scott saunters closer, his chest nearly brushing my shoulder as he dances around me. “Kill or be killed. That’s our motto, isn’t it?”

The hand in my pocket tightens its grip. “Yeah, also…” Quickly, I pull the knife from my pocket and lodge it between Scott’s ribs. “Never let your target get too close.” His hand clasps my shoulder, his thumb digging into the bullet wound, and I rip away from his grip. Slipping my pistol from its holster, I keep it trained on him as I backstep toward the door.

“You’re breaking the first rule, man,” Scott rasps through pain. “No witnesses.”

Standing taller now, I stare down at him, half-bent over. “You’re not a witness. You’re a messenger. Tell Darius I’m coming for him, and he shouldn’t send incompetent children to do his grunt work.”

“He knows about her,” Scott says with a sinister laugh, straightening as much as he can with the knife at his side.

My body goes rigid, and all thoughts of pain dissipate. I raise my gun higher and aim between his eyes.

“What are you talking about?” I need to get downstairs and to Puppet’s cameras. They couldn’t know. I’ve doubled—no tripled by tracks—and kept her as separated from my work persona as possible.

“Tick Tock, Lance.” Scott’s laughter echoes throughout the room.

I lunge forward and whip the butt of my pistol across his temple, knocking him out. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I pat Scott down for his pistol and any other weapons.

Pocketing the two extra knives and strapping the ankle holster on my leg, I pull the blood-soaked rag from my shoulder and rip my jacket off. After emptying my pockets, I set the plan into motion.

“Eh, you alright in there?” Mr. Trigger-Happy shouts as he pounds on the door. I rush to the bathroom and angle my back to the mirror.

There’s an exit wound. Good. I don’t have to worry about digging out a bullet later. Bracing my hands on the counter, I watch as my reflection goes from the hunted to the disassociated killer I’m known for.

My blue eyes appear darker as the promise of bloodshed is coming. A sinister smile curls my lips, and I push off the cold granite, check each pistol that it’s loaded, and keep one in each of my hands.

“What the… Fuck!” Mr. Trigger-Happy shouts, and the handle jiggles. Glass shatters, and I step back into the bathroom, hiding from the sniper still in position.

The keypad chimes, signaling the door is unlocked, and I ready myself for a fight. From here, I see Mr. Trigger-Happy rush inside, gun raised as he stops next to Scott. He pivots on his feet as he checks the entire room.

Show time. I step out, firing two shots, one to his chest and one to his head, then run like hell as the bullets pepper the wall behind me.

I stumble into the hallway and weigh my options. Blood soaks the left side of my shirt. I’ll be less likely to run into anyone on the stairs. The dinging of the elevator decides for me, and I take the stairs two at a time.

I take the extra time to exit through the parking garage versus walking through the lobby and lock the door once inside my car.

Lifting my phone, I dial the number and stare up at the tenth floor. I press the call button, and Scott’s suite explodes into a fury of orange and smoke. Debris pelts the ground and pings against the roof of my car.

“Nobody is better than me, asshole.”

I leave the scene and groan as my shoulder reminds me I just got fucking shot. I haven’t been shot in years. I never let things get that close.

It’s her.

She’s made me reckless and reacting based on emotions.

Puppet.

I grab my phone and quickly click to the feed of her house. I scroll through the cameras until I find her bed empty. The tightness in my chest aches, and I feel like I can’t breathe.

Suddenly, her camera feed goes black, and I roll the car to a stop to fix the issue. Something moves from the view, and the camera angle is wrong. The height has changed, and when a person steps in front of the camera with a gun, I see red.

“Hello, Lance.” the man says.

Darius. I try to flip through the other cameras, desperate to get eyes on Puppet. But they’re all black, with the worddisconnectedblinking across the screens. He got to her. Scott wasn’t bluffing, and if I know anything about Darius, neither is he.

“I think it’s time we meet. Saturday at seven-thirty, meet me at 753 Fallon Dr. Dress nice. I’ll make sure my daughter is in attendance. Can’t have you prematurely ending our party.”

The screen goes black with the same image as the others, and I stare out my windshield into the night.

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