He’s back, leaning against a wall with his hands in his pockets. Staring...at me.
I close the space between us, but his stance doesn’t change. He’s still leaning, still watching, and still holding himself with the confidence of someone that’s not averse to being scrutinised.
‘I saw your message,’ I say. His mouth quirks - just a fraction, a small, absentminded gesture. He doesn’t ask what message I’m talking about. He knows. My cottage is lined with traps. Trip wires stretch thin across the perimeter. Pressure plates are buried just beneath the soil that offer soft-sounding alarms rigged to alert me of the slightest disturbance. And I’d heard it; the faint ring of tension snapping somewhere in the undergrowth, a shift in the air as something – someone – triggered the wire. Next, a camera picked him up, revealing a suited figure standing just outside, still as a predator sizing up its prey. He wasn’t lost. He wasn’t wandering. He was watching. And I’d watched him too – inches away. He thought he was the one studying me. He was wrong. And there it is again, that same unreadable expression, yet heavier now. He wants more.
‘Are you just going to stare at me, or are you going to ask me out for a drink?’
His expression doesn’t flicker. Instead, his answer comes in sharp and precise. ‘We need to talk.’
I exhale, and a smirk spreads across my face.
‘All business, huh. Fair enough...but not here. I trust you already know where I live.’
The car door clicks shut behind him as he climbs into the passenger side like he belongs there. Like this was always going to happen. Neither of us speak. He watches the trees blur past, and I watch as his fingers tap idly against his knee, the way he keeps his breathing measured, even.
The cottage appears ahead, and we pull up outside. A thought creeps in, uninvited but impossible to ignore.
Is he here to kill me?
The question lingers, curling around my ribs, tightening like a fist. He sits beside me; calm, unhurried, watching the cottage like there’s nothing unusual about this, as if it’s just another drive.
But it isn’t. I flick a glance his way as I stop the car. His timing couldn’t have been worse. Out in the barn, strapped to a chair is a very naked member of The Black Talon gang. He’d been on my radar for weeks, and I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to grab him when I could.
We step through the front door, the glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the walls. I slump into a worn-out armchair, and he sits across from me, stiff-backed on the sofa with his hands clasped together. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words, until I finally break the silence.
‘Shall we start by introducing ourselves again? What’s your name?’
He hesitates, before finally exhaling. ‘Sal.’
‘Hello, Sal,’ I say, watching him closely. ‘Nice to meet you...or have we met before? Before yesterday.’
His eyes darken. ‘I’ve seen you before...at The Wilderness Warfare Games.’
Of course…I wasn’t one of the ones being hunted. I was one of the spectators, a participant, one of the rich who placed bets from velvet booths, sipping blood-red wine. Before the games, I thought I understood power. That was until I started playing. My pulse quickens from the memory – a brutal ballet of blood and strategy. I loved it. It was beautiful in its own savage way. My smile starts to fade. I did love it, until my prize was taken away from me. I remember the fury. That moment taught me something; in a world built on power, even the powerful can be robbed.
I nod slowly, the pieces sliding into place. ‘Ah, right. Care for a drink?’
I pour us both a glass of whiskey regardless, and I take a long, sharp sip.
For some people, a break means white, sand beaches and gentle waves. For me, it’s The Wilderness Warfare Games – a brutal, yet satisfying hunt. But the last game? It soured everything. Jessica was mine. I chose her, shaped her odds, watched her claw her way through the undergrowth. She was supposed to be my victory. And then – ripped away before the game really started. The tension coils in my chest like a snake. I don’t forget and I don’t lose gracefully.
‘Here to offer me a refund?’ I ask.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I played by the rules. What do you want, if you’re not offering me a refund.’
‘Boss wants you gone.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re a threat to his girl.’
‘What girl?’ I question. ‘I think you have the wrong woman here.’ Frustration coils in my chest. ‘I played this year because you had Jessica – a cold-blooded killer who deserved her fate in the Games.’
‘She was innocent. They all were.’
I laugh. ‘Jessica was no innocent. She was a storm wrapped in beautiful silk. She claimed her parents were obstacles, and so she murdered them. It was all in her client profile.’
