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I wanted to fight. At least for now, I desired blood.
I carefully descended the stairs out of the plane and looked around at our final destination. Other small prop planes were unloading passengers, and I could see a bunch of people bundled in fur-lined parkas heading over to a large, obviously recently constructed building with smoke coming out of several chimneys.
Franks and his bodyguards headed for the building, and Landon motioned for me to follow the group. As we approached, I began to recognize all the people who had been present at the initial meeting. Each family was represented, but also along with them were many others.
Investors.
These were the people who tossed in all the cash to make the tournament happen, bet on individual players, and ultimately reaped the rewards through our bloodshed. Each of us would be fitted with a camera, and the gamblers would watch on closed-circuit television as we slaughtered each other for their amusement.
In the past, I hadn’t thought about them much, but now I did. What kind of people considered this entertainment? What sort of society spent all their illegally earned cash to watch us fight to the death so they could feel power through our bloodied hands?
Sick fuckers, that’s who.
We walked through the wide doors and into the building. Inside was ridiculously luxurious, especially considering the location. There were fireplaces along every wall to warm everyone with ambiance. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and every table was decked out with fancy linen and centerpieces filled with flowers and colorful LED lights. There were several open bars set up around the edge of the room, and it even had a dance floor with a DJ in the back. People milled around in suits and cocktail dresses like they were at a ball following a Hollywood red carpet event.
Except it wasn’t a movie—we were the event. I was equally disgusted and electrified by it all.
It was still early evening, and most of the groups were divided by their loyalties to a particular family. Landon and I milled around with Franks’ people near one of the bars, and I got myself a glass of water when Landon ordered a scotch. I scanned the room to locate the other tournament players. They were easy to spot because they stood out in the center of every group.
Though it wasn’t my style, tournament players usually dressed for their parts. Erik Dytalov and Reaper looked like they came out of Blade Runner or some violent computer game. Both were dressed in black, and she had eye makeup painted over her lids in bright colors and studded jewelry around her wrists and neck. It made sense, in a way. We were essentially a live video game to the people around us. Dressing for the role came naturally to a lot of players. Erik displayed his knife skills to anyone willing to watch, and Reaper posed for pictures with some of the men in suits.
The displays were ridiculous as far as I was concerned, but the investors obviously liked it. There were three women currently hanging off Hunter, who stood taller than anyone else around him. He wasn’t dressed elaborately like some of the others. In fact, he was shirtless, and I wondered if he was planning on freezing to death before the game started. The women milled around him, running their hands over his chest and asking for explanations of his many tattoos. There wasn’t any blank area on his whole upper body, and I wasn't sure how he could even keep them straight.
Glancing away from Hunter and his group, I found Tyrone Chimes. He was near a buffet table lined with hors d’oeuvres, standing with a woman in a bright red dress. He was in a cut-off T-shirt and ripped up jeans. All he needed was a little zombie makeup, and he could have been an extra in The Walking Dead.
I didn’t see Evan Arden at first because unlike the other players, he wasn’t decked out in ridiculous attire. When I spotted him, he was wearing a high-quality, tailored suit and standing near Rinaldo Moretti. In his hand was one of those electronic cigarettes, and he looked the part of crime lord rather than contestant. As I watched, he smiled and clinked glasses with Moretti.
I reminded myself that this wasn’t his thing—he wasn’t a tournament player. This would be his first. It would also be his last.
As far as I was concerned, all of them were here for their last party.
I couldn’t feel any pity for them or any regret for what I planned to do. Not only were they here by choice but they also knew the risks and the potential outcome. It was kill or be killed, and I had more reason to win this game than any tournaments in the past.
“Any concerns?” Landon asked as he took a step closer to me.
“None,” I said.
“What about Arden?”
“You were right from the beginning,” I said. “He’s more dangerous than the rest, even if this isn’t his thing. As long as I can keep to cover, he shouldn’t be able to get a lock on me.”
“Not going to be easy,” Landon replied. “There won’t be a lot of cover in that landscape.”
“The ridges on the mountainside should work. I just have to keep moving. I’ll have to do that for the warmth anyway.”
“Water is your biggest concern,” Landon said.
“Isn’t it always?” I mused. Flashes of my time spent bobbing around the middle of the Caribbean Sea with Raine on a life raft swirled around in my brain. “I don’t think I’ll run out of water. This whole thing is going to go down fast. It has to before the cold takes us all out.”
“With the exception of Reaper, you will have the advantage when it comes to weapons. The others will have problems using them effectively and keeping their hands warm at the same time.”
I kept my eyes on the other players throughout the evening. Even when a multitude of women came up to ask me questions about prior tournaments and offer me their beds to stay warm for the night, I barely made any conversation past what had to be said. I answered their questions, politely turned down their offers, and steered the conversation toward the food.
The food was actually really good. Death row inmates couldn’t have demanded better. It reminded me to give Franks shit for the food in Raine and Alex’s kitchen. He laughed but told me he’d do something about it.
“It’s good to have you back, Sebastian,” he said. “In many ways, I’ve missed you.”
There was way too much potential for double meanings in that statement to give me any feeling of comfort. I wondered how long he’d looked for me after the trial and what made him eventually give up. I considered asking him but figured it was in my best interest to let all of that go for now. I knew in my heart that he would never truly forgive me for trying to bust him, and I knew in my mind that the only way I could ever get out from under him was to end his life.
