Page 10 of The Most Dangerous Games

That’s the working theory, anyway. But he’s not betting his skin on it.

Jack starts a steady crawl stroke toward the island. He reminds himself to maintain a steady even pace, pretending he’s in the middle lane of some Olympic pool with other swimmers on both sides of him.

He tells himself this is not a sprint.

He’s not trying to break any speed records. He’s not trying to win style points. He’s just trying to make it to shore with his arms and legs still attached. Jack’s just trying to be alive. Then figure a way to get through the infested forest, up the mountain, and then back down.

The biggest shark—at least the biggest he has eyes on—is dead ahead. Probably thirty yards. Jack wants to keep it that way.

He knows this much from growing up around sharks, being in the water with them: They were the ones who decided whether you were prey or not.

And by the time you knew, it was usually too late.

He hears splashes of the other players hitting the water, jumping off the boat, and he wonders if being the first in was such a bright idea.

Could’ve let Tipton go first.

Jack watches the big shark as it watches him. They’re both deciding who’s going to make the first move.

Or make the first mistake.

Jack thinks about angling away from it, going parallel to shore, hoping the shark might lose interest.

Only now, just to make things more dangerous and a lot more complicated, Jack sees the shadow of a bull shark. It’s less than ten yards away—and below him, turning its head just enough to put eyes on Jack.

Not today.

Jack’s eyes go back to the big one, still making slow turns but not doing what Jack desperately wants it to do.

Go. Get out of here.

Hey, buddy.

Jack can clearly see it’s a good fifteen feet long, or even longer than that, a beast.

Tiger shark, Jack is sure of it. Known for eating anything and everything. And everyone? Now it’s moving slowly, relentlessly in Jack McHenry’s direction. Sure as the sun’s gonna rise, as his old man used to say. Almost baiting Jack into reacting, into turning himself into bait.

Jack knows what he has to do when the big shark gets too close. He’s not going to have any choice. He’s going to get one shot at saving his own life.

He’s going to have to do the only thing left—haul off and punch him right in the snout, the way he was taught back in Texas.

Jack dips under the surface, just enough to brace.

Here goes nothing.

Then he sees the shark’s attention shift to his immediate left. And then the whole pattern changes, like someone just pressed a button. Jack carefully turns his eyes in the same direction—no sudden movements, not now—and sees another swimmer.

Someone Jack recognizes instantly.

Jimmy Donaldson.

MrBeast himself.

As blown away as he is to see him here, Jack is even more shocked to see the guy is actually smiling at him. Like he’s saying, Breathe. Move. Don’t give them a reason.

He hadn’t seen him since they’d boarded together.

Jimmy takes charge of the situation and makes a simple motion: Stay close. Don’t thrash. Something about him makes Jack trust him: the calm. The way he moves like panic is a choice.