Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
The Midnight Killer is gone in seconds, and once his body goes completely still, 343 finally pulls himself from the deck chair and begins climbing up the gym equipment. He reaches toward the body, digging through the guy’s pocket, probably searching for his identification, and I figure, what better time to announce myself than now?
“Alright, Mila,” I murmur, keeping my voice as low as possible. “If you don’t want to see your hero go down, then I suggest it’s time to look away.”
“Go get him, girl.” The line goes quiet, but it doesn’t go dead, and I don’t doubt that Mila is chilling in the background, always watching my back.
Stepping out from where I’ve been hidden for almost forty-five minutes, I step toward 343, my gaze cast up toward the ceiling as I watch him struggle to balance while fishing through The Midnight Killer’s wallet.
I clap my hands together, giving him a round of applause. “Wow, that was quite the show,” I say, only my presence in the charred gym surprises him a little too much and the idiot loses his balance. He falls back with a loud cry, and I watch in horror as he crashes to the ground, the center of his spine slamming down on a discarded dumbbell and sending a sickening crack through the gym.
His body shifts, somehow releasing the opposite end of the rope that was keeping The Midnight Killer suspended in the air. As The Midnight Killer’s body slams back to the ground, the rope catches in the back of my hair, knotting itself and sending me flying right up to the ceiling.
“Holy fucking—woah! FUCK!” I cry out, suddenly dangling from my hair as I clutch onto my scalp, hoping like fuck this isn’t how I die. Not like this. I’m better than this.
A second of silence passes as I try to assess the situation.
The Midnight Killer is dead. 343 is paralyzed on the ground. And I am hanging from my hair.
How the fuck did we get here?
“Siren?” Mila asks in my ear. “Please tell me I’m not seeing you hanging by your hair when you’re supposed to be making a quick kill and getting your ass out of there?”
Well, shit. That’s embarrassing. “I’ll be fine, Mills. Just give me a minute to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to get out of this.”
“Okay. Don’t do anything stupid,” she says. “Oh wait. You already did!”
“Bye, Mills.”
“Don’t die on me, moron,” she says, and with that, the call goes dead, leaving me in peace to get myself out of this mess.
My gaze shifts over 343, not quite stupid enough to ask for help, but as he stares up at me in shock, I can’t help but smile. “So . . . that’s not how I imagined any of that going down.”
“Who—Who the fuck are you?” 343 grunts in pain.
“Your worst fucking nightmare,” I say in a stupid tone. I’ve always wanted to say that, but the right opportunity has never popped up. I laugh to myself, and seeing that he’s clearly not amused, I roll my eyes and give a straight answer. “I’m Siren. Do you really not recognize me from the initial circle meeting?”
“It’s dark in here. Give me a break.”
“No can do,” I say, feeling my hair pulling my scalp. Having no other choice, I hold on to my braid and pull myself up just an inch, trying to relieve the ache. “Listen, there’s no simple way to free myself, is there?”
“Nope. You’re just about as fucked as I am.”
I scoff. Nobody is as fucked as he is right now. I’ll figure a way out of this—one that doesn’t include scalping myself—and when I do, I’ll happily walk away without anybody ever having known what the hell went down here tonight. There’s no denying it. This is the most humiliating moment of my career so far. What’s even more frustrating is that there are at least six knives on me right now, and I can’t reach for a single one of them without scalping myself.
Fuck me in the ass and call me Frank. How is this my life right now?
“So, this guy was your first kill for the games?” I ask, wanting to make small talk despite already knowing the answer.
“Yeah, and it would have been flawless if you hadn’t interrupted.”
“I mean, technically you made the kill. It’s not like you can’t claim it just because I happened to be here to watch the whole thing.”
He rolls his eyes. “I suppose. What about you? Made any kills?”
“The Boston Maneater,” I confirm. “He already had three others under his belt, so I guess I can claim them as well. And not to be rude or anything, but I will also have to kill you once I get my ass down from here, so I suppose I can also claim you and The Midnight Killer.”