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 next contender steps forward. “The Executioner.”
Then, like a wave, the rest follow.
“The Boneyard Slayer,” a big, burly man says, his eyes dancing around the room. A cockiness in his tone suggests that he is someone I’ll need to keep a close eye on.
“Blade.”
“Grim.”
I barely make note of these two. They’re weak. They’ll be gone by the end of the night.
Next up, another woman. “Crimson Rain.”
This one might have potential. Her walls are up, and she’s not allowing anyone to get a good read on her. I like that. It could work in her favor, but the nervousness in her eyes might be her downfall. I’ll have to keep an eye on this one.
“Slasher.”
“Raven.”
“The Boston Maneater.”
This one brings me pause, my stomach churning with unease. The Boston Maneater? He can’t be serious. The majority of us have received our aliases from law enforcement or the media, and they’re generally somewhat related to our crimes. Once the name has been whispered across the media, you’re stuck with it for life. I just hope there’s been a misunderstanding here because right now, I’m picturing this guy hovering over his kill, gnawing on a bone like a dog.
Every face around the circle mimics my disgust, and clearly sensing our indifference, The Boston Maneater goes to say something, his hand inching up as his mouth opens, probably preparing some kind of defense, but he quickly hesitates. Here and now isn’t the time to get into it.
We’re well past halfway when movement to my right causes my gaze to shift. A petite woman with dark hair and blazing green eyes steps forward, and her confidence makes me uneasy. “I’m Siren,” she says without even a note of nervousness. Her tone suggests she’s here to have the best time of her life.
Siren, huh? I know that name.
She’s one hell of a threat, maybe my biggest one yet, but she’s got nothing on me. She’s a contract killer, and she’s more than efficient at her job. Some say she’s the best in the field, but that’s because most think I’m more of a legend or ghost story rather than a real man.
Siren’s gaze shifts around the circle, meeting the eye of every killer in the room, and when those green eyes come to mine, electricity burns through me. This woman isn’t just someone I need to be cautious of; she’s trouble, but I’ve never been so intrigued.
Perhaps these games just got interesting after all.
Sensing my lingering stare, Siren watches me as she steps back into formation, her gaze narrowed as if trying to figure out who I am and why I haven’t looked away like everyone else. She’s trying to get a read on me, but she won’t be able to. I’m a closed book, unlike most of the assholes around me.
The kid steps forward next, and I can’t help but notice how quickly she has the undivided attention of the room. “Shadow,” she states in a tone that sends a chill down my spine, which is something that has never happened before.
The girl looks around the room as if this is some bullshit test at school that she’s far too advanced for, and I can’t help but wonder exactly how she got here. This level of confidence only comes with experience, which leaves me wondering how the fuck she ended up that way.
Did somebody do this to her? Because no innocent child willingly goes down a path like this without a shitload of trauma.
Apart from hearing everyone’s aliases, the warehouse has been silent since the moment I entered, but after hearing Shadow’s name come out of her mouth, the silence suddenly feels heavier. Eerie almost.
There’s a good two minutes before the next contender steps forward. “343,” he says, prompting a quizzical look in the eyes of everybody in the room. This dude looks like he barely passed high-school gym class, surely he’s here by mistake. Or maybe he’s a tech guy. Either way, he isn’t somebody I need to focus on.
Next up is a guy who looks like he’s lived every day of his life on a beach with a surfboard permanently attached to either himself or the roof of a hippie van. “Sharkbait,” he says before quickly stepping back again.
Fifteen down, five to go.
My gaze sails over the remaining contenders—four men and one woman—each of them hesitating, wanting to be last to put their name forward, but the clock is ticking, and there are only seven minutes remaining, and fuck knows that last name given will be mine.
Six minutes.
Five.
All eyes bounce around the room, waiting to see who will cave first. After all, a name not given during our initial meeting is an automatic dismissal from the games, and it goes without saying that an automatic dismissal is paid for with your life.
Four.
Three.
“Fuck,” the woman says with a cringe before finally stepping forward. “Eagle.”