Code(99)

Sorry, Kit. This one is my bad.

I waved to Ben. “Go!”

“Wait!” Shelton pointed. Coop was bounding down the dock.

“No, boy!” I shooed him with my hands. “Go back!”

Ignoring my command, Coop hopped from the pier and settled in the bow.

I froze, undecided.

“Movement on the hill!” Hi warned.

Ben glanced at me. I nodded.

He fired the engine and we motored from the dock.





CHAPTER 52





The Gamemaster stoked the flames until they licked the roof of his fireplace.

Luminous tendrils danced before his eyes.

Satisfied, he began feeding the blaze. Driver’s license. Credit card. Lease. Auto registration. Strands of an identity no longer of use.

Outside, the wind tickled the yellow jessamine climbing the chipped wood siding. A stop sign waggled in the quickening breeze.

The Gamemaster smiled. Giggled shrilly as he donned his coarse brown cloak.

It had been a wonderful game. Exquisitely orchestrated.

He shrugged off the sense of loss that assailed him each time a Game ended. Soon he’d write a new script, more elaborate than the last. He always did. Always would.

And this time, God had sent a gift. A mighty Tempest to commemorate his finale.

A small part of him felt uneasy. He was usually gone by this point, enjoying media reports of his triumph while settling into his next life.

His new cover was ready. Documents secured. Job in place. All that remained was the selection of players and a final target. The Game would soon recommence.

But nature’s wrath was too delicious a lure.

He wanted to witness the fury firsthand—a grinding crescendo of wind and rain that would acclaim his genius. His victory. Then he’d vanish, never to return.

Task complete, the Gamemaster straightened and walked to the kitchen, passing a half-dozen empty duffel bags piled in the hallway. He’d need to pack his beloved collection soon, before the storm arrived in force.

The Gamemaster thought of his snare gun. Smiled. He’d regretted almost losing the clever weapon, uncertain he’d ever find another quite like it. But his fondness for the device hadn’t stopped him—tools were meant to be used.

Then he giggled, remembering his hardly contained joy when the kids had handed the gun right back to him! Now that was a stroke of luck. Delightful!

Humming softly, the Gamemaster began washing dishes stacked in the sink.

Outside, fat drops began ticking the window.

This Game had been special. His players had been young, but incredibly resourceful. So many Games never reached the final stage, yet these four adolescents had somehow conquered every challenge. Remarkable!

They’d failed in the end, of course. And died, of course.

He’d never before come so close to losing. The little scamps had even averted The Danger. No one had accomplished that in years. Extraordinary!

A shocking realization froze his hands.

He had liked this Tory Brennan. Respected her. Been wary of her.

He thought back to their coffee shop meeting. Bright. Resourceful. Up for the challenge. Brennan had been the rarest of treasures—a worthy opponent. It was a pity she and her friends had cheated.

He tsked. You mustn’t break The Rules.

He’d been very clear. The kids had earned The Punishment.

All in all, a very satisfying Game indeed.

Only one detail troubled him—there’d been no reports on their deaths. Odd. The press usually went berserk when children were killed.

Relax. He shut off the tap and dried his hands, chuckling at his impatience.

The Game ended only yesterday. The hurricane was no doubt disrupting everything. The police would withhold details from the media until they’d notified the families. Perhaps the bodies hadn’t been discovered.

Be patient. The trophies will come.

The Gamemaster did have one regret.

Never again would he work with a partner.

Too many variables. Too little control.

The thrill of added danger wasn’t worth the headache.

Whistling off-tune, the Gamemaster returned to his living room and powered his laptop. Slowly, he scrolled through images.

Soon his collection would expand.

Smiling, the Gamemaster settled in to enjoy the storm.





CHAPTER 53





The sky was the color of dried blood.

A massive, towering inkblot covered the eastern horizon.

Hurricane Katelyn was coming. Fast.

Gusts snapped my windbreaker as Sewee bucked across the whitecaps. Overhead, gulls streamed inland, flapping ahead of the strengthening gale.

Boating at that moment felt like suicide.

As Sewee rounded Morris, passed Fort Sumter, and muscled across Charleston Harbor, I saw no other vessels on the water. I was in the bow, with Coop’s snout buried in my lap. The wolfdog had no fondness for boats.

What am I supposed to do with him?

“Does this bucket move any faster?” Shelton was staring back out to sea, transfixed by the approaching vortex. “If that mess catches us on the water, it’s all over.”

“Relax.” Ben had the engine running full throttle. “We’ll make it.”

I tried to focus on our mission, but guilt was eating me alive.