Ethan looked at the phone in his hands; the screen cast a faint glow over his face. He checked the only number saved.
According to what Lai Lai had told him, the entire sector was covered by city surveillance cameras, but they did not answer to the police or city hall.
They answered to the tournament.
Trying to flee in his vehicle would be useless; he would be exposed within minutes.
But he still wanted out of this. He wanted to see if he could still negotiate their release, so he pressed the call button.
When they answered, the voice that came through the earpiece sounded almost indifferent, as if he were commenting on the weather.
—Oh, my… hello, our new contestant. It's a shame what happened to Miss Zhang.
—Enough games —Ethan snapped—. I want you to deactivate the device inside me and let us go.
—Oh, I'm sorry, young man… it seems that won't be possible. You are now part of my game. My guests are absolutely thrilled with your little incursion; it has brought a breath of fresh air to our competition.
—I don't give a damn about your competition. Let us out.
—If you want to leave, continue with the competition… and win.
Nola stepped forward.
—We're not going to play! —she cut in urgently—
—There are no mistakes —the man replied with absolute calm—. Only unexpected variables, and you are now part of the entertainment.
Ethan looked up.
In the corner, a security camera was pointed directly at him. The black lens looked like an unblinking eye, motionless, watchful.
—Only the final victor may survive —the voice continued—. That is the rule of the Assassins' Tournament: kill… or die, and walk away with a ten-million-dollar cash prize… this is no joke, boy.
—I don't know who you are, and I don't care. I was just passing through. I have no interest in your game.
There was a brief silence.
—I'm sorry, but you have no choice —the organizer continued—. Once you enter the battlefield… there is no option to withdraw. And in case Miss Zhang didn't tell you, the device you're carrying is a miniature bomb, powerful enough to pulverize your organs, so running is not an option.
Ethan felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.
—If you decide not to play, if you try to run, or if you simply bore me —he went on—, I will detonate it. There will be no warning. No time to react. You will die wherever you are.
Silence fell like a slab of stone.
The cameras were still there, watching everything.
—So understand this clearly —the organizer added—. You play… or you die. Today, tomorrow, or whenever I decide.
Ethan clenched his teeth. Every muscle in his body was tense, but his mind began to move quickly. He didn't need to win. He needed time.
He looked up at the camera in the corner. His eyes did not plead.
—Fine —he said at last—. I'll play your damn game.
He took a deep breath before continuing.
—But when I'm done with all those idiots out there, when you have no one left to entertain your guests… I'm coming for you. You and everyone with you.
His voice was low, steady.
—And I will kill each and every one of you.
—Good luck… —the voice replied, amused.
The line went dead.
Ethan lowered the phone.
He already had an idea. And he only needed time on his side.
Nola pressed her lips together before speaking again:
—So, what's our next move? —Nola asked.
Ethan took a second before answering.
—I'm thinking. There's an assassin who can't be tracked… we have to assume he's watching us right now. They want to use me as bait to pit me against their other contenders.
—What if we play their game?
—What do you mean? —Ethan asked, without taking his eyes off the outside.
—I don't have a tracker either. We can use that to our advantage. If we stay here, he'll eventually come to ambush the other assassins, so we wait for him.
Ethan slowly turned toward her.
—Nola… you want to use me as bait? You're breaking my heart.
She gave a faint smile, tilting her head.
—Oh, come on. You're far too handsome to waste so quickly.
Ethan didn't like the idea. But he couldn't deny it made sense. They would use that advantage while they still had it. At least until they could reach the people running this circus.
The man in the leather jacket carried no GPS tracker. To the other assassins, he was practically invisible. For Ethan, the situation was different.
Ethan knew the opponent used a sniper rifle. The church was the safest environment: thick walls, few access points, limited angles. He just had to stay away from the windows.
He decided not to go out.
Now that he understood the threat, patience became his best weapon.
Nola, who had been checking the phone, found several interesting things.
—Ethan, look… —Nola said softly—. Apparently, this device doesn't just track participants in real time.
The screen displayed a leaderboard: names, positions, and the number of confirmed kills.
At the bottom, a timer advanced mercilessly.
Less than twenty hours remained of the twenty-four-hour limit.
Around the scanning area, small arrows indicated the positions of other participants.
Ethan examined the device.
—How close does someone have to be to appear as a point of light? —he asked.
—Within a fifty-meter radius. Now we just have to wait here. They'll come for us.
Now he only had to wait for the sniper who had used him; the man would surely come here to take position, to kill his rivals while they searched for him.
But Ethan had a surprise of his own—his integrated radar.
Half an hour later, a point of light appeared on the radar. He was already there.
The dot stopped outside the church. Then it blinked… and an upward arrow appeared.
Ethan looked up. The small upper windows barely let any light in. The dot was moving slowly toward one of the rear sections.
—Listen… I think our friend is on the roof —Ethan murmured.
They went up to the second floor in silence, stepping carefully on the wooden stairs. Every creak sounded too loud inside the empty church.
—Let's go get the bastard who ruined my vacation —Nola said.
She racked the slide of her Glock with a sharp click, chambering a round.
—You're so sexy —Ethan murmured, flashing a half smile.
Ethan moved ahead. Both of them advanced silently, searching for the stairs that led to the attic.
When they reached it, Ethan didn't approach all the way. He stayed with his back against the wall, using the faint reflection to observe the inside of the attic. His hands rested firmly on the gun, body tense, ready to react.
Nola positioned herself beside him, holding her breath.
Ethan narrowed his eyes.
—There… —he murmured—. Do you see him?
Nola followed his gaze.
Recognition was immediate. It was the same guy who had given her a bad feeling that morning. She hadn't known why then, but now she understood. Her instinct never failed… and it had screamed that the man was up to no good.
There he was.
A Black man in his thirties. In Nola's eyes, however, he was nothing more than a corpse that simply hadn't fallen yet.
He wore a black cardigan, discreet, easy to forget. According to the device's record, his name was Anton Bogart.
"The Frenchman."
Ethan began walking slowly until he stood right behind him.
He made no sound.
Each step was slow, measured. The world seemed to narrow around him as Ethan raised the Glock and pressed the cold muzzle against the back of Anton's head.
Anton froze, but he was no rookie.
He spun suddenly, deflecting the barrel with his forearm just as the shot exploded. The bullet embedded itself in the wall. The impact shook Ethan's wrist, but he didn't lose the weapon.
Anton threw the first punch—a straight right to the face.
Ethan blocked it with his elbow, turned his hip, and answered with a short strike to the sternum.
Anton stepped back half a pace, just enough to launch a low kick aimed at the knee.
Ethan jumped just enough. He landed turning and drove his heel into Anton's shin. Bone cracked. Anton grunted, but he didn't fall. He grabbed Ethan's jacket and slammed him against a table.
The Glock flew out of his hand.
No weapons.
Anton came at him with a flurry of blows: two to the face, one to the abdomen. Ethan absorbed the punishment, closed his guard, and drove his head under Anton's chin, pushing him back.
Knee to the liver. Another to the plexus.
Anton answered with an elbow that split Ethan's eyebrow open. Warm blood ran down his temple.
Ethan barely smiled.
He grabbed Anton's wrist, twisted until he heard the tendon snap, and used the momentum to hurl him against the wall. Anton bounced off and charged again, desperate, pulling a knife from his boot.
Too slow.
Ethan caught the armed wrist, rotated his body, drove in with his shoulder, and took him to the ground. They rolled. Anton tried to stab him; Ethan stopped the blade with both hands, muscles straining to the limit.
He headbutted Anton.
Once.
Twice.
The knife fell.
Ethan rolled on top of him, mounted his chest, and unleashed a series of short, brutal punches: jaw, nose, temple.
When Anton tried to cover up, Ethan trapped his arm and applied a sharp lock.
The scream was brief. The arm gave way.
Ethan stood up first. He retrieved the Glock from the floor, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling like an overworked engine. He walked toward Anton, who lay writhing, defeated before he had fully hit the ground.
—I've got you now, you son of a bitch —Ethan whispered—
The man went rigid.
—Damn it…! —he muttered, barely audible, realizing they had anticipated him.
Ethan tilted his head slightly. His eyes did not blink.
—Don't shoot —the man said, his voice breaking—. Wait… I know how to disable the device.
Nola frowned.
—What did you say? —she demanded.
—I can do it —he insisted, breathing with difficulty—. I'm not the organizer, but I know how it works. If you let me live, I can deactivate it. I can help you.
Ethan let out a brief, humorless laugh.
—Do you really think I'm going to believe you?
—Listen to me! —he pleaded—. This… this doesn't have to end like this. You're not a killer, are you?
Ethan stepped closer. He pressed the gun harder against his head.
—Do you know why I haven't shot you yet? —he said calmly—. Because I wanted to see your face.
The man swallowed.
—I just wanted you to understand something before you die. You were dead the moment you decided to make me your target —he replied without taking his eyes off the man—. See you in hell.
She moved to the side, a little farther back, her gun also aimed, her finger firm on the trigger. This time there were no words.
A single shot.
Silence.
Ethan lowered the gun, wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, and turned around. The fight had been over the moment he entered the room.
Anton had just been slow to realize it.
In a luxuriously decorated hall, an entire wall was covered with screens of different sizes. On them, some people fled desperately; others killed without mercy.
At the center of the room stood a gigantic table, more than ten meters long. Over twenty people sat around it, watching the carnage with excited smiles.
—Ladies and gentlemen!
A middle-aged white man appeared from the side, microphone in hand.
—Gentlemen —the amplified voice said—, tonight we have more than one piece of news worthy of your attention.
Conversations died down. Glasses froze halfway to lips. Miles Slade walked slowly in front of the screens, enjoying the silence he had imposed.
—First —he continued—, the tournament proceeds as usual. The cheater is dead. The rules remain intact… for now.
A faint smile crossed his face.
—Second, we have decided to add a small incentive. An Easter egg, if you prefer.
At the main table, the burly man in the cowboy hat dropped his arm over the back of his chair and raised his glass, making the ice clink.
—You talk too much, Slade —he said—. If it's a surprise, show it. I like surprises… as long as they're worth it.
Slade turned his head toward him. As he did, the dragon tattoo on his neck became visible, twisting under the light.
—I don't think I'll disappoint you.
He snapped his fingers.
—Announcement number three —he added—, an outsider has entered the game. He wasn't invited. But he survived long enough to entertain us… and that, gentlemen, has value.
A murmur ran through the room.
He gestured, and one of the screens changed.
Ethan's face appeared in close-up, captured seconds earlier by a camera. The resolution was brutal: dried blood on his temple, ragged breathing.
—For entertainment purposes —Slade said—, we have decided to officially include him in the competition.
Some laughed. Others leaned forward.
—Minimum bet: one hundred thousand dollars —he continued—. Life or death. How long will the boy last? An hour? A day? Or until the end? Place your bets.
The numbers began to move on the screens.
Almost immediately, he fell to last place on the board.
—And in case there was any doubt —Slade added with a venomous smile—, the odds are clearly against him.
Laughter erupted openly now.
No one was betting on the outsider.
For now.
The absurd odds triggered more laughter.
The man in the hat slowly withdrew his hands from beneath the red dress of the woman sitting beside him. He grabbed a thick stack of bills.
—I bet one hundred thousand on the kid to make the top five.
He threw the money onto the center of the table.
The attendants activated levers, and more people followed suit, tossing piles of cash amid laughter.
Within minutes, hundreds of thousands vanished into the system.
Slade watched the scene with satisfaction.
Of course, he didn't truly expect the boy to survive.
To Slade, that was irrelevant. All that mattered was maintaining anticipation, stretching the suspense just enough to fatten the bets and squeeze every second of interest.
The outsider was not a competitor.
On the table, the figures kept climbing without pause. Screens updating amounts, digital chips changing color, quick gestures among the spectators. In a matter of minutes, more than two million dollars had already accumulated in wagers.
Slade observed the total with satisfaction.
The chairs were occupied by magnates from all over the world. Heirs to impossible fortunes, managers of enormous trusts, cold-eyed bankers of every nationality.
Money was not a problem. Power neither.
What had gathered them there was something more primitive—blood and violence offered them a glimpse of ecstasy.
That room was not a club.
It was a modern amphitheater.
And down in the city, the gladiators still had no idea how much their lives were worth.