Page 120 of Forsaking All Others

“It’s not anything really,” Gerry says quickly, “it’s just that the selectors suggested that should she be attacked or kidnapped during this challenge we shouldn’t compromise the integrity of the Game by interfering.”

“Compromise the integrity?” I snarl. “What fucking integrity? This whole competition is designed to compromise the integrity of every participant, to break down some of the world’s best women into their basest parts, to make them exhibit their worst traits and turn on each other like wild animals for the audience’s viewing pleasure. There’s no integrity here!”

“He meant,” Starlen clears his throat, “the integrity of the structure of the Game. We can’t allow wild cards to keep breaking up the routine and ruining the audience's expectation of how the contests and the Game itself will operate. If the Italian is taken the selectors will hunt down those responsible and destroy them to ensure no future Games are meddled with. We won’t mention that on the show, of course; we’ll simply say she was eliminated.”

“So, you’re just going to sacrifice a player for the greater good,” I glower at him.

“Sacrifice is a loaded word,” he shrugs, “given your sentiments they’re all being sacrificed, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not this one.”

“Sorry?”

A thought springs unbidden to mind as I say this: ‘There will be no other.’

“I said not this one. Get your crew out there on their dirt bikes and get her a new camera.”

“This could be part of her strategy,” Starlen suggests, shrugging, “you said yourself she plays a good game.”

“It’s not.”

The director looks at Starlen before shaking his head.

“I’m afraid…”

“You will be,” I growl, “very, very afraid for a very, very long time before I ultimately end your pathetic existence.”

“Ah, Viscount, please...”

“Get the camera to her NOW!”

Swallowing hard he does as suggested, ignoring Starlen’s murmured objection, and I turn again to watch the monitors.

Silke has chosen not to make a slow and steady route to the end and is instead turning towards the far edge of the town, presumably in search of weapons.

All the other competitors seem to be making for their first key, except Amadea, who has made it to the top of one of the buildings and is staring out into the desert, at someone far, far in the distance, jogging towards the city.

89

The roar of a motorbike brings me to a sudden stop.

I’ve been jogging up and down small sand dunes for the past twenty minutes towards the lights on the horizon, just hoping that where I’m headed is the city I’m supposed to be competing in.

It’s dark tonight, no full moon to light my way, and each time I run down a dune I lose sight of the town and become worried until I reach the top of the next and see the lights once more. Although it’s a difficult climb up some of the bigger slopes, I’m keeping up a constant pace. I’m already at a distinct disadvantage and don’t have time to waste, but the new sound immediately stops me in my tracks.

The bike could be carrying one of my father’s men in some new attempt to regain me. I’m not taking any chances.

Lying flat against a high sand drift, I wait for the noise to sound like it’s almost atop me before I rise to a crouch. As the rider comes down the drift I stand and hurl the tangle of ropes and my backpack into his face.

He crashes to the side into the soft sand, the motor still running, and as he struggles to rise I hurl myself onto the side of the bike, effectively pinning him beneath it.

“Who are you?” I shout above the noise of the engine.

He’s not wearing a helmet, and when he meets my eyes I immediately see I’ve made a mistake. His are full of fear. No one my father sent for me would look at me that way — not yet.

Scanning the man’s face and clothing, I recognise he’s one of the crew.

“Sorry!”