Page 127 of Forsaking All Others

Silke, ever stoic, looks to the sky as her fireworks go off and, her expression deadly, turns to limp after the Greek, but she doesn’t have far to go before a gunshot and a scream cause her to pull up and walk with more stealth.

Amadea, in pursuit of the motorcycle since she saw Cat ride past on it, had been waiting patiently for her target to reach the particular street she was set up on as a sniper. With only two bullets, having unburdened Cherry of hers, she’d chosen her location with particular care to ensure she’d have an easy chest shot as the bike came down a narrow alleyway, the only way to get to the next part of town. It’s still dark, just the faint hint of dawn on the horizon, but with a steady aim, not difficult to hit a mark from this angle.

Her shot had hit dead-on as planned, but the scream that followed was not from the twin’s victim, but from the assassin herself when she’d realised that it was not Cat riding at all, but Vasiliki.

I shake my head as Amadea kicks the Greek in disgust, her face a picture of fury, before taking all the girl’s keys and, unbelievably, stalking off on foot, leaving the bike.

When Silke rounds the corner to find the dead Greek she wastes no time in searching the girl for keys, but finding none, rolls her body aside and once again mounts the bike, only to find it won’t start. Swearing, she wheels it to the side of the building and sits down heavily beside it.

I have to assume she’s waiting for it to cool down, or that she’s hopeful it will start if she waits.

Meanwhile Starlen is rushing towards the finishing line with cameras in tow as Claire steps out, the clear winner.

97

Thorun and I come across Vasiliki’s body, and Silke, about mid-morning, with only two keys left to collect.

“Shit,” I shake my head, “I didn’t expect anyone to target her. Did you do this?”

Silke snorts.

“With what, my pistol hands? Stupid Italian.”

I smirk and shake my head.

“Who did it?”

“The redhead.”

“The twin?”

“There’s only one redhead left,” she scowls, “The Scot has already reached the finish line.”

“Huh. Strange.”

“What difference does it make?” Thorun asks morosely. “You said we all have to die in this Game. Why should you care if Vasiliki died today?”

I consider not answering, but do anyway. Thorun has been in a strange mood ever since we left Sona, and I’m beginning to think it’s only just dawning on her now what this Game is all about, even though I’ve been telling her constantly since night one.

“It makes no real difference that she’s dead now,” I shrug, “except I think perhaps the twin made a mistake. She must have thought I was riding, and she shot Vasiliki accidentally.”

“What makes you say that?”

‘Because if I was hell-bent on vengeance, I wouldn’t waste a bullet.’

“Just a hunch.”

“You didn’t like her, though,” Thorun murmurs, “the Greek contestant.”

“No, but I’d hoped she’d be in the final challenge.”

“Why?”

“Because she’d be an easy mark.”

“My God, Cat,” Thorun wails, “is that all everyone is to you? A mark?”

‘If that was the case life would be a lot easier. It WAS a lot easier when I thought this way.’