Page 100 of The Most Dangerous Games

Tipton finally eases the pressure—just enough for Jack to breathe. “By them.”

Jack blinks, rage stalling for half a second.

Tipton stands, and Jack sees his hand in the moonlight.

“You may think you know how ruthless they are. But, actually, I do know, mate.”

Tipton reaches down. “Up.”

Jack almost refuses just on principle.

Then he takes the hand and lets Tipton haul him to his feet.

“I’m supposed to trust you now?” Jack asks.

“Absolutely not,” Tipton snorts.

He still has Jack’s hand, and roughly pulls him closer.

“You don’t trust anybody. Not Donaldson. Not me. Not the ‘board.’ And not the rules—the rules don’t exist. There’s only whatever jurisdiction they rented this week and the outcomes they want to rig. Nothing else.”

Steven Noble

65.

At breakfast that morning The Host is back to communicating via speaker. “You may make a final call or write letters to friends or loved ones today,” he announces. “One final courtesy. They will be mailed once your aircraft is in the air.”

They are going to be bused to the Portland International Jetport. There they will board the flight to what was still an undisclosed war zone somewhere.

Alek and Hannah walk back from breakfast hand in hand, boots scuffing gravel, the Maine air damp and cold enough to wake you up even if you haven’t slept.

Alek says, “I don’t believe Jimmy quit.”

Hannah doesn’t answer right away.

She’s thinking about Death Valley. About the button. About the rule that was supposed to be the only rule that mattered.

Alek continues, because when Alek believes something, she says it like it’s a fact. “He’s not playing their game anymore. He’s playing against The Host.”

Hannah finally nods once. “Then he’s doing the only rational thing.”

She breaks away and runs to her cottage.

She doesn’t cry. Knowing how little time she has, she writes to her parents in Germany—both police officers, both trained to see patterns, both trained to ignore melodrama and look for proof.

Dear Mom and Dad:

If you are reading this, then one of two things has happened:

I am dead.

Someone wants you to believe I am.

Either way, treat this as evidence, not a goodbye.

You raised me to be precise and observant, so here is what I know and what I need you to do.

What this is: A competition disguised as “philanthropy.” The stated goal is to identify The One—a person who can lead a global movement. The true goal appears to be control. The Host is not alone. There is a “board.” There is a way to abandon the game and it is real, but not equally real for all of us.