Page 122 of The Most Dangerous Games

A waiter appears on cue and hands him a glass of wine. The silver-haired man raises it.

“You’ve already eaten,” he says. “So let’s drink and be merry, shall we?”

He smiles and adds, “For tomorrow more of you die.”

84.

The only one with a glass raised is The Host.

“Maybe you’re the one who deserves to die,” Jack says. “Just thinking big picture here.”

“I probably do,” The Host says pleasantly. “Just not tomorrow. And not here.”

The silver-haired man is dressed as he was that night in Maine: dark suit, white shirt, no tie, every hair in place. Carrying himself, as always, like he owns the room.

“I’m curious about something,” Alek says. “Are you even going to acknowledge Amos and Conner? Or how close we came to losing a fourteen-year-old boy?”

“There is nothing I could possibly say that would satisfy any of you,” The Host says.

“You’re the one who put them in the line of fire,” Alek says. “And now more people are dead because of that.”

“Any one of you could have chosen not to go, I made that clear,” The Host says. “You could have pushed your red buttons once you arrived and observed the situation on the ground.” He shrugs. “You put yourselves in the line of fire.”

“You really are a bloodless prick,” Jack says.

“That is nicer than I would have put it,” Gabrielle says.

“This can’t be your first war, Mr. McHenry,” The Host says. “Get over it.”

He’s drinking more of his wine when Jack is up and out of his chair, moving around his table toward him.

Before he’s able to reach The Host, though, Ant Tipton is up just as quickly and blocking his way.

The two men are inches apart.

“Move,” Jack says, eyes locked on Tipton’s. “Only gonna tell you once.”

Tipton doesn’t blink. “We’ve no time for this.”

“You might not,” Jack says. “I kind of do.”

“He isn’t the one you should hit,” Tipton says.

Jack’s eyes narrow. “So you’re protecting him now? What, you got yourself a little deal?”

Tipton leans in just enough for Jack—and only Jack—to hear him. “You touch him and you won’t be the one who pays for it,” Tipton says. “They will.”

Jack freezes for half a beat.

Alek sees it—the flicker in Jack’s eyes. The soldier part of him hearing something real. The rage winning anyway. She thinks: This was inevitable. She’s surprised it took this long.

Jack brings his hands up to shove Tipton aside.

But Tipton is quicker, his arms rising up to block him.

Nobody in the dining room makes any move to break this up. Alek shoots a glance at The Host, who seems to be enjoying the show immensely.

Wyatt has told Alek about Jack having been a football star growing up in Texas. Now she watches as he steps back only long enough to lower his shoulder, then drive it into Ant Tipton.