Rules of the Game. James Frey
they round a black stone block and find an arched break in the wall big enough for a car. Two small buildings flanking it are painted pink. A wrought-iron fence is on the far side. Past that a wide street, cars moving along, a late-model motorcycle parked on the curb.
The exit. It’s 10 meters away, a straight shot. But those 10 meters are completely exposed.
“It’s too far,” Maccabee says. The orb in his pocket moves back and forth so fast he’s afraid it’s going to jump out. “He’ll kill us.”
Sky Key scratches the side of his neck. “Here,” she says.
“I see the exit, but it’s too far!”
They don’t have more than a few seconds. She scratches harder, begins to claw at his flesh. “Here!” she whispers into his ear.
Then Maccabee understands. Something is in his neck: a tracker. One that An and who knows how many other Players have been using to follow him!
He whips up his knife and expertly carves a lump of skin from his neck. He’s careful not to nick anything important or shred a muscle or tendon. The pain isn’t too bad, but there’s a lot of blood.
“That’s it,” the girl says.
Maccabee pulls the knife away and stares into the lump of flesh and, yes, there it is. A small black blob.
He balls up the flesh and chucks it away. The bloody projectile sails over a gravestone and disappears. He gets ready to run, but the girl digs a nail into this latest wound and whispers, “Wait.”
He stifles a cry and does what he’s told. One second. Two. Three.
“Now. Straight.”
He drops the shovel and runs as fast as he can for the exit. No shots come. They were waiting for An to take the bait of the discarded tracker, and apparently he did.
The exit gets closer and closer and they’re going to make it. A person walks by outside, a woman wearing an orange sari. A bus drives past and Maccabee sees a cigarette ad on the side. The writing is Hindi.
India. We’re in India.
They’re going to make it. The orb in his pocket is going crazy now. He reaches down to secure it but then it pops out and he skids to a stop.
“Leave it!” the girl says.
Maccabee backtracks, the orb glowing bright and yellow and bouncing around on the ground like a living thing.
“No!” she says.
Something catches Maccabee’s eye. There, on the path, is An Liu, a dark pistol in his fist. He hasn’t seen them yet, he’s swinging back and forth and Maccabee almost has the orb but then—too late. An Liu locks onto Maccabee and Maccabee dives sideways and the orb glows so bright that its light eats up the wall and the path and An too. Shots come but all miss since An is blinded by the light and can’t see Maccabee anymore.
“Leave it! I am using it! Go!” the girl implores.
Once again he does what he’s told. He vaults toward the street. He sees the motorcycle and breaks open its ignition switch and hot-wires it in the blink of an eye. He jumps on. It zings to life and they take off, fast. The light from the orb chokes out everything for 20 meters now and people on the street are yelling, pointing, running.
“I am using it,” the girl repeats in a soft voice, her head slumping onto Maccabee’s shoulder. “I am using it.” Her body feels limp. She is exhausted too.
A block later the light gives way to a high-pitched whine and then it’s snuffed out and then—FFFUHWHAM!—the entire street puffs up in a ball of smoke. Maccabee dips the bike around a corner, its rear wheel skidding and his foot planting on the ground as a pivot. Bits of buildings and cars and trees whip through the air at their backs.
The girl passes out, the Indian city is a blur, and for the moment An Liu is no longer hunting them.
For the first time in his life Maccabee ran from a fight. And it worked. With the help of this small, remarkable, maybe possessed Sky Key, it worked.
I won’t let anyone hurt you, he thinks.
And he means it.
South Park Street Cemetery, Kolkata, India
An kneels. He shakes his head, trying to get it clear.
Almost got them.
SHIVER.
Almost.
BLINK.
That was a big blast.
An had thrown a grenade into the light at the last second, but that explosion was from something else. The Nabataean must have planted that glowing thing and set it off in order to create some space and some time. It was successful. The Nabataean is gone now. With the first two keys.
Gone.
BLINK.
An peeks under his shirt at the Chiyoko necklace. Like everything around him it’s covered in a fine dust. He pulls the necklace over his head and shakes it gently, wipes it with his fingertips, blows on it. When it’s reasonably clean he slips it back on.
He brushes himself off, finds his SIG. He loads a new magazine. Sirens in the distance.
Shivershiver.
The world knows about Endgame, and Abaddon is coming, but the law isn’t all the way gone. Not yet.
He trots to the exit. The Nabataean is gone, and An’s bike is gone too.
An spits, the stream thick with black ash.
The Nabataean is gone.
AISLING KOPP, GREG JORDAN, GRIFFIN MARRS, POP KOPP, SARAH ALOPAY, JAGO TLALOC, SHARI CHOPRA
Heading south along the Teesta River near Mangan, Sikkim, India
Aisling looks over her shoulder into the back of the jeep. Shari Chopra slumps in her seat, an IV bag pinned above the window, a tube running into a spike in the back of her hand. Dripping into that line on a regulator is a small dose of BZD, keeping her good and asleep for as long as necessary. All the way to Thailand, where Jordan is taking them and where Stella Vyctory awaits.
The jeep bumps along the road, mountains looming all around. Aisling thinks about Shari. After the standoff with Sarah and Jago, Aisling followed Marrs into the deepest chamber of the Harappan fortress and saw the raven-haired mother of Sky Key, alive and more-or-less well.
This is a wrinkle that has Aisling feeling very conflicted. On one hand, Aisling suspects that Shari is one of the decent Players, one who doesn’t deserve a meaningless death at the hand of a psychopathic Player. She’s glad that Baitsakhan and Maccabee didn’t kill her. But on the other hand, as far as Shari’s concerned, Aisling probably is that psychopathic Player. If it weren’t for Aisling, Shari’s family would be alive. Sure, her daughter would probably still have been taken by the Nabataean, but all the Harappan who’d taken refuge in the mountains would be breathing if it weren’t for Aisling and her ragtag death squad.
Aisling tries to reason out of this by blaming Endgame for what happened—Aisling didn’t make Shari’s daughter one of the fucking keys, Endgame did. Aisling was only doing what she thought she