James Frey - Rules of the Game

“But Sky Key—she is gone, right?” Jordan asks.

Sarah nods. “Her mother’s in there, though.”

Aisling double-takes and tries to peer into the room. “Who—Chopra?”

“Yeah,” Sarah says.

“Alive?” Aisling asks, her voice a little too desperate.

“Sí,” Jago answers.

“Shit,” Jordan says. “That’s not good.”

“Why not?” Sarah asks.

Aisling says, “We uh … we just killed her entire family.”

“¿Que?” Jago says.

“This is a Harappan stronghold,” the old man explains from the back of the room, pride lacing his words. “Except it wasn’t strong enough.”

“She’s not going to like me too much when she wakes up,” Aisling says. “I wouldn’t like me, either.”

“Shit,” Sarah says.

“Sí. Mierda.”

“We should kill her,” the old man says.

But Aisling raises a hand. “No. Jordan’s right. It’s been too much today. Marrs”—Sarah and Jago realize that Aisling is talking to the man with the walkie-talkie—“you can keep her all Sleeping Beauty, right?”

“Sure, no problem,” Marrs answers, his voice nasal and high-pitched.

Jordan says, “Hey, we all sound cool. We’re cool, right?”

“Cool er ,” Sarah says. But she gets where he’s going and lowers her gun. Jago does the same.

Aisling lays her rifle on the floor. “Listen, Sarah, Jago. I’m done Playing. I thought for a while that I would try to win, but there’s no winning here. We’re all losers—maybe the one who wins will end up being the biggest loser of all. Who wants the right to live on Earth if it’s ugly and dying and full of misery? Not me.”

“Not me either,” Sarah says, thinking again of how she set the whole thing in motion when she took Earth Key at Stonehenge.

Thinking again of Christopher and her guilt.

Aisling drifts toward Sarah, holding out her hand. “When me and Jordan and Marrs teamed up I told them that if we couldn’t win Endgame then we would try to find like-minded Players. We’d give them the option of teaming up with us so we could stop this whole fucking mess. For instance, if I ever find Hilal, I want to fight with him. He was right, way back at the Calling. We should have worked together then. Hopefully it’s not too late to work together now.”

Sarah steps closer but doesn’t take Aisling’s hand. “How do we know we can trust you?”

Aisling frowns, the corner of her mouth turning up. “You don’t know. Not yet.”

“Trust must be earned,” Sarah says, as if she’s quoting something out of a training manual.

Aisling nods. She’s heard that. They all have. “That’s right. But you can have some faith. I didn’t shoot you when I tried to kill Sky Key. I didn’t shoot you in the back in Italy when I had the chance, though I arguably should have. Pop over there certainly thinks so.” The old man grunts. “And a few days ago I thought the same thing. But maybe I didn’t do it so we could meet right now. Maybe I didn’t because the three of us aren’t done yet. What will be will be, right?”

“ Sí . What will be will be,” Jago mutters.

Aisling says, “If we try to stop this thing together, really try, then I won’t hurt you. None of these guys will. You have my word.”

Sarah cradles her injured left arm. She stares at Jago and tilts her head. Suddenly all she wants is to fall asleep in Jago’s arms. She can tell that he wants the same thing. He snaps off a quick nod. Sarah leans into his body.

“Okay, Aisling Kopp,” Jago says for them. He puts out his hand and takes the Celt’s. “We’ll put our faith in you, and you will do the same with us. We’ll kill Endgame. Together. But one of my many questions can’t wait.”

Aisling smiles. It’s as if a gust of air has blown into the hallway. Sarah feels it too, and relief washes over her. No more fighting on this day. Jordan makes a low whistle and Marrs lights his cigarette. He crosses the hallway, mumbling something about checking on Shari Chopra as he passes Sarah and Jago. The only one who stays on edge is the old man.

Aisling ignores him and gives her full attention to her new allies. Maybe her new friends. “What question is that, Jago Tlaloc?”

“If Sky Key survived and we missed our chance, then how do we go about stopping Endgame now?”

Aisling looks to Jordan. “I’m guessing that’s where you come in, isn’t it?”

Jordan shrugs. “Yeah.”

Aisling sighs. “I know you’ve been holding something back since the day we met, Jordan. So, you ready to get on the level here?”

Marrs laughs loudly from the next room. Jordan straightens. He says, “Friends, it’s time you met Stella Vyctory.”

Maccabee thumbs a Zippo lighter. The flame pops and flickers. They are in a small and pitch-black chamber, one that Maccabee doesn’t recognize. Apparently, Maccabee has been teleported somewhere beyond his control yet again.

He lowers the flame and there, yes, is Sky Key. She trembles before him. Big eyes, beautiful dark hair. Fists balled at her chest. A terrified child.

All the girl can manage is, “Y-y-y-y-y-you.”

“My name is Maccabee Adlai. I’m a Player, like your mother.” His words are muffled, his voice twangy from the beating he took from Jago Tlaloc before he woke up here in the darkness. He reaches up and shifts his jaw back into place with a loud snap!

“Y-y-y-y-you.”

His whole body hurts, especially his groin, the pit of his stomach, his left pinkie, and his jaw. The pinkie is bent completely backward. At least he has his ring. He flips the ring’s lid shut so the poisoned needle is covered, then he cracks his finger straight by pushing it against his thigh. A line of pain shoots up his arm and into his neck. The finger won’t bend at the knuckles, but it’s not sticking out at an odd angle anymore.

When I do win this thing there’ll hardly be any of me left, he thinks.

“Y-y-y-y-y-you,” the girl says again.

He moves toward her. She recoils. Color drains from her face. She can’t be older than three. So young. So innocent. So undeserving of what’s happened to her.

The game is bullshit, Shari Chopra said. And in that moment Maccabee agreed with her. He realizes that this sentiment was probably the one that saved Shari’s life—the one that prompted him to knock her out instead of gun her down. Looking at Alice now, he doesn’t regret this decision.

So young.

“Your mother lives,” Maccabee says. “I saved her from a bad person. He came for her and I … I stopped him.” He almost said killed , but that would be inappropriate, wouldn’t it? With a child? He says, “She lives, but she’s not here—wherever we are.”

“Y-y-y-y-you,” she repeats, her eyes widening.

Maccabee shuffles forward another foot, his chin tucked to his chest, the back of his head grazing the stone ceiling. The air is damp. The only sound is their breath. Maccabee wiggles his fingers at her, the unmoving pinkie like a stick growing out of his hand. “It’s okay, sweetie. I won’t hurt you. I promised your mother I wouldn’t and I meant it.” He stumbles over something. Looks down. A clump of cloth.

“Y-y-y-y-you. From my dream. You-you-you hurt people …”

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeats. He lowers the lighter and pushes the thing on the ground with his foot. It’s heavy. He looks. A limb. A leg. A hole burned in the cargo pocket on the thigh. He sweeps the Zippo through the air, illuminating the blood-spattered face of Baitsakhan, his eyes vacant and staring, slack-jawed, the throat torn open by the bionic hand that still clutches the cervical section of his own spine.