Rules of the Game. James Frey
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of Endgame—and they want his pain. His life. His blood.
He understands perfectly.
BLINKshiverBLINK.
An pounds something into a laptop mounted in the center of the car. He hits enter. Like all Shang safe houses, this one is wired to blow, and blow dirty, irradiating this section of Kolkata. But the bomb will only detonate when his system detects that he and his vehicle have reached a safe distance.
He flicks the laptop closed.
“Are you ready, Chiyoko?”
And then he hears a small sound deep in his mind.
“Chi”—BLINK—“Chi”—SHIVER—“Chiyoko?”
The sound grows a little louder, like a hum in the distance.
“Are you ready?”
SHIVERSHIVERSHIVER.
And then—I am, she says in the voice she never had.
The quality of her voice doesn’t surprise him. Calm but firm. It is her. It is perfectly, succinctly, fully her.
He’s been expecting her.
He says, “You are always ready and I love you for it.”
An taps a button and the garage doors crack open.
“I love you.” An repeats. And she says it too, at the exact same moment, his voice mingling and weaving with hers.
He smiles.
Chiyoko and An. The Mu and the Shang.
They are the same.
The mob outside stirs and crackles.
Those who were sitting stand.
He hits the button again and the doors swing wide. A Kalashnikov fires. Shots explode across the Defender’s bulletproof windshield.
BLINK. SHIVER.
He flips the key in the ignition. The engine comes to life. He jams the gas and the engine roars. The men howl and gesticulate, wave their arms and sticks and their ridiculous placards, as if An cares for any of what they have to say.
This is not a protest, it is a war.
And he will fight it with his beloved.
Gulfstream G650, Bogdogra Airport, Siliguri, West Bengal, India
Sarah and Jago recline in very comfortable seats in Jordan’s very comfortable private jet trying to figure out what to do. It took them a long time to get down from the Himalayas, and now they’re stuck waiting for permission to take off.
The wait is agonizing.
Aisling and Jordan are in the cockpit going through preflight stuff. Marrs is outside dealing with airport personnel. Pop sits in a seat alone near the bulkhead, staring out the window, his rocky knuckles white with tension. Shari is unconscious in the rear of the plane, already seat-belted in place, an IV bag hanging from the overhead compartment. Her chest rises and falls evenly.
Sarah is envious of Shari. Being knocked out would quell the hate and guilt and doubt and fear roiling inside her. Being knocked out would quiet her mind, her soul.
She leans into Jago’s side and whispers, “I wish we were fighting, Feo. Right now. I wish we were moving—Playing.”
“I know,” he says. “Me too.”
Action or oblivion, she thinks. Those are the only options right now.
Aisling emerges from the cockpit, interrupting Sarah’s train of thought.
“How long till we’re outta here?” Jago asks.
Aisling drops into the nearest seat. She reaches for her Falcata and lays it over her thighs. She runs her fingertips over the sword.
“At least an hour,” she says. “Maybe less if Marrs can bribe the right air traffic controller. But for the moment we’re holding.” She pulls a stone from a pocket and runs it over her blade’s edge. It’s razor sharp and doesn’t need the attention, but she needs something to do.
Also restless, Sarah thinks.
Sarah straightens and asks, “All right if Jago and I take over the lav for a little while?”
Jago snickers.
“Really?” Aisling’s eyebrows spring upward. “Now?”
Jago flashes his glittery smile and strokes Sarah’s knee. “Sí. No time like the present, ¿sabes?”
Sarah jabs him with her elbow. “Don’t listen to him. Jago picked up a dye kit back in Peru. I’m gonna be raven-haired from now on. Since Liu’s video came out and we can all be made, I don’t want to take any chances.”
He runs his fingers through his platinum hair. “I’m sure you couldn’t tell, Aisling, but I’m not a natural blond.”
Aisling shakes her head and tilts the blade in her lap, eyeing a miniscule nick. “Go for it. It’s all yours.”
Sarah and Jago move to the rear of the plane. The lavatory is very nice. There’s space between the toilet and the sink, and the sink is normal-sized, not a tiny bowl wedged into the corner. The towels are real, the toilet paper plush and soft.
Jago closes the door behind them. He helps Sarah out of her shirt, being careful with her wounded arm. She leans over the basin, face down, and Jago washes her hair using a plastic cup and the liquid soap on the counter.
“Rosemary,” Sarah says. “And lemon. Smells nice.”
“Mmm,” Jago says. He massages her scalp, rinsing out the soap. He runs his fingers along her nape and lets them trail down her back and over the band of her sports bra.
“Give me a towel,” she says.
He does.
She wraps it around her head and stands. They’re face-to-face. Her bra brushes his shirt and a shot of electricity races up her back. She smiles. “Can you dry my hair?” she asks.
“Sí.”
But instead he immediately leans forward and they kiss. She holds his head tightly between her strong hands and pulls him closer.
And they kiss.
And kiss.
They stop.
She sits on the closed toilet seat. He dries her hair. She brushes it, working through the tangles, while he preps the dye. When she’s done brushing, Jago separates her hair into sections and fastens a towel over her bare shoulders. He puts on latex gloves and gets to work, moving methodically from the back of her head and over the crown.
“Feels good, Feo.”
“I know.” He pushes his leg into hers in a show of affection. She pushes back. “I’m glad we’re alive,” he whispers.
“Me too. We shouldn’t be, though.”
Jago pauses so she can speak.
“Baitsakhan had us dead to rights back in the Harappan fortress,” she explains. “You were out and I was pretending to be. He had the opportunity, the motive, and the gun. Would’ve taken a second. Pop, pop.”
Jago’s hands resume working. “Why didn’t he?”
“Who knows. Arrogance? He was messed up from the teleportation? Who