Out of the Ashes (The Game 5)

I ran for it. I ran as fast as I could toward the men coming closer and closer, and I aimed for the smallest skyscraper, the slightest mountain of muscle, and rammed right into him, sending us both to the ground.

“What the fuck!” he spat out.

Oh my God, it was Macklin. “You’re on their side?” I yelled incredulously. “Fucking traitor!”

“Shay Acton—you’ve been caught.”

Two men hauled me off Mack and restrained my arms, not that it stopped me from getting livid and thrashing against them. I kicked one of them in the leg, in the hip, then the other got a knee in the gut.

“Feisty little punk.” It was Colt.

A hiss and a dark chuckle followed, and that was Lee.

Before I knew it, there was a bag over my head, one of those scratchy burlap bullshit things that was gonna drive me fucking crazy.

“You’re so weak you can’t fight me without cutting off my senses?” I snapped.

“We got Tate!” Greer hollered.

I grunted and panted as I tried to wrench free, to no avail whatsoever. Their grips on my arms hurt too much, and then they cuffed my hands behind my back.

“Tate Ridley—you’ve been caught.”

“Oh, fuck you!” I shouted.

Shay and I shared the same fate as the rest. We were ushered into the back of a—it wasn’t a van. It was an SUV or a truck. Aiko was here too, I discovered when I heard her curse out someone.

“See you at the quarry,” Colt said before the door was slammed shut.

“Who’s driving?” I demanded. “Is Lee here?”

No response.

“Save your energy,” Aiko murmured. “I think we’re gonna need it.”

She probably wasn’t wrong.

I estimated we’d been driving for about fifteen, twenty minutes when we started heading downhill on a bumpy road. Gravel crunched underneath the tires, and whoever was at the front turned down the music that’d been playing.

When we stopped, the doors were ripped open, and I lost the body heat of Aiko on one side and Shay on the other. They both cursed up a storm at whoever was yanking them out, and I steeled myself for my turn. A large hand gripped my arm and pulled.

“Easy!” I grated out. “Where’s the damn fire?”

Actually, fires were all I saw from the inside of the burlap sack. The rough fibers gave me glimpses of what was on the outside. Darkness and bonfires. No artificial light.

I didn’t hear anything other than the gravel under my sneakers and a low murmur from…spectators, I presumed.

Relying solely on my senses of hearing and smell didn’t give me a whole lot. But our surroundings smelled like wet rock. I didn’t hear any trees rustling, no underbrush, no birds.

I sucked in a breath as I took a step forward and dropped about a foot lower than my previous step. Thanks for the warning, asshole.

Seconds later, I was stopped and pushed down on my knees in what felt like rough-grained beach sand. The bag over my head was yanked off, and I flinched and blinked. It took a moment for my vision to sharpen. Blurry shapes standing between two bonfires became sharper and sharper until I identified Lee, Colt, River, Reese, and Greer. But a few feet behind them, I counted seven men wearing black clothes and face coverings.

What fresh hell was this, a clichéd frat house hazing?

I wasn’t the only one on my knees before these men. All my friends from the brat prank were lined up in the sand, plus more. Aside from a modest audience of maybe a dozen people, five or six other subs, who hadn’t participated in the prank, were kneeling in the back. Since this was the official Game of the month, it made sense for the organizers to let everyone sign up their subbies. It wasn’t merely a punishment for us.

Another four men who concealed their identities went around to dig through our pockets. They collected phones, wallets, keys, and whatnot into Ziploc baggies.

Oh, they gathered up an impressive collection of GPS trackers too.

Fuckers.

Well, they didn’t find those on Shay and me.

“What a nice turnout.” Reese took a step forward and absently cracked his knuckles. “We’ve never had so many participants before. That means we’re doing somethin’ right, doesn’t it?”

“Dictators have come to those conclusions at elections, too,” Noa stated flatly.

I smirked and eyed the five center Sadists’ outfits. They’d changed on the way. Gone were the black clothes, replaced by matching utility pants and dark T-shirts. They were representing their military branches. Colt’s read “USAF.” Lee was here in the name of the US Navy. River and Reese were Army. Greer was USMC.

Kit was the guy who said, “So we have jarheads, grunts, squids, and a prima donna from the Chair Force. Where’s the Coast Guard?”

Oof.

“Yikes,” I heard Cam whisper.

Noa didn’t whisper. He laughed out loud. “Chair Force! Ha! That’s gotta sting, Gramps.”