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They must Play.
They are going to fight.
Together.
(#ulink_e59d8e15-a870-5793-bc2c-d688fad2ada4)
An’s interrogator—still slumped across An’s chest—is shut up and BLINK shut up BLINK shut up and quiet and dead. An needs to get out of shiverblinkblinkblink out of his restraints and blinkblink and move.
He closes his eyes blink closes his eyes and sees her. Remembers the smell of her shiver her hair and the taste of her breath, BLINK full and aromatic, like some kind of ceremonial blinkblinkblink some kind of ceremonial tea.
CHIYOKOCHIYOKOCHIYOKOCHIYOKOTAKEDA
CHIYOKOTAKEDA
CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA CHIYOKO TAKEDA
The tics subside just enough to shivershiver just enough to …
An wedges his left hand between his hip and blinkblink and the edge of the metal gurney. He twists so that the base of his thumb is pressed against the cold metal. Then An pushes all of his weight down, onto his thumb, until he hears blinkCHIYOKOblink until he hears the pop. His thumb dislocates, flops loose and rubbery against his palm. It is blink excruciating, but An doesn’t care. He pulls, squeezes his hand through the restraint and pushes his shoulder into Charlie. The interrogator slides to the floor with a thump. An unbuckles the strap on his right. When his other hand is free, he grips his dislocated thumb and shoves it back into place. It is sore, swollen, and bruised.
But it works.
A loud alarm wails outside the door. He works the restraint off his forehead and sits up. Pain surges through his head, front to back, like a sponge soaking up water. It throbs and fills his ears and pushes at his eyeballs.
The gunshot wound. Charlie said he was concussed.
An must ignore it.
An takes stock of himself. He is wearing a V-neck T-shirt and drawstring scrubs, scratchy fabric, dressed like a prisoner or a mental patient. He unfastens his blinkCHIYOKOTAKEDAblink unfastens the restraints from his ankles with both hands, climbs off the gurney, lands next to Charlie, kneels. He pats down blink the interrogator for anything useful. He finds a rolled-up sleeve that feels like it contains blinkblink contains syringes. This could be more of the wonder drug, the one that cleared his mind. It made An tell the truth too. So much truth. He hopes that the remnants of the drug still in his system keep his tics to a minimum.
So he can blinkblink so he can escape.
He rips off Charlie’s suitcoat and shrugs it on. He pats the man down a final time, finds a gun holstered under Charlie’s armpit. Glock 17. Stupid cocky military blink military types. Bringing a gun into a room with a blinkblinkSHIVER a Player of Endgame. Might as well shoot himself.
An unholsters it. Releases the safety. Closes his eyes tight. Fights back the pain blink and the pain SHIVER and the pain blink and the image of …
CHIYOKOCHIYOKOCHIYOKOTAKEDA
Flat and dead Chiyoko Takeda.
Her name is his now.
In him.
His.
An hears a creak. SHIVER. Not the ship shifting on the waves. Blink. He looks up.
The wheel on the steel door is turning.
“Chiyoko,” he says.
He breaths in and out, in and out.
“Chiyoko.”
The storm inside blinkblink calms some more.
Time to go.
An pushes up the sleeves of Charlie’s coat and gets ready. The wheel on the door stops turning and swings inward. Two men slide into the doorway, rifles ready.
Bang, bang. An fires the Glock from his hip, shoots both soldiers in the face, between the eyes. They fall to the floor, one on top of the other.
An moves. SHIVERblinkSHIVER. Moves quickly.
The alarm is louder with the door open. It echoes off the metal walls, down the corridors, in his ears, makes the pain worse, but whatever. An can deal with pain, perhaps better than any of the Players.
He steps toward the two men. SHIVERBLINK. He crouches, searches them. The rifles are wedged under their torsos. Voices come from the corridor. Men, angry, scared, excited. At least 10 meters off. Approaching cautiously. He feels the drone of the engines through his bare feet. Guesses which way is aft.
Left.
That’s where he’ll go. Get to the back of the ship.
The voices are closer.
CHIYOKOTAKEDA. He unclips two M67 grenades from one of the dead men. An desperately pats him down for more of these beautiful little bombs, but there aren’t SHIVER there aren’t any. An stuffs the Glock in the front of his pants and stands, a spherical grenade in each hand. He pulls the wire pin from each with his teeth. He positions himself on the uneven flesh of the men and waits.
CHIYOKOCHIYOKO.
You play for death, she said to him. I play for life.
SHIVERblinkblinkSHIVER
Why? An wonders desperately. Why did she have to be taken from me?
BLINKBLINKBLINKBLINKBLINK
He bites his lower lip so hard it bleeds.
“Chiyoko …” he says quietly.
The voices are closer. He can make out phrases. “Armed and dangerous.” “Fire when ready.” “Shoot to kill.”
An smiles. He hears the rubber soles of their boots squeaking in the corridor.
I play for death.
He lets the spoon pop on the first grenade. An knows exactly how BLINK how much time he has. Four seconds. Waits 1.2 before slinging it out the door.
An whips behind the wall, plugs his ears, the remaining grenade pressed up against his cheek, clenches his jaw, ignores the pain in his head.
He doesn’t close his eyes.
SHIVERSHIVER.
The 400-gram, 6-centimeter metal sphere arcs soundlessly through the air. Four men move into position as it comes down. They don’t even see it. As soon as it clanks to the floor, it explodes at their feet.
Pressure waves roll through the ship. The sound is deafening. An pulls his fingers from his ears. Transfers the other grenade to his left hand, draws the blinkSHIVERSHIVERblink draws the Glock. He hears new sounds.
A man screaming. Blink. A steam pipe hissing. Blink. The alarm, still going, but fainter since the blast temporarily took some of his hearing.
Blink.
An waves through the doorway, half expecting his hand to get shot off. It doesn’t. He peeks shiverBLINKshiver. Checks right, where the explosion was, then left blinkblink then right again. Sees two dead men and another under them, his arm gone, moving slightly and moaning. A steam pipe over them hisses, a white jet filling the air.
CHIYOKO.
An moves into the corridor, holds his right arm out straight, and shoots.
The man stops moaning.
A bit of violence always clears the head.
A bit of death.
He moves aft. The metal floor is cold. The ship tilts. The air is warm and getting warmer from the steam. The corridor goes straight for five meters, has closed doors on either side, turns right at the end. More sounds up ahead. Footfalls, clicks and clanks of metal things. Men, but no voices this time. The men at the forward end of the hall were amateurs. These aren’t.
These are blinkblink these are special forces.
An takes eight quick steps, his bare feet completely silent, and stops where the corridor turns right. BlinkCHIYOKOshiverBLINK. An guesses that the men have assembled around the corner, at the far end. They’re waiting for him.
BLINKSHIVER.
They kill the lights.
It is completely black. They killed the lights because they have night vision and he doesn’t. But no matter.
BLINKSHIVERBLINKBLINK
An releases the spoon of his last grenade. Counts one second and throws it, overhand and hard, so that it caroms off the wall and hits the floor, bouncing crazily out of sight toward the special-forces men.
“GRENADE!” and two quick shots, the slugs ricocheting off the metal with high-pitched zings. An throws himself back the way he came and plugs his ears before the 2nd blast.
This blast is even more deafening than the first. An unplugs his ears before the echoes are done reverberating. He has maybe three more minutes before he loses the element of surprise. After those three minutes they will stop trying to contain him and instead simply contain the ship, making it impossible blink impossible blink impossible for him to escape, even if it’s just to jump over the side and take his chances in the water, which would not be ideal to say the least.
BLINKshivershiverCHIYOKOblink.
Time to go.
He raises the Glock and slips around the corner, running quickly and blind-firing into the darkness.
Twelve rounds, and by the sound of them, three find flesh and bone. No return fire. He runs 5.4 meters and slides like a midfielder trying to steal the ball from a charging forward. He reaches out and feels in the darkness—a head. Just a head.
BLINKBLINKSHIVER
The darkness in front of him is more open, the smoke from the grenade rising and rising. An guesses that he has just entered the ship’s hangar.
More moaning. But also a scrambling sound.
An lifts up the head he slid into and blink and blink and blink and gets his fingers around a pair of night-vision goggles. He yanks them free. As An pulls the goggles over his face, he realizes for the first time that his head is blinkSHIVERblink is bandaged. He tightens the straps and they squeeze blinkblinkblink they squeeze blinkblinkblink they squeeze the swollen skin and pull at the fresh stitches across his forehead and his hairline. He winces and stifles the urge to cry out. The goggles are in place, but they aren’t working.
“Who has eyes?” a faraway voice whispers, the sound echoing through the hangar.
He’s not alone.
“Almost online,” a 2nd voice answers, this one closer. “Come ON!”
This voice is only feet away. SHIVERblinkSHIVER An sees the soft green glow as the goggles come to life. Only three meters away.
“I see him!” the man blurts.
But he doesn’t shoot. He must have lost his rifle in the explosion. The ghostly light frames the edge of his face, his scruffy beard, gnashing teeth. It all surges toward An, who flops to the floor, aims his pistol, and fires.
The man falls against him. Dead. A knife stabs the floor just next to An’s ear.
BLINKBLINKshiverBLINKshiver.
Close one.
An pushes the man off shiver and feels the goggles blink again and finds the switch.
The room turns green.
It is indeed the hangar.
A shot screams from the far side of the room and misses An by a less than a meter. He spots a large blinkblink a large man shouldering a rifle. No goggles. He’s guessing. Firing toward the commotion. An raises the Glock, takes his time, and fires a single round. It passes through the man’s front hand and enters his skull directly over his right eye. He falls.
An pries a knife from the dead man’s hand, inspects it. Blinkblink. It has a 30-centimeter straight blade with a single edge and no serrations. Shiver. It’s more like a small sword than a military tactical knife. Probably this man’s prize possession, his weapon of choice. His signature.
Not anymore.
BLINKBLINKSHIVERSHIVERBLINK
An slaps himself, runs across the hangar, whispering, “Chiyoko Takeda Chiyoko Takeda Chiyoko Takeda.” He bobs and weaves just in case, but no shots come. He finds it blinkblink finds it odd. This is a large ship, probably a Type 45 destroyer, and even a skeleton crew would require over 100 seamen. By his count, he’s only killed 17. That means more will be coming.
Or maybe it means the rest of the ship doesn’t know about An. They don’t know what’s happening below deck. Maybe An’s a secret.
