Endgame: Rules of the Game

by James Frey

  “Oh, hello,” the man calls out from below. “Mr. Dickey didn’t say anything about”—he swallows—“guns.”

  “Sorry,” Rodney Q grunts, not sounding at all sorry. Masaka shuffles to the side as Rodney Q sets foot on the ground, looking this way and that.

  Hibbert looks Masaka directly in the eye and says, “Don’t move, please.” He’s not pointing his gun at Masaka, but it’s clearly a threat barely concealed as an order.

  Masaka stammers, “I-I’m s-sorry, sir, but—”

  “And with respect, be quiet,” Hibbert adds in flawless Japanese.

  Masaka shuts up.

  Sarah watches from the shadows inside the doorway as Rodney Q expertly skirts around the man, checking the buildings and the corners. He disappears to circle the plane. She looks past the airport. Lush trees line the road. Mount Urabe rises to the south. A white horse lazes in a field in the distance.

  After a minute Rodney Q reappears. “We’re good.”

  Masaka shifts from foot to foot, his hands joined nervously at his waist.

  Hibbert moves to the side of the plane. The cargo door thumps open.

  Sarah leans halfway out the door. “Thanks, Rodney. Sorry if this comes as a surprise, Mr. Masaka,” she says to the unfortunate man. “We mean you no harm.” He blinks but doesn’t speak. She turns back inside, facing Jago and Simon. “Ready?”

  “More than ready,” Jago says, smiling broadly.

  Sarah smiles back. “Me too.”

  Jago takes her arm. “You look different, Alopay. Lighter. Easier.”

  “I feel lighter, Feo. And you know? I feel confident too. I’m glad we decided to work with the others.”

  “Me too.”

  “And Dad, having you here is . . . it’s good for me. Talking to Mom—that was really good. Thanks for making it happen.”

  Hibbert calls for some help with a heavy case. “I’ll go,” Simon says. He pushes past the Players and walks down the steps and disappears around the side of the plane.

  Jago gives Sarah a full kiss on the lips. His breath is terrible. He turns aside and bounds down the stairs.

  Sarah moves to the top step and inhales sharply. The air is salty and sweet and fresh. Earth is injured, but it is not destroyed or broken.

  Earth won’t be broken.

  It can’t be.

  She thinks of Christopher. Of what she did. Of what he did.

  She’s not broken, either.

  She can’t be.

  Jago waves to her. She moves forward.

  And then the air cracks, and Jago’s head pops sideways, and blood and brains splatter over his shirt and the stair’s handrails, and she barely makes out the suppressed hiss of a rifle’s report as it slithers down from the mountainside.

  “Sarah!” Simon yells.

  She leaps down the remaining steps, already drawing her pistol, already running as fast as she can.

  The air cracks. Her eyes don’t work. Her ears don’t work. Her legs don’t work. The world disappears.

  She was wrong.

  It is broken.

  Like Maccabee before her, she never got a chance to hear the shot.

  AN LIU, NORI KO, LITTLE ALICE CHOPRA

  Northern foothills of Mount Urabe, Yonaguni, Japan

  A white horse bolts across the field below, the hooves like miniature thunder.

  Thank you, love, Chiyoko says breathlessly.

  They are the sweetest words An has ever heard.

  “I told you I’d”—blinkSHIVERblink—“I told you I’d kill them.”

  Thank you.

  Nori Ko peers up down right left through the range finder. Tsuro waves a hand in their direction, giving them a thumbs-up. “That was some exceptional shooting, An,” she says. “Five shots, five kills. Four of them in motion.” She checks the time in the range finder’s HUD. “In under eight seconds.”

  Compliment her, Chiyoko says.

  An pulls his eye from the scope and angles the rifle into the air. “I couldn’t have”—blink—“I couldn’t have done it without you, Nori Ko. Or your brother down”—SHIVER—“your brother down”—BLINKSHIVER—“your brother.”

  “Tsuro’s been waiting a long time to help me,” she says.

  They’d landed less than an hour before the Cahokian and the Olmec and rushed to get their gear into a Mitsubishi Montero and up to this position south and west of the airport, leaving Tsuro to deal with An’s Y-12E. While they prepared for the kill shots he single-handedly moved the plane to the back of the hangar and out of sight.

  An moves from his position on top of a grassy bluff and twists to Sky Key. She’s drugged and sleeping, propped against Nori Ko’s pack.

  Keep moving, Chiyoko says.

  “I don’t want”—BLINK—“I don’t want to wait for the others, Nori Ko. Waiting for”—BLINKBLINK—“for this Dickey person is too”—SHIVERblinkSHIVER—“too unpredictable.”

  “Agreed.” She stows the range finder in her pack, careful not to disturb the girl. “Tsuro will handle them.” She taps her watch. “Besides, we have to kill 22b, and time’s ticking away.”

  An leans his jet-black JS 7.62 rifle against a rock and checks his vest. He fumbles with his shirt buttons, his eyes blinking and blinking and blinking, his shoulder muscles twitching. He finally gets the shirt open and tugs at the vest’s straps one more time, making sure they’re secure. It presses into his skin, constricting his rib cage painfully. It’s heavy—nearly 20 kilos—but it feels oddly comforting, like a snug blanket.

  “You all right, An? Your tics are getting worse.”

  He’s fine, Chiyoko says.

  Except An is the one who speaks these words.

  “What do you mean, ‘he’?” Nori Ko asks.

  An straightens. He buttons his shirt back up. He looks Nori Ko in the eye.

  Don’t tell her about me, Chiyoko says.

  “I mean I’m fine,” An says. “It’s an old trick. When my body does this, sometimes I pretend it belongs to someone else—therefore ‘he.’ It helps me get a handle on everything.” This is a lie, but a good one. And it works because, by luck, his body is composed and under control as he speaks.

  He pushes a few buttons on a custom keypad strapped to his wrist. A light on the pad flashes three times and then glows red. “It’s armed. I’m ready.”

  He snags the sniper rifle and an ammunition satchel and heads to the Montero, leaving Nori Ko to deal with the large pack and Sky Key. She gathers both, cradling Sky Key like a baby. The girl stirs as Nori Ko flops her into the backseat. Nori Ko takes Sky Key’s chin and peels open an eyelid. Her pupils are wide and dilated. They flutter toward her nose. She’s completely out. Nori Ko gets in the passenger seat and An puts the car in gear and they move.

  They wind over a dirt track, heading east and south, until they link up with the main road over Mount Urabe. An drives very fast. The landscape is open and lush, with fields of hay and young wheat and dense stands of trees along the mountain’s ridgelines. As they make their way back downhill toward a small marina on the southern side of the island, Nori Ko gets out her phone and makes a call.

  It barely rings before she starts talking. She speaks for a few minutes in rushed Japanese. An can’t understand a word of it. As soon as she hangs up An says, “Your brother again?”

  “Yes. Everything’s ready. We’ll have to dive with tanks, but it’s not deep. And we’ve got a full mask for the child, so we can keep her unconscious.” She glances at Sky Key. “We should be inside the Mu monument within the hour.” They approach a T intersection. “Go left.”

  He tears around the corner, the Montero fishtailing.

  An presses the gas more. The car accelerates. They are nearly there.

  HILAL IBN ISA AL-SALT

  Bombardier Global 8000, landing at Yonaguni Airport, Yonaguni, Japan

  Hilal brings the plane in smooth and easy. He watches out the right side of the cockpit window as he taxis, the plane bouncing over the tarmac. He sees the other p
lane, but he does not see the others.

  A few minutes later, as he brings the plane to a stop, Hilal sees a small Japanese man in a T-shirt and jeans maneuvering a large and laden luggage cart to one side of the receiving area. Sarah and Jago’s plane is closed up and in good shape, if a little dirty and worn for having flown through what must have been an airborne hell over Canada and the United States.

  Hilal cycles down the engines. The man waves at him gleefully, and then mimes opening the window. Hilal obliges.

  “Mr. Dickey?” the man yells in perfect English.

  “That’s right,” Hilal says, maintaining his American accent. “Mr. Masaka?”

  “One and the same!”

  “Did my friends arrive?”

  “Yes!” He points over his shoulder. “They’re inside, trying to enjoy some tea. They are very impatient for you to arrive, though.”

  “I’m sure. I’ll be right out.”

  Hilal unbuckles and moves to the cabin. He slings on his pack. It holds a satellite phone he can use to call Jenny and Shari back in Australia, some food and water, and a pair of night-vision goggles. He pulls on shoulder webbing with extra magazines for his rifle and slings a leather belt around his waist, his machetes on either hip. Finally he snags a matte black HK416 and turns to the door.

  Hilal, merely out of habit, toggles his 416 to fire.

  He releases the latch and the door swings out and the warm sea air rushes in. It is sweet and heavy, and Hilal likes it.

  Masaka lets out a gasp. “Oh my,” he says, clapping a hand over his mouth. Hilal knows that this is a reaction to the wounds on his head and face.

  Hilal reaches the tarmac and bows. “Mr. Masaka. I apologize for my appearance. I know it is unsettling. And thank you for allowing my friends and me to land.”

  “Of course . . .”

  “We are not here to hurt you. Quite the contrary. I am sure my friends told you something similar.”

  “Yes—they did.”

  “How long since they arrived?”

  “About thirty minutes,” Masaka says, unable to pry his eyes from Hilal’s face.

  “Good. And you say they are inside?”

  “Yes, over there, behind that door.” He spins and points at the nearest building. “They’re eager to see you.”

  “And I them.” Hilal starts to walk toward the building when Masaka slaps his forehead.

  “Goodness! I nearly forgot my manners. Please, one moment.” He takes a half step back. “Your friend Sarah asked me to do this!”

  “And that is?”

  “Tea! She liked my tea so much she asked me to bring you some. I have some right here!” He points at a lacquered tray resting on the edge of the luggage rack. “Please. It’s tradition!”

  Hilal shrugs. “All right.”

  Masaka shuffles to the tray and picks it up, careful not to spill anything. In seconds he’s standing before Hilal. “I’m sorry if this is strange. You are visitors, and I pride myself on welcoming visitors properly.” He holds up the enamel tray, a pair of jade-colored cups on it. Steam swirls above them. As he draws closer Hilal’s nose is greeted with the subtle but intoxicating odor of earth, cut grass, roasted grains, and a bite of acid that tickles his nostrils.

  “It does smell good,” Hilal admits.

  “It’s my own special blend,” Masaka says.

  Hilal takes the cup closest to Tsuro. Masaka takes the other. The tray falls to his side. They raise their cups. A stiff breeze blows over the airport from the west, whipping around Sarah and Jago’s plane. It pushes away the smell of the tea and replaces it with the smell of trees and fresh water on concrete, like after a squall.

  “Kampai,” Masaka says.

  “Kampai,” Hilal echoes, but not very enthusiastically. He slowly raises the cup to his lips.

  But then Hilal notices that the concrete around the other plane is shiny and wet, while the plane itself is utterly dry.

  Hilal’s eyes drift to the base of the luggage cart. He freezes.

  A single drop of dark liquid falls from the cart and plops onto the ground.

  Blood.

  Hilal drops his cup. It shatters on the concrete, the piping tea splattering his pant cuffs and shoes.

  Masaka says, “What’s the matter, Mr. Dickey?”

  Hilal steps back and points his rifle at Masaka’s neck. “What is on that cart?”

  “Luggage,” Masaka says nervously. “Please, have I offended you? I apologize! Your friends—I can bring them out right now. Please!”

  “You will do nothing of the sort,” Hilal says, dispensing with the American accent. “I warn you, and only this one time. Do not move.”

  But Masaka does move. He leaps directly sideways, slipping out of the rifle’s line of fire. Instead of tracking him Hilal twirls the rifle and swings for Masaka’s head. The strike misses as Masaka swipes the tray—its edge honed and sharp—at Hilal’s neck. Hilal bends away to avoid it, simultaneously swinging a foot at Masaka’s exposed rib cage. He lets out a whelp, and Hilal sidesteps him with lightning quickness and snaps the rifle across the backs of Masaka’s knees. The man buckles and falls. In a quick motion Hilal takes the machete named LOVE and, keeping it in its sheath, brings it to Masaka’s neck and holds it there, pressing it into his Adam’s apple.

  Hilal checks their surroundings. No other people are around, hostile or otherwise. He prays that Masaka is working alone, or Hilal may already be as good as dead.

  Hilal drags Masaka to the side of the cart, and he sees what is behind the high stack of bags.

  A blue tarp quickly rolled and tucked over a misshapen lump the size of a large animal.

  But Hilal knows that it does not conceal an animal.

  He applies more pressure to Masaka’s neck. The man gasps. Using the muzzle of his rifle Hilal raises a corner of the tarp and then whips the whole thing off. It flies open on the breeze.

  Five bodies. All dead courtesy of medium-caliber head shots. Three men he has never seen before, although it is hard to make out their faces on account of their wounds.

  And piled on top of these figures, her right arm thrown haphazardly over the narrow part of his waist, are Sarah Alopay and Jago Tlaloc.

  Both killed by sniper fire. Hilal checks around one last time, concludes that Masaka simply lured the Players and their associates into the open, where they were killed from a distance, and then dealt with their bodies. Hilal reasons that if the sniper were still out there, then he would already be dead.

  Meaning he is safe. At least for the moment.

  Masaka tries to speak but Hilal pulls LOVE’s scabbard so hard into his throat that he can’t breathe. Hilal needs to find something before he deals with this little man. If Sarah and Jago really do have a weapon that can kill a Maker then he needs to take it from them. Hilal quickly frisks the Olmec. He does the same to Sarah, moving up from the feet. He finds a strange object in a pocket—a lump of metal that fits perfectly in his hand. It looks completely nonthreatening, but there’s something about its heft and shape that makes him think this is it. He looks at the fallen Players one last time.

  Lost comrades.

  Heroes.

  He says a low prayer in Amharic and pulls the tarp over them.

  Their Endgame is over.

  He pulls Masaka to his feet and drags him back out on the tarmac and then under the wing and fuselage of the plane, giving himself some cover. He forces Masaka to his knees and unsheathes LOVE and points it at the man’s face. “Put your hands on your head, Mr. Masaka.”

  He does as he is told.

  Hilal can tell from how he served the tea, and from the tilt of his shoulders, that Masaka is left-handed.

  “Hold out your left hand, Mr. Masaka.”

  He protests in Japanese.

  “Your head or your hand, Mr. Masaka. Choose now.”

  “Okay, okay!” Masaka says. He sticks out his left arm.

  “Fan your fingers.”

  Masaka does.

  Hi
lal rests LOVE’s edge on the base of his pinkie. “Who are you working with?” he demands.

  Masaka says something else in Japanese, almost certainly a string of curses.

  Hilal pushes down on LOVE and the pinkie comes free. The man calls out and tries to pull his altered hand close to his body but Hilal quickly reaches out and grabs Masaka’s ring finger. He holds the hand in place and calmly lowers the blade to the skin.

  “Speak,” Hilal says.

  “Fuck you,” Masaka says in English.

  Hilal cuts off this finger too. He drops it near the pinkie and grabs the middle finger. Blood is all over both of their hands now.

  “Speak,” Hilal says.

  “I won’t,” Masaka blabs.

  The finger is getting slippery, Hilal can’t hold on. So he takes his wrist and slides his machete up Tsuro’s arm, stopping at his shoulder.

  “Do not test me.”

  “All right, all right! It was my sister!”

  “Who is your sister?”

  “She is Mu.”

  “You are Mu?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your Player died a long time ago,” Hilal says, not understanding.

  “Fuck you,” the man says again.

  “Who is your sister?” Hilal demands.

  Masaka doesn’t speak.

  Hilal thinks he understands. “You are working for revenge, yes? This is the best explanation I can come up with.”

  “Fuck. You.”

  “Last chance,” Hilal says, pressing the edge of the machete into Masaka’s flesh. “Who is your sister and is she alone?”

  “I am Mu. My blood is Mu. I am Mu.” He spits. A ball of phlegm hits Hilal’s foot.

  Hilal doesn’t flinch.

  Instead he raises the machete a few inches and then whips it down. Blood spurts everywhere. Hilal drops the arm. Masaka screams. Hilal moves the tip of his blade to Masaka’s neck. “Mr. Masaka, time is my enemy right now. Tell me if your sister is alone.”