The Killing Games Read online

  The Killing Games

  By

  Antony J Woodward

  Copyright Notice:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  There is use of Pop Culture references, with no intention of copyright infringement and are merely used as references and do not claim any ownership of copyrighted material.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Notice:

  Whilst every care has been taken and every effort applied, there may still be the odd

  grammatical or spelling error in this book.

  Be sure to remember to leave a review on Amazon!

  Other Works by Antony J Woodward:

  The Black Winter

  P A R A D I S E / P R O G E N Y / P R O G E N I T O R

  The Mendacity Games / The Killing Games

  I Am Pug

  Puss In Boots and the Werewolf Cult / Puss In Boots and Frankenstein’s Monster

  Rewind

  Ten Missing Children

  Bound Villain

  The Rain In The Sky

  Passenger

  Other Works as DirtyPrettyThin:

  Bitchcraft

  The Count

  Queer Intentions

  Heaven Drowning

  Available now

  About the Author:

  Antony J Woodward lives in his hometown of Scunthorpe, with his Pug. A lifelong enthusiast

  for cathartic entertainment, he studied multimedia at college level before finding himself

  in the ever fascinating world of healthcare. Writing has always been his dream and finally he’s put pen to paper!

  Get it touch on Facebook by searching for: Antony J Woodward.

  And please be sure to leave a review on Amazon!

  Dedicated to;

  Sue S, Sarah B, Sam B, Sue B, Lynne M - for fighting the good fight and supporting me,

  Jon B - the inspiration behind the better elements of Jon C,

  WARNING:

  This book contains themes and scenes that some readers may find disturbing, erotic, offensive or upsetting or maybe all of them simultaneously.

  PROLOGUE:

  The dream came just like it always did. Christopher was sat on the reception desk waiting for her. Waiting for her to arrive and take him home. To spend another awful Christmas together. Waiting, as he always was.

  He waited and waited ever longer, always wondering if this was the year she wasn’t going to come. Was this the year it finally broke?

  And then it appeared; a black stretch limousine arrived on the horizon and he just climbed into it when it pulled up close. Just like he always did, it was their ritual.

  His mother was pretty mean looking, a pointed character through and through. People had described her as cold, standoffish and disinterested - they were right. She had an orange sharp angular bob, something that worked along with the sharp black suits she always wore.

  As the car began to pull off the school grounds it was beginning to snow, light flurries of snow came twinkling down from a pregnant white sky.

  There was a friendly wave from the school’s grounds man and Christopher thought of returning the gesture, but ultimately he chose to ignore it and completely shut down instead. It was easier that way. If nobody was let in then nobody could hurt him, and that rule applied to his mother.

  The atmosphere in the car was as icy as usual. She was clicking on her phone and he was staring out of the window. Scenery blurred by in white snow and brown woodland. Their icy atmosphere felt like it was seeping out of the car and contributing to the weather.

  Would it snow tomorrow, on Christmas Day? Wasn’t that what everybody wanted?

  “How was school?” his mother enquired flatly. It was monotone to the extreme. It barely disguised her lack of interest. Why hadn’t she just given him up for adoption? Why had she doggedly kept him when she clearly didn’t care for him? Why did she insist on this charade? They were always the same questions that floated in his head.

  “Okay,” Chris answered flatly. It was always the same answer. Little and devoid, reflective of their relationship.

  Silence fell again. He could hear the driver shuffle up front. He caught the reflection of him, he looked uncomfortable. This driver was new. Chris had not seen him before, he was obviously unaccustomed to the atmosphere. He kept glancing at the mirrors and then at Christopher. Chris returned to looking out the window, counting down the seconds till the car ride was done and they’d be back in London.

  “What happened to Alexander?” Chris enquired flatly.

  Of all the drivers his mother had had, Alexander was the nicest. He had been a hulking Russian brute who looked far too large to fit comfortably behind the steering wheel. A formidable but oddly charming giant that Christopher had been fond of. In the dream he could picture him clearly. The shaved head, yellow-green eyes and a perpetual thunderous expression.

  “Died.” His mother answered flatly. She lifted the phone to her ear. The warm recollection of the Russian’s face fell away. He didn’t grimace but he felt a little deflated.

  “Hello, yes it is she, look-” and so she began talking shop.

  Chris zoned out. He didn’t want to hear his mother’s business. Once upon a time it had been an attractive mystery, now it was just a bore.

  The driver kept a good pace along the country roads and Chris’ attention drifted yet again to the snow cascading down from the pale sky. The sky was mesmerising with its brightness. The woodlands sprinkled more and more with whiteness looked like a scene from a fairy tale. Had it been this beautiful? Or was this just the dream? Christopher was never sure how much of this oft-played recollection was factual and what had been conjured by himself.

  A motorbike roared nearby.

  It was a peculiar sound. The engine roared throatily and his first thought was how he’d not heard it in such a long time. It sounded alien, a relic from a greyed out memory from yesteryear. But his dream-self had heard this engine too many times and knew it now as only as a signal for what was about to come.

  The roar echoed through the dream and he knew what it meant, and he was powerless to stop it. He was a spectator trapped into a scene he’d rather not endure.

  He heard a second roar.

  Joy-riders out making the most of the snow he’d wrongly assumed in the moment. Then he’d wondered what it would feel like to ride a motorcycle. There had once been a guard who used to sometimes stay with Chris that rode a motorbike. His name was Marty, and while he hadn’t let Chris ride his motorbike, he had offered to teach Chris to drive. It had been a fun way to spend the summer. He was now a perfectly functional and competent driver, because like most things in life Chris learned easily and quickly. Passing his test wouldn’t be an issue, he just needed to wait till he was old enough. This dreamy tangent didn’t distract him, he didn’t escape down the slip road of driving with Marty.

  The engine roared once more and it was louder. The biker was closing in.

  He would have to find a means to test ride a motor bike. Something about a roaring engine between his legs appealed, he fantasised about the sensation of becoming one with a motorbike. To ebb and flow on the road, to flow as freely as water itself... It sounded somewhat sensual. Maybe a little moronically poetic too...

  Chris became more aware of himself, of his dream. Lucid dream
ing had never been something he’d wanted to learn, it had only manifested as a reaction to the trauma it seemed. Despite his lucid dreaming state, he had never figured out how to change the events. He could never detour off script. No matter how many times he dreamed this dream, he was always powerless to stop what came next.

  The motorbikes roared up close, they were overtaking. Chris’ attention shifted to them. The glass on the limousine was smoked and only visible one way. You could see out but nobody could see in. It was his mother’s business, and in her best interest, to be hidden.

  Christopher felt himself slip out of his own body, floating backwards through the car.

  His younger self failed to recognise the rider turn his attention to the limousine, he also failed to notice the rider dressed in black, with a matching helmet, tug a machine gun from a holster on his chest.

  As the biker brandished the gun outwards and aimed it at the vehicle the young Chris came round and realised what was happening.

  “SHIT!” he roared panicked, he began pressing himself backwards.

  His shout barely pre-empted the eruption of bullets that tore into the car. The noise was deafening and booming. Shrapnel, bullets and stuffing erupted into the air and Chris instinctively slid down the seat onto the floor.

  The bullets tore into his mother, killing her instantly. Blood and matter erupted from the hundreds of holes being torn into her body. The driver hit the brake and swerved the limousine, he crashed into the biker and sent him careening off the bike. The driver was obviously a very competent driver because he immediately regained control of the vehicle despite the settling snow. A second motorcyclist came up the right flank but the driver swerved again and took him out too. There was a muffled scream as the biker bounced off the tarmac and landed broken bodied.

  Young Chris couldn’t hear anything for the ringing in his ears. A ringing that echoed endlessly in the dream he was trapped within.

  His senses were in overdrive and he couldn’t concentrate. Fragments of glass shined in the air around him. Streams of blood arched in inverted waterfalls. The car was filled with death. His thoughts became nothing and chaotic all at once. He could smell blood, he could smell sulphur and he could smell petrol. It was a head-spinning combination of odours.

  The driver came to a screeching halt and Chris crumpled against the seat in front.

  There was suddenly blood running down his face, was it his own?

  He dabbed it manically, it was fresh and bright. He coughed, it was hard to breathe in the car. The air felt thick, too thick to draw oxygen from.

  “Christopher!” he heard the driver shout. It sounded like Chris was submerged under water.

  The car was spinning round and round, like he was in a rollercoaster.

  A few moments later and the new driver managed to prise open the door and pull Christopher out and into the snowy evening. He landed on the road, suddenly snatched into the grip of winter.

  “Are you okay?” He kept hearing the driver repeat. He sounded shocked, which only served to frighten Chris. Are you okay? Wasn’t they supposed to be trained to deal with shit like this? What was he, an amateur? Are you okay?

  Chris shook his head, trying to dispel the ringing. A thick rivulet of blood came running down the side of his face. It was his own blood, but he knew that anyway. Are you okay? A bullet must have caught him. He couldn’t feel pain, so it must just be a graze, or had it hurt and he couldn‘t remember in this dream?

  “Christopher are you okay?” He heard the driver shout louder.

  Out of the corner of his eye Christopher noticed an injured biker hobble closer, he was limping but he still had the gun trained on Chris and the driver. Are you okay?

  “Look out!” he shouted unable to hear his own voice. He pointed at the biker.

  The driver rushed to the biker, who must have ran out of ammo as he didn’t pump him full of bullets as he approached. Are you okay?

  In a warped sense of satisfaction he watched the driver beat the man to death. He witnessed brutal kicks rain down, saw strikes that shattered the visor and then watched the driver finish him off with a brutal looking twist of the neck. Are you okay? When the biker dropped down dead to the floor, Chris felt a little safer…

  Are you okay?

  Are you okay?

  Are you okay?

  And when he awoke he was never sure of the answer…

  CHAPTER ONE:

  “Who fucking sent you?!” Chris screamed in the thug’s ear, seconds before he slammed the thug’s face into the gravel once again. The thug, while at least several stone heavier than Christopher Bourgh, was unable to shake him off. Every slam of his head loosened his grip on reality just that fraction more and he wasn’t sure he’d endure another slam without blacking out. The scream in his ear had been almost feral, such was it ferocious sharpness. It pierced straight through his mental fog but he didn’t have an answer.

  The thug was strangely unremarkable, so plain it was suspicious. He had obviously needed to keep his image as neutral as possible in his line of work, which Chris had quickly learned was some form of assassin. Their angry fight had erupted when the assassin jumped Chris as he had indulged himself in a nightly neighbourhood stroll. The bald male had lost his advantage rather quickly as Chris retaliated with far more finesse and violence than he would’ve ever expected. The brawl had descended off the road side, over the side of the railing and down the mud and grass embankment where now they had come to rest alongside a little pebbled creek.

  “Who fucking sent you?” Chris demanded once more. The man beneath his grip was dazed and his eyes were spinning. They were barely illuminated in the streetlights of the road metres overhead, but Chris could clearly see a rivulet of blood trailing down the man’s cheek. There was a collection of gravel embedded in his cheek too.

  Chris had suffered his own injuries; he had a long gash along his left brow and his lower back was smarting. He would probably awake to new collection of bruises.

  “Who. Fucking. Sent. You?!” Chris roared. He had lost patience. This wasn’t the first attempt on his life, this was the third.

  “The broker…” the man stammered in a weak voice.

  Chris dropped the assassin’s head. He stood back up and stepped away. The man didn’t move, instead he coughed and groaned. He was flat on his stomach yet he didn’t move his arms to slowly lift up.

  “Who is the broker?” Chris pushed. He suddenly felt himself become aware of their surroundings, a quick glance around the darkness and the street above them told him there was no witnesses coming to his aid. Or the assassin’s either.

  “He arranges the hit…” the man answered, he felt a throbbing headache pound in his temples as he slowly began to rise. Chris wasn’t satisfied with the answer.

  “Who made the hit?” he demanded.

  The quietness of the night, and lack of traffic, felt alien after their violence.

  “I don’t know. I get paid to fulfil the contract, I don’t know who makes it…” The man was now on his feet. He slowly turned to the young boy and felt anger bubble up through his stupor. How could something so lithe and pretty be so deadly? When he’d taken the contract the pretty long haired boy had looked like an easy job. He had been wrong, very wrong. The thin and sinewy figure before him was something else, vicious and calculated. The hitman hadn’t ever considered himself to be brawny, for he wasn’t particularly muscular or fit, but this young boy had been so agile he’d felt cumbersome in comparison.

  He staggered on the spot as his balance faltered a little. For a second he thought the gravel was going to rush up to him, but his feet held firm. His head was pounding and his cheek was beginning to burn. Killing this little shit was going to be mighty satisfying. His hand slipped inside his black jacket, groping for the knife he had concealed inside it.

  “How much is the contract for?” Chris asked out of curiosity, he slowly turned to face the hitman. He noted the hand slipping underneath the jacket, but he didn’t rush
in to prevent it. Instead Chris stepped to the side and disappeared into a dark shadow cast by the road bridging the small creek they were stood near. He vanished entirely from view giving the man a little flare of panic.

  “50K,” the man answered. A second little flare of panic rattled him further as he reached his pocket and found it empty. He patted around but all he could feel was the bullet-proof vest beneath his black shirt. His knife! He’d lost it in the scuffle down the embankment.

  Fuck. He was going to have to do this the old fashioned way. He glanced around for the boy, but he had disappeared into the inky shadows. That thump of panic hit him once again and resonated in his gut. Shit. Where had he gone?

  Chris, like a shark gliding through a dark ocean, slipped around the hitman. He stepped carefully and quietly, slowly closing in behind him.

  The hitman glanced to the sides, straining and peering around as best as he could and yet still couldn’t see him in the gloom. He staggered forward one step, his body was uncoordinated and numb. The pounding in his head was worsening.

  Chris was upon him in a split-second, the stolen blade running across his throat before the hitman could even react. His brief shout of alarm leaked out of the slit throat in a liquid gurgle. The knife wasn’t sharp enough to finish the cut cleanly, instead it caught and snagged at the end. Chris kneed the hitman in the back as he tore the knife away and free, rendering him to the gravel once more. He hit the deck grasping desperately at the plume of blood erupting from his cartoid artery.

  The gurgle as the hitman fought to stymie the blood flow was a little disconcerting, but Chris didn’t flinch. Instead he slowly took steps backward, making sure he cleared the area and wasn’t in direct line of any blood. He didn’t want to be tainted with any forensic evidence. The hitman took only a few minutes to completely bleed out and die. All the while Chris stood there watching and waiting, like a sinister sentinel.