The Givenchy Code (6 page)

A
damn good question.

I don’t like guns, but I’m not an idiot. I hefted this one with both hands and aimed it at him, thinking vaguely that this man was either brave or stupid. The way my hands were shaking, he could have ended up with a hole in his face whether I’d meant to fire or not.

“Talk,” I said.

His gaze darted toward the door. “Maybe we ought to do this inside.”

“Do I
look
stupid?” I asked. “Now talk. And if I don’t like what you say, I’m calling the cops.” I sounded tough, but I was scared to death. I thought about calling the cops right then, but I ruled that option out almost immediately. He’d handed me a very slim advantage here, but the truth was, he didn’t look stupid either, and I was betting that he had another gun tucked away somewhere, but perfectly accessible should I do something rash.

“Do you play any Internet games?”

The question was so unexpected that for a moment I could only stare at him. Then I frowned and half shrugged. “Sure. Some.” The truth was, I played around a lot on the Net. Spend as much time as I do at the computer, and cyber-surfing becomes the procrastination method of choice.

“Multiplayer games? Like PSW?”

I kept the gun trained on him, but I was becoming more curious than scared. “Yeah,” I said, still wary as I remembered the article in that morning’s
Post.
Weird that this game I hadn’t thought of in years suddenly seemed to be everywhere. “I don’t play PSW, but I have in the past.”

“So you remember how it works.”

“Pretty much.”

“How?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Humor me,” he said.

“Players log on all over the world and are assigned to a role—a target, an assassin and a protector. They all race around a cyber version of Manhattan doing their thing and following the clues.” Actually, it was more complicated than that. That was the allure of PSW. The game was both incredibly complicated and beautiful in its simplicity, but I wasn’t inclined to discuss the ins and outs with this man.

“So you have a profile in the system?”

Handguns are small but heavy, and I was getting tired of twenty questions. “What’s this all about?”

“Melanie—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, what’s this about?” He started to open his mouth, but I waved the gun, and he shut up. Oh, the power. “I’ve played a zillion of these kinds of games. Did I submit a profile? Sure. Do I remember the details? No. But I haven’t logged on to PSW in years. Sorry if I’m a little fuzzy.”

“That long?”

For some reason, that really seemed to bother him. “Yeah. Why is that bad?”

“I just assumed you were a regular player.”

By now, confusion had totally surpassed fear, but I kept the gun aimed at him for appearances’ sake. “I don’t know you from Adam,” I said. “Why on earth would you assume that?”

“Because you’re a target, just like in the game,” he said, the force of his words almost knocking me over. “And I’ve been assigned to protect you.”

>http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<<

PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

WELCOME TO REPORTING CENTER

PLAYER REPORT:

REPORT NO. A-0001

Filed By: Lynx

Subject: Game commenced.

Report:

• Target approached and package delivered. Tailed target to non-residence location >>>database entry noted<<<
  
• Utilized eavesdropping equipment.
  
• Target announced refusal to participate in game.
  
• Persuasive tactics applied.
  

>End Report<<<

Send Report to Opponent?
>
Yes
<< >>
No
<<

His target was on the run.

Lynx reached across the table for his pack of Djarum cigarettes, his eyes still fixed on the glowing screen. He tapped out a smoke, then slid it between his lips, lighting it with one quick flick of the silver-plated lighter his grandfather had surrendered to him so many years ago.

His first prize.

He could remember the move so clearly. He’d sacrificed his rook and his queen in homage to the strategy played so brilliantly by Adolph Anderssen in 1853.
Checkmate.
He’d been thirteen, and that had been the first time he’d beaten the old man. He’d known he would, too. For two weeks, he’d studied and played. He’d practiced opening with the Evans Gambit and had tried out the Alekhine Defense. In the end, he’d beaten every fucking little dweeb in the Delaney High School chess club, then he’d rubbed their noses in the fact that a lousy freshman had whooped their sorry asses.

Fuckers. They hadn’t taken him seriously, but he’d known. He’d always known. He was destined to be a winner.

He’d wagered his signed Willie Mays starting lineup card against his grandfather’s lighter, and he hadn’t sweated it for a minute. He’d never give up Willie. But that just hadn’t been a risk. Lynx had known even then that he’d come into his own. He was special. He’d been
ready.

More than that, he’d been right. A handful of moves, and it had all been over.

And as Lynx had closed his fingers around the cool, polished silver, he’d known that he was the best. He always would be.

And he’d always win.

He’d been winning now for twelve years. Not roulette or slots or those other baby games of chance. Real games. Where skill mattered.

He’d spent his school years dividing his time between the chess club and football, not giving a damn if his pumped-up but brain-dead teammates thought he was a pussy. He’d had things on his mind past high school. He hadn’t given a rat’s ass about the sport—any other game would have done just as well. He’d been in training, then. Training his mind and his body. Making sure he was ready. For what, he hadn’t known. Not exactly. But there was something out there. Some prize that was his.

Even then, he could feel it.

Even then, he could taste it. The sweet nectar of success.

He’d spent long weekends in the summer with his grandfather, his rifle at the ready, waiting for just the right moment, just the right shot. Hunting had been a game, too. Hunter and quarry. And he’d always won.

His grandfather’s cronies used to smack him on the back after they’d returned to the lodge with their kill. They’d pound him between the shoulder blades and tell him what a fine job he’d done. Later, when he’d taken his seat at the fire with
Chess Traps, Pitfalls and Swindles
open on his lap, they’d looked curiously, but they’d never snickered. He’d proven himself already. He wasn’t a sissy-boy.

Not fun, though, playing against dumb animals. They didn’t know about the game, after all. And so he’d found a new thrill. In no time at all, he’d aced every single-player game that Sierra, Broderbund and all the other developers had had to offer. That had gotten old soon enough, and by his sophomore year of college, he’d graduated to multiplayer Internet gaming. Going through all the levels of Anarchy Online, EVE, Doom and dozens of others. RPGs, MMORPGs. The works. He’d done them all and started surfing again, looking for some new challenge and turning up empty. Not a damn thing out there. At least, nothing worthy of his skill. Nothing worthy of his time.

Hell, nothing worthy of
him.

And then he’d found it. Play. Survive. Win. He’d played for over two years, relishing the challenge, thriving on the adrenaline rush of chasing or being chased.

Even that, though, had eventually gotten dull.

And then the new version had shown up in his in-box, and the anonymous package containing the message and the syringe had arrived soon after….

New rules. New challenges. And a thrill like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

Suddenly the playing field was all of Manhattan, and his tools were real weapons, not merely a computerized image. As in the online version, his role in the game wouldn’t start until the target successfully interpreted the qualifying clue. But once she did, then the game wouldn’t be over until he killed her. Or until she finally located and nailed the final clue, which would send the signal to stop.

He wasn’t worried that would happen, though. If the clues were as far-reaching and complex as those in the online game, the target would have to be constantly on her toes to successfully interpret them. That meant he had the advantage: He didn’t have to decipher codes, he simply had to hunt.

He had another advantage, too. He never lost.
Ever.
And he wasn’t about to start now.

Yes, he couldn’t wait for the chase to begin.

He hoped Melanie Prescott would play. He thought she probably would. Once she realized what was at stake, she’d play like her life depended on it.

And why not? Her life
did
depend on it. And the clock was ticking….

I
still held the gun, but we’d moved into my apartment, the open door a concession to my continued (though lessened) fear of this man. I was sitting beside him on the sleeper sofa as he manipulated Jennifer’s laptop. Mine was in the shop getting a variety of upgrades, and I didn’t figure she’d mind.

I was sitting at an angle, facing him, and while he concentrated on the computer, I concentrated on him. I still wasn’t prepared to totally trust him, but I had to admit he had a trustworthy face. A firm chin and a strong jawline shaded by the faint stubble of a beard. He looked to be in his thirties, rugged and sexy in a Russell Crowe kind of way. I guessed that the color in his skin had come from working outdoors, and that the muscles that strained against the short sleeves of his burgundy T-shirt weren’t the result of working out with a personal trainer. This was a man who wouldn’t blink at the idea of getting his hands dirty.

The hands in question looked rough, calloused even. But his fingernails were clean, and for some absurd reason, that put me at ease.

The uninvited thought alarmed me, and I tightened my grip on the gun. Mystery Man had been good-looking, too, I reminded myself. And he’d tried to kill me.

“You okay?” He turned his head to look at me, and I nodded, focusing on his gray eyes. Unlike the cruel eyes of the delivery man, this man’s eyes reflected warmth and concern, with a hardness I found reassuring instead of scary. I relaxed, but only a tiny bit.

“Just get on with it,” I said.

He looked like he might say something, but then he decided against it. The PSW website was up on the screen, and I watched as he entered his password, then pulled up a saved message. “SemperFi?” I asked, reading over his shoulder.

“My login. I used to be a Marine.”

“Mmm.” That didn’t surprise me at all.

“Just read.” He turned the computer so the screen faced me. I leaned closer and skimmed the info. When I finished, I realized I was a little sick to my stomach.

“Twenty grand?”

“I got it, all right,” he said. He opened his wallet and flashed some bills. “Showed up in my checking account this morning. I went straight to the bank and withdrew a chunk. I’ll take the rest when the hold lifts. I figure we’ll need the cash.”

“But how? Who sent the money?”

He shook his head. “Honestly? I don’t have a clue. Online it shows up as a wire transfer. My guess is that whoever’s pulling our strings hacked in and transferred the money from somewhere.”

“Can we find out where?”

“Possibly. With some poking around. Or if we get the authorities involved.” Warning bells went off in my head as I remembered what the Mystery Man had said. But I needn’t have worried. “Right now,” he continued, “I’m more concerned about keeping you alive.”

“Oh.” The reality of the situation smashed against me, making me light-headed. I stood up and moved toward the window. I shoved the sash up and stuck my head out, suddenly desperate for air. “A target. I’m a target.” I whispered the words, as if by not giving them voice, I could make this all go away.

“It looks that way.”

He stepped up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I whipped around, aiming the gun at his chest. “Wait just a fucking minute,” I said.

He backed away, hands in the air, his face placid. All of which confirmed to me that this was not a stupid man.

“Calm down, Melanie.”

“Calm down? I really don’t think the situation calls for calm. I’m thinking it calls for abject hysteria. Too bad for me I’m not the hysterical type.”

“More the sarcastic type,” he said, and the tiny smile that lit his eyes made me feel a little better.

“Or the careful type.” I kept the gun on him, but I nodded toward the computer screen. “For all I know, you set this up. Carried some cash you could whip out for my benefit. Sent yourself this message from a different player profile. You haven’t said one thing that makes me want to trust you.” Although I
did
want to trust him. At the moment, though, I’d willingly trust Attila the Hun if I thought he could give me a moment’s peace.

Todd’s murder was still hanging over me. I wanted to curl up and cry. I wanted to grieve. Mostly, though, I didn’t want to be next. But at the same time, I would have given everything I owned for the chance to hide under the covers and let someone else cope for a while.

“Fair enough,” he said. “But how would I have gotten your profile?”

“What profile?”

“You didn’t read the whole message.”

I looked back and, sure enough, the message included a link to a player profile. I swallowed, fighting off a wave of bile. I didn’t want to click on that link. I really, really didn’t want to….

“Go on,” he said. “We might as well be sure.”

I drew in a breath and nodded, then moved his finger around the touchpad and clicked. A profile came up. All my various stats and interests. All the silly little life stuff that made PSW such a cool game—Grimaldi had used nascent artificial intelligence technology in such a way that the game was different depending on who the players were that filled each role. Each of the clues, tests and game levels were constructed from the information set forth in the player profiles.

“Is it your profile?”

I nodded, the queasiness being replaced by anger. “Yeah.” A lot of folks make up personal stats when filling out various online profiles. For PSW, I hadn’t, and if the media coverage was accurate, neither did most of the game’s players. PSW’s appeal was that it incorporated a person’s real-life interests into the clues. What incentive would I have had to lie? None. I’d told the truth, and look what happened. There’s a lesson there somewhere, I think.

“This doesn’t make sense. My profile should have been deleted years ago.”

“Mine should have, too,” he said. “But it wasn’t. And there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’re playing the game, Melanie. Whether we want to or not.”