But my time to dwell has come to an end, because all at once, as though appearing from nowhere, several motorcycles appear and surround me. Their riders are dressed all in black and they each have gun trained on me. Slaverunners.

I kill the engine of my bike and slowly get off, my hands raised into a truce position. I’m surprised by how completely calm I am. My heartbeat has hardly increased at all.

The slaverunners approach me cautiously, as though expecting me to pull a weapon out. But when they frisk me, all they find is the knife. Once again, my Marine Corps branded weapon is stolen from me. This time, I know I will get it back again. I will survive. Because I’m not doing this alone; I have a whole army behind me. Somewhere back in Houston a red light on a machine is relaying my GPS’s coordinates back to a room full of soldiers.

“What have we got here then?” one of the slaverunners says to me.

“My name is Brooke,” I say. “I’m a fighter. The only person to have survived Arena One.”

The slaverunner raises his eyebrows as though in disbelief. “Is that so? A slight little thing like you?” His face is so close to mine I can smell his breath.

I set my jaw firm. “You could’ve asked their leader if I hadn’t killed him.”

There’s a murmur around the rest of the slaverunners. News of my victory over the leader in Arena 1 must have filtered down south. The man questioning me frowns, studying my face.

“What are you doing here?” he says. “How’d you make it all the way to Texas if you were fighting in Manhattan?”

“I’ve been touring the arenas,” I lie. “Giving the spectators what they want to see: the famous Brooke Moore.”

He looks at me skeptically, as though not sure whether to buy my story. But since I’m not packing any weapons, I’m not exactly a threat. They have no reason not to cuff me.

I don’t resist as my hands are wrenched behind my back, nor when I’m marched toward a bike. In fact, as I’m sat on the back, heading down the road toward the arena, I smile to myself.

Game on.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE