Kill the Game: The Game Trilogy, #3

By Robin Morris

The game has a dark underbelly where players indulge in drugs and sex trafficking.

 

When John Benton's daughter is taken, he's determined to get her back, along with the other trafficked children, and to utterly destroy the game in the process.

 

But the game, and the high-ranking people who run it and play it, won't give up without a fight. There are too many lives and well-known careers on the line if the game's secrets are ever revealed.

 

Kill the Game is an exciting, fast-paced thriller by Robin Morris, where nothing is as it seems, and trust is an illusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Third Street Press
• Release date: Nov 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781948142632

Book preview

1

Mrs. Blaine moaned.

Her lover ran his fingers from her breasts down to her hip. He glanced at me to see my reaction.

I tried not to show anything. He had arranged this whole thing just to bug me. I stood in a fancy hotel suite, just inside the bedroom door, looking at the naked man and woman on the bed. I didn’t think she knew I was there, she had several drinks in the bar.

I had never been in a place this expensive in my life. The wallpaper alone screamed money. The furniture was old or looked it. Some of it might be authentic antiques. The big bed had a wooden headboard with carved figures of animals on it.

I couldn’t look away. I had to see when the man performed a specific sexual move. He would win his bet when he did it, but he was purposely avoiding it so I had to keep watching.

I took the game clock out of the pocket of my suit. It was a level one bet, which had a time limit of twenty-four hours. There was no distance limit, you could take the bet anywhere you could get to in that twenty-four hours.

The clock said the player had less than half an hour to win the bet, which had been: I will tickle your wife’s right nipple within fifteen hours.

Mr. Blaine was presumably on his way to prevent the prediction from coming true, but he had to find his own way there, and may or may not have known exactly where his wife was. The hotel suite I stood in was not registered to her.

The player could have bet he would have sex with Mrs. Blaine within fifteen hours. He chose to name a specific action so that I would have to stand and closely watch while he did everything else. I hoped he would forget and not touch her there before time ran out, and lose the considerable amount of money that had been wagered, but he was too smart for that. He had a Rolex on his left wrist, which he glanced at occasionally.

Mrs. Blaine moaned some more. She seemed to be enjoying it. Despite the drinks, she had not been unwilling to go up to the suite. I sat and watched them in the bar, far enough away that she didn’t notice me. He seduced her without really trying, paying for drinks, and telling her she had beautiful eyes.

The fact that she instantly recognized him as Kyle Noble, movie star, regardless of the Mr. Portnoy pseudonym he was using, may have been the reason she was so quickly convinced to go upstairs.

He spent a good ten minutes exploring her with his hands, touching everything except her right nipple. He wanted me to watch, just to see how I reacted. And she was too drunk and too enamored with him to care.

I hated him.

Their coupling came to a climax, both participants moaning and shuddering, and he lightly touched her right nipple. I had the clock in my hand. I looked at it and saw that there was still fourteen minutes left.

Hand to Mr. Portnoy, I said and left the bedroom.

In the central room of the suite, I stopped and tried to calm down. The performance I just saw was meant for me, as much as it was to win a bet. Kyle Noble hated me as much as I hated him. Whenever he asked for me at the game, he found ways to make me hate him even more.

The room had a huge fireplace and old-fashioned, overstuffed couches. There were heavy-looking paintings on the wall showing knights in armor.

I walked to a window and pulled aside the curtain. It was early evening, with the sun low in the west. I was tired and hadn’t slept since the bet had been made in a game room in Los Angeles, what seemed like forever ago.

I could see a broad river winding through the city. A lot of very old buildings mixed with new ones in odd shapes. And the giant Ferris Wheel that they called the London Eye.

I made the call on my game phone and recorded Noble’s win. A while later, I heard him come out of the bedroom. I didn’t turn to look.

That was an easy hand, he said.

You won, Mr. Portnoy. Now let’s get back on that plane of yours and go home.

I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Noble had timed the hand carefully. A game van had taken us to his Ferrari and I rode with him to Long Beach, the same FBO where I once shot his skinny friend. It wasn’t until we had boarded his private jet and taken off that he informed me we were on a ten-hour flight to London.

According to the rules, I couldn’t sleep until the hand was decided. If we had been in L.A., another ref would have taken over at the end of my shift. There was no one to do that at 40,000 feet.

I was not a happy flier, every bump of the little plane made me sure that we were going to crash into the Atlantic Ocean. It was the third plane ride of my life, the first two being when I had to go to and from my mother’s funeral in Florida.

Even the drinks and food served by Noble’s private flight attendant, an Indian lady in a sari, couldn’t make me want to be there.

Mr. Blaine, the player who had to try and prevent Noble from tickling his wife’s right nipple within fifteen hours, had his own ref and his own problems. He was a rich guy, a CEO of some company, but not Kyle Noble rich. He had to fly commercial. Booking a flight for the same day was not easy and it was expensive. He knew where his wife was staying in London, but Noble had someone watching her. He knew when she would be at the bar of another hotel, and he had paid for a suite in that hotel ahead of time.

Mr. Blaine would lose the ten thousand dollars he had bet in his game with Noble, the cost of a sudden trip halfway around the world, and probably his wife, when he learned how willingly she had gone up to Noble’s room.

When I started working for the game it required me to get a passport, for the first time in my life, just in case a hand took me out of the U.S. I thought maybe Tijuana, at the farthest. I kept it in my locker, so I could grab it if I needed it.

When we landed in London, Noble handed it to me; he must have had someone take it. He knew where we were going, he could have told me before we were in the stratosphere.

In Heathrow airport, I saw the Union Jack, Queen Elizabeth looking at me from the colorful money, and women in burkas.

I had witnessed Kyle Noble slowly and deliberately having sex with Mrs. Blaine, avoiding her right nipple as long as he could, so I had to keep watching.

I wanted to go home.

I’m here to do a reshoot, Noble said. Not going back right away.

That’s when I turned to face him. He was in an expensive robe provided by the hotel. What am I supposed to do?

He shrugged. Whatever refs do when a hand is over.

Normally I would call for a van, but I was thousands of miles from home.

You wouldn’t even have a reshoot to do if it wasn’t for my wife.

He had been shooting Gerald Lester’s latest sci-fi masterpiece, a job that Laila helped him get when his career had taken a nosedive, after he was photographed naked in the lobby of a downtown L.A. hotel. My wife and I had been instrumental in that too.

Last year, he had tried to murder me with a sub-machine gun. One bullet scraped a rib and went out my back. I had a huge puckered scar back there.

I hated Kyle Noble and he hated me. That’s why he chose me as his ref on this stupid bet about a woman’s right nipple.

I assume there’s a game here, I said.

Noble grinned. This is where it all started.

That was interesting. I had never been able to learn much about the origin of the deadly game I worked for.

Then I will be on my way. I walked toward the large double doors of the suite.

I opened the door and looked back. Oh, and Noble?

Yeah?

Fuck you.

2

I missed the comfortable weight of my Glock against the left side of my chest. I had to leave it behind in Noble’s plane when Customs boarded. I felt exposed without it. The lobby was elaborate and stuffy. Armchairs with tall backs, a couch that was so fancy I was afraid to sit on it.

Call for a van, he said. I didn’t even have the number of the local game. I stood near the front desk and looked at my game phone. It had only one number programmed into it, the L.A. game. So I called it.

Yes, Mr. Benton, a voice answered.

Um, hi, I’m in London and the player I came with isn’t going home, and I, uh…

A local game vehicle will pick you up.

Thanks. I’m at the…not sure the name of the hotel.

We know.

The line went dead. Of course they knew.

I wandered out the front door and the noise of traffic hit me.

A doorman in an elaborate costume with loops on his shoulders and a hat with gold braid on it looked at me. Need a cab sir?

I shouldn’t have been surprised he had a British accent, but I was. I had never expected that I would ever be in the actual United Kingdom, where they talked like that.

I called for a car.

Very good. He turned toward a tall black car that came up the driveway. It looked old-fashioned, like something from the nineteen fifties. The only way I knew it was a cab was a sign over the windshield that said TAXI. When it stopped, he opened the back door and a couple got out.

Americans, with lots of luggage. The doorman helped them while the man complained about everything. Nothing in this awful country was good enough for him, that was for sure.

I looked down the street for a white van. I didn’t see one. The black cabs were common, though. After the couple went in the hotel, another one arrived. An Arabic man in a robe and head cloth came out of the hotel and got in.

Then a small black van pulled up to the hotel. No markings, clearly not a taxi. The doorman stood back, didn’t approach it. The side door opened and a black man in a very nice suit got out.

Mr. Benton, he said.

I walked toward him. That’s me.

Welcome to London. He stood aside and let me enter the vehicle.

Once inside, I instantly recognized it as a game van. A bench for players and another for the ref. A small refrigerator and a rack of booze. A wall separated the passenger compartment from the unseen driver.

I sat on the passenger bench.

Please fasten your seat belt, the British ref said.

Hmmm? I looked and there were seat belts on the bench. We don’t have seat belts in our vans.

I put one of the belts on and clicked it closed.

We got all new vans recently and they were standard equipment. Mr. Vanbrough was against them at first. Tradition, you know. But he decided to let them remain. The ref’s accent was upper-class Brit, the kind I’ve heard in movies.

Mr. Vanbrough? Is he your boss? We have Mr. Quarling.

Interesting name. I’m Mr. Abebe. He leaned forward and offered his hand.

I shook it.

I hear Mr. Portnoy brought you over and left you stranded.

You know Mr., um, Portnoy?

Oh yes, he’s a regular, especially since he started shooting that science fiction film in a nearby studio.

I’ve dealt with him a lot, I said.

He just smiled. He is a charming fellow.

I had a feeling that Mr. Abebe had more things he could say about Kyle Noble, but couldn’t with the cameras that were recording us in the van, and another clipped inside his expensive jacket.

I took my burner phone out of my pocket. As I expected, there was no service. Their vans must be shielded, just like in L.A.

I want to call my wife. Will this work here?

Is it unlocked?

I had no idea what he meant. Unlocked?

If it is, you can get a SIM card that works here.

I had heard of SIM cards but didn’t know where or how to get one. I’ll just buy a new phone.

The ride took a while. I sat and thought my own thoughts until the van slowed down. I expected it to stop and let me out, but it crept forward.

Is there a problem? I asked.

We’re in the van queue.

Queue? We’re in line?

The lounge is very busy at this time, we have to wait our turn.

I had never seen more than two vans at a time in the reception area at my game. It took five more minutes before our van stopped and the door was opened.

Mr. Abebe smiled and gestured for me to get out. Nice to meet you, Mr. Benton. I have a player to attend to.

Yeah. You too. I stepped out to see a man in a fancy uniform, much like the doorman at the hotel, who had opened the van door.

Welcome, Mr. Benton, he said. I understand you’re a visiting referee from the States.

Yeah.

You will find much that is familiar, yet we have our own distinct way of doing things also.

He wasn’t kidding. The entrance to the place wasn’t just a big door with a man in a tuxedo to open it. It was two enormous doors, one of which was open. Elaborate carved decorations were over the doors, but I couldn’t tell what the carvings were. Players, many in formal dress, lined up to pass through the doors. There were people from all over the world, in Arab robes, Indian saris, a couple of those guys who wear a turban and never cut their hair or beards, Asian people in western suits and dresses. They all waited to enter, chatting to each other like old friends.

I glanced toward the van I came in, and saw there was also a line of people leaving. Mr. Abebe stepped out and ushered an older couple, wearing high-class business suits, into the van. Another ref also got in. I could tell he was a ref because his suit was similar to mine. Clearly, the couple had made a bet that was taking them away from the game location.

I made my way through the open door and saw six greeters, women and men, who said things like, Welcome back, or Good to see you again, or First time? Enjoy! It was like a flock of Madeleine Delgados.

Maddy told me that she had worked at games around the world. I wondered if she had ever been here, at the London game.

A large opening covered by a curtain was next. When I pushed the curtain aside and entered the lounge, I was astonished. The room was like a large ballroom in a hotel. There were dozens of tables of various sizes, and more servers moving between them than I could count.

The servers, male and female, wore a somewhat classier uniform than at my game. The men were in suits like you’d see in a Sherlock Holmes movie, but cut to expose their chests, and with short pants that hugged their butts and legs. Some of them wore top hats. Women were in period costumes too, but altered to show lots of cleavage, with long skirts pulled back to show their legs in stockings. It was like a porn version of Downton Abbey.

If this was the lounge, I shuddered to think what the Back Room was like here. I hoped I would never find out.

The room was so big they had hostesses who escorted people to their tables. They wore dresses that were tight but not as revealing as the server uniforms.

An Indian woman with dark skin and a red dot between her eyes addressed me. Table for one, sir?

It was noisy, a flood of overlapping conversations making it hard to hear anything.

I leaned forward. I’m a ref from America, I said. I just want to talk to someone about going home.

She paused for a nanosecond, then with a big smile said, Of course, Mr. Benton. She must have an earpiece and a voice in her head. Someone will talk to you, but we’re quite busy, please enjoy a drink on the house while you wait.

Her accent was Indian, but with British influence. She turned and walked away. I followed her, assuming that’s what I was supposed to do.

She took me to a small table next to a wall. A server will be with you shortly. Then she left.

I sat and looked around. The table had a red tablecloth, and two plain chairs next to it. It looked like the area where they put the least important guests.

A male server approached a nearby table, where two men sat. He carried a case, which he put on the table and opened. Each of the men reached in and removed a pistol, which looked to me like .45s. They checked them by pulling back the slide and looking to make sure there was no shell inside. Then they each removed a loaded magazine from the case, put it into the handle, and racked the gun so it was ready to fire on a moment’s notice.

They also took shoulder holsters from the case and put them on. The server closed the case and took it away.

I had wondered how the game operated in a country that has very strict gun laws. I would have to look it up, but I thought I had heard you could get a long prison sentence just for being in possession of a firearm. Was this how the game got around that? People left their guns at the game and servers brought them out in the lounge when they were needed for a bet?

I sat for what seemed like a long time. The London game was in no hurry to help a visiting ref from America. My head nodded as I sat there. Was this jet lag? Or just my normal sleepiness? What time was it at home?

What can I get you sir?

I was startled awake, and saw a female server standing nearby. I’m waiting to talk to someone about going home.

Yes, sir, but I am here to get your drink order, aren’t I?

You don’t know if anyone is going to help me?

I’m afraid all I can do is take your order.

Okay. I guess I need coffee. I’m falling asleep in my chair.

Your drink is on the house, sir, you can order anything.

Just coffee. A pot of it. Black.

Brilliant. She moved away.

What was so brilliant about ordering coffee?

I almost fell asleep again before the coffee came.

Thanks, I said to the server, who smiled and left.

She had brought a pot of coffee, all right, but with a small cup. With a saucer. I hadn’t even seen a saucer in years. I always drank my morning coffee out of a large mug. I poured as much as I could into the cup and sipped. It was very hot.

As I sat, bleary-eyed, waiting for the coffee to cool, a man walked up to me and sat in the other chair.

Benton, he said.

I instantly recognized him. Fisher?

3

Fisher was the first ref I ever had when I was a player. He was a tall, solid, blond man. He had spoken only a few words to me in the years I worked for the game. He didn’t even tell me his name until I asked for it. He had been Mr. Blaine’s referee in the hand that brought me here.

Have a fun flight?

Fisher looked at me with a surprising fury. Asshole booked us in coach. Coach! And he’s supposed to be rich.

I tried to imagine Fisher trying to fit his large frame into the tiny space that coach passengers are given. I laughed a little.

It’s not funny, Fisher said. Ten hours with my knees pushing against the seat in front of me.

Players have to pay for their refs on flights, or entrance into any place that costs money. I once had a player bitch about paying for me to get into Disneyland. He should have thought of that before he made the prediction that he would steal a doll from the It’s a Small World ride.

Why didn’t he just stay home? I said. He would have lost the bet, but not all the money to come here.

He’s a fucking idiot, that’s why.

I was sure it was about keeping his wife away from Mr. Portnoy. Blaine knew who the movie star was and that he had a private jet.

When did he find out he lost?

In the air. Checking his email on the plane’s wi-fi. He started swearing loudly until the crew threatened to have the police waiting for him at Heathrow.

This conversation had served one important purpose. My coffee was cool enough to drink. I drained the cup and poured more.

Have you ever gone to another country for a hand before? I asked.

Fisher looked surprised. Sure. This your first time?

First time outside America ever. How do you get back?

He shrugged. Wait a while, there’s always a hand where some player wants to go to America. Usually New York. Then I pick up another hand to go to L.A.

You just wait? How long? Geez, Laila didn’t know where I was. I had to call her soon. She was living in a different place than me, after I screwed up and lied to her, but we kept in touch and I visited Bree when I could.

Fisher thought for a moment. Longest was about a week. Usually just a day or two. One time, a camel jockey took me to Dubai first, and I was there for a while until I got a ride to Miami, then home.

I’m going to kill Portnoy. He picked me on purpose for this.

You’re not the only who wants to kill Noble. Half the refs hate him.

I was surprised that he used Portnoy’s real name. I have a bullet wound because of him.

Heard about that. You should have shot him. Quarling wouldn’t have liked it, but Noble knew what he was doing. Rule number one for players, don’t hurt the refs.

Yeah, should have. I didn’t try to explain the complicated reasons that Noble was still alive. As soon as I talk to whoever the London game is sending over, I need some sleep.

That’s me, Benton. You think I came over just to chat?

Oh. I thought some English person would come and explain things.

No, they wouldn’t bother. These people don’t like Americans. They look down on us. They consider the L.A. game a backwater.

Okay. So do I just find a hotel on my own?

You can, or the game has one for visitors. I don’t stay there, it’s full of shitty people from shitty countries, but it’s cheaper than anything else you’ll find.

Cheaper sounded good to me. I’m going to go then.

I forgot, you like ‘em dark. He smiled unpleasantly. I’ve seen your wife in the lounge.

If I had my Glock at that moment, I’m not sure if Fisher would have lived much longer. I drank the last of my coffee and left him to stew in his racist juices.

I took my game phone out of my suit pocket. At home, I couldn’t call the outside when I was at the game, but it worked for business, like calling for a van or for info. I had my earpiece in my pocket. I had taken it off on the plane because it bothered me to have it in too long.

I hoped I could talk to someone about the visitor hotel on the phone. I hit the one number in the contacts, and waited.

Shortly a voice came on. Yes Mr. Benton.

Hi, is this L.A. or London? I’d like to go to the visitor hotel.

Use a departing van.

That was all. The connection was broken.

Through the curtain,