The Gender Game by Bella Forrest (motivational novels .TXT) 📕

It would probably be physically impossible for Viggo to pull a more unenthusiastic expression. He merely shook his head.

At this, the man backed away, and the group took the cue to leave.

Viggo and I continued eating. Though I couldn't help but ask, "Why?"

Viggo groaned. "Why what?" he snapped.

"Why do you keep yourself at a level you're clearly above?"

He stopped chewing, eyeing me. "What makes you think I'm 'a level above'?"

"Well, it's the way people talk about you. These strangers who just came up to you, and Lee has also mentioned your abilities."

Viggo continued chewing. He waited until he had swallowed a mouthful before answering, "My current level serves its purpose. It pays me the money I need without the lack of privacy… Believe it or not," he added, "there are some things in life that aren't worth giving up for money."

"People already seem to know your name though," I said.

"Exactly," he countered. "And it would be ten times worse if I rose up in the game."

I paused, dragging my knife across the plate, before daring to go on. "I guess to me… it seems a waste. If I had the opportunity, I would go all the way."

His gaze leveled with mine briefly before averting to the table surface. Since he offered no leeway to continue the conversation, I dropped the subject. But I didn’t drop thinking about it—my lack of opportunity versus Viggo’s lack of desire. I wished in some fantastical twist of events, Patrus would establish a league for female fighters. That would probably be enough to tempt me to stay here permanently or at least try to visit frequently if I could be involved. But Patrus allowing female fighters seemed about as likely as Matrus suddenly halting their weeding out of "high risk" boys.

After Viggo finished his sandwiches, we left the bakery.

In the hours that followed, we didn't talk as much. We passed several other wardens as Viggo roamed the inner city, "making his presence felt," before he began leading me back to his office. He said he had some paperwork to attend to, but we never made it that far.

A sudden buzzing emanated from Viggo's right coat pocket, where he retrieved a phone.

"Okay," he said, his eyes glued to the device. "There's been an incident. An unusual one for this time of day."

Without further explanation, he grabbed my arm and began racing with me toward where he'd left his motorbike. He seated me first before leaping on himself and kicking off down the road.

"What happened?" I gasped as the lurch knocked the breath out of me.

"A kidnapping," Viggo replied.

"Who got kidnapped? By whom?"

"You'll see."

As we careered through the city, a blaring noise erupted from the back of Viggo's motorcycle—a siren. It caused all large obstructing vehicles to quickly clear the roads and let us pass.

As we arrived at the outskirts of the city, I caught sight of six wardens standing around in a huddle on the edge of the road. Viggo stopped next to them and leapt off the bike.

"We recovered her," one of them informed Viggo.

I slid off the bike and followed Viggo, trying to make out exactly what they were all huddled around. Then I heard a low groaning, and a whimpering. It sounded like someone was curled up on the ground. Viggo, who'd pushed his way to the front of the group, was staring downward. I reached for his arm and pulled myself to him, gaining as good a view as him.

Lying on the street was a thin woman wrapped in a lambswool shawl. Her right eye was swollen and bruised, her upper lip cut. The sight made me wince.

"Did you detain him already?" Viggo demanded.

"No," one of the men replied. "He's being pursued as we speak."

"Where?" Viggo pressed, his tone bordering on aggressive.

"Southwark Street, moving toward Lumber Avenue. A red car. Keep your phone on loudspeaker."

Viggo stepped away, pulling me back to his motorbike. He touched the screen of his phone before stowing it into his pocket. We both leapt on the motorbike. He pushed away so quickly this time that I didn't have time to find the handles beneath my seat; both nervousness and excitement filled me as I grabbed hold of his firm shoulders and we whizzed off.

Sirens from other warden vehicles blared around us. Reaching a junction, we took a sharp right turn, passed a line of stalled vehicles, and did a U-turn onto a parallel street.

"Brody Street." A voice crackled in Viggo's pocket. "Heading south."

Viggo hit the brakes so hard I almost went flying off the bike. He reversed into a road to our left and roared down it. He showed no signs of stopping at the next junction, but then, in a blur of red and shattering glass, a car came smashing through a shop front and skidded out onto the road directly in front of us. If Viggo hadn't had reflexes fast enough to make another emergency brake, we would have gone crashing right into it.

"Hey!" Viggo shouted. "Stop!"

There were apparently only two men in the vehicle, one in the passenger's seat and one in the driver's. They paid no heed to Viggo's warning and frantically revved the engine to pick up speed and continue driving in the opposite direction.

"Hand me a gun," Viggo called to me over his shoulder. "In my belt."

Reaching my hands through the folds of his trench coat, I felt his belt for a gun and yanked it out. I raised it to him and he took it with one hand. I was tempted to offer to help him, but I was still so new to handling guns, let alone shooting one at a speeding vehicle.

Clutching the motorbike's handle with his left hand, he unleashed bullets at the tires with his right. His aim was sharp. The tires punctured, causing the vehicle to slow.

As we had almost caught up with it, the doors opened and two men leapt out, revealing their