Smitty flashed Trevor, the producer, a hand gesture to show he needed another minute. Trevor nodded and spoke into his lapel mic.

Onscreen, the action continued as a woman crouched in a room. She had found a shotgun, a handgun, and some painkillers. She moved out of the room and toward a stairwell. Smitty tore his eyes away and went to find a secluded corner.

Smitty removed his cell phone and found he had missed a number of calls. He knew better than to have his phone’s ringer on while doing a show, because there was nothing more embarrassing than fighting your own device while speaking into the camera when you knew millions of eyes were on you. His little detour to speak with Simmons had thrown him off, but there were no breaks on this day, so it was straight back to the firing line, so to speak. Of course, first he had to return a very important call.

The overhead speaker went live as they took a call from one of the viewers.

“Hello caller. Where are you calling from?”

“Hey. This is Jake and I have a question for Smitty about the Ruger Mini-14.”

“We’ll do our best to answer. Smitty had to step away for a hot minute, but he’ll be back shortly.”

“I can help. I’m intimately familiar with the Mini-14,” Millhouse said in his annoying, gravelly voice.

The guy was worse than someone doing that vocal-fry thing, where their voice trailed off in a low, husky croak in an effort to sound more intelligent. Gretchen had smacked him once when he’d mentioned it in that tone. Then she had told him he was a sexist pig, to which he had offered her a broad grin, even though his shoulder hurt because she had a mean punch.

“Cool, cool. So he was saying that the gun is capable…”

Smitty drowned out the caller and dialed the home office.

“Christ,” Smitty muttered before the phone had finished ringing and someone picked up.

“Smitty?” An older man answered.

“Mr. Price. How’s it hanging?”

“I’ll cut to the chase. Something is going down in the game. I don’t have a lot of details available, but it could be serious.”

“I’m not so sure, sir. I just spoke to Simmons upstairs, and I’m not convinced. This guy might be real fucking lucky. I’ve seen crazier things in Chicken Dinner,” Smitty offered.

“I’m sure you have. Sure, you’ve seen a lot of odd things. But this one is concerning,” Price continued. “If word gets out that a cheater got away with it, we won’t be able to trust any future games. Once the trust with our audience is gone, it will mean a much larger decline in viewership.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Understandable, boss,” Smitty said. “I’m assuming you called me because you have something up your sleeve?”

“Very perceptive,” Mr. Price said. “If we have a cheater, we need someone to find them. We’ve given some thought into contacting one of the players and providing them with a cache of weapons and body armor, as well as detailed information about the cheater’s last known location.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Precisely. If we are caught, then it becomes another matter of losing viewership as their trust further fades. We must be very careful.”

“So what about sending in a team nice and quiet-like?”

“We can’t do that because some of them won’t make it back. Insurance purposes, and such.”

“Send them in with a HUMVEE. It’s not like this is the first time.”

“Again, Smitty. We’ll lose viewers. What do we look like if we can simply send in the gestapo?”

“Bullshit. This is a game of life and death.”

“Be that as it may. We have come up with an alternate solution and we wanted to run it by you.”

“Okay,” Smitty trailed off. “But I still think a team could get in and out easily. They did it a few games ago when that guy figured out how to get out of his harness and set up a sniper nest.”

“Not a team, Smitty. We’re thinking of sending you,” Price said.

“No fucking way,” Smitty said.

“Think of the ratings. Plus it’s just one person. If they don’t turn up dead in the next few hours, the remaining players will be greatly decreased,” Price said.

“Not me, man. I’m retired from the game,” Smitty said, although the prospect of getting back in for a kill appealed to him. In fact, the hair on his arms stood up with excitement as a rush raced through his body.

“It’s a last resort, I promise, and we’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh?” Smitty said.

Smitty imagined Mr. Price as looking just like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. Hands raised near his mouth as he spoke. “Very much worth your while. We’ll call it a bounty hunt, and the cheater will be worth five million dollars.”

“How are you going to spin that to the viewers? You don’t want them to know there’s a cheater, and yet you want to send me in like a one-man gestapo team. I’m a little confused here, boss.”

“We’ll come up with a reason, and then break it to the viewers gently. It’s a last-ditch effort, I assure you. Once we have confirmation that we have a cheater, I’ll call again with details,” Mr. Price said. “Hell. We can always tell them that someone is getting outside help, so we’re sending in some outside help of our own.”

“That’s actually not bad,” Smitty said. “I just don’t know if I want to risk my life again.”

Wait. What the fuck was he thinking? Into the game again? But it was for five million dollars. Still, was it worth his life?

“Smitty. We know you, and we know how much you love the spotlight. Imagine how many viewers will watch you. Think about it. Plus, we will have a way to stay in touch with you so you can track the man down, and we have some high tech solutions to help you out. You won’t even have to work near any of the other players. It will be a simple in and out operation.”

“That’s what she said,” Smitty quipped.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, Mr. Price.”

Smitty’s mind went round and round as he considered the offer. Could he go back into that death match again?

“Think about it, and I shall keep you apprised of the situation as it develops,” Price said and hung up the phone without preamble.

Smitty took a moment to collect himself before he went back to the camera.

No. He wouldn’t do it. Not back into that gauntlet.

He couldn’t do it. He had too much life back home. Too much to do. Girls, money, cars, and of course, his houses. He couldn’t take a chance at leaving all of that behind.

Could he?