"Enough!" I barked, sweeping my tactical flashlight beam across their mud-streaked faces. "Save your energy for surviving."
Emma adjusted the torn hem of her Saint Laurent blouse while Kate tied back disheveled blonde hair with a bloodstained Hermès scarf. The air hung heavy with mingled scents of Omega perfume and coagulating blood as I took position between them with a Glock 19.
Daisy materialized from the shadows dragging a Boeing 787 aluminum panel. Moonlight rippled across the barcode tattoo on her nape - a mystery I'd discovered during our second day in this hell.
"Brilliant." I watched her construct a makeshift grill from basalt slabs. Kevlar fibers soaked in jet fuel erupted in blue flames under the oyster shells, their caramelized aroma cutting through the stench of rotting flesh like a SEAL team breach.
Kate cracked first. Cartier bracelets clinked against Emma's Van Cleef earrings as they fell upon the mollusks like hyenas on a kill. Their manicured claws tore at the meat with desperation that mirrored Pentagon officials during nuclear briefings - only the currency here was protein, not politics.
"Time to reinforce." I filed sharp edges from the aircraft aluminum, determined to prevent another midnight ambush. While Emma's Gucci sandal caught in the rope ladder, Daisy had already woven a Marine-grade cargo net from paracord.
As our aerial platform took shape in the crimson dusk, Kate gripped my tactical belt. "David...is this really safe?" The fading bruise on her collarbone peeked through her torn Oxford shirt.
"Safer than sleeping in Jack's hunting grounds." I holstered my Beretta, signaling to raise the armored panels. Emma's shriek accompanied the ascending metal - she'd insisted on wearing Jimmy Choos for the operation.
When the final ballistic panel clicked into place, Kate pressed against my back. Her champagne-laced breath stung my neck wound: "Know why casting directors said I was born to play femme fatales?"
The question hung unanswered as Daisy's night vision goggles flared green. She was bending cabin springs into bear traps, the shriek of tortured metal drowning all else.
Our celebration featured half a tin of beluga caviar and fermented elderberry wine. Emma raised a Tiffany cheese knife over MRE crackers: "To our White House-level security." Mother-of-pearl polish gleamed on her toenails.
Kate's laugh held Arctic chill: "Let's toast the forever-delayed rescue chopper instead." Their canteens collided again, sparking genuine homicide in the firelight.
During night watch, thermal imaging caught anomalous movement. Through my rifle scope, I tracked Jack's hunched form - he was sharpening a cockpit glass spear with the captain's wings. Seven hundred meters west, Daisy's crosshairs already caressed his temple.
In the pre-dawn darkness, Emma slithered into my sleeping bag. Her teeth found the shrapnel scar on my shoulder: "You think we really found Kate by accident?" Below us, Daisy's trap snapped shut with wet finality.
When Black Hawk rotors tore through the cloud layer, we were rationing the last canteen. Emma reapplied her Chanel Rouge like reloading a magazine. Kate tucked the bloody satellite chip into her lace bra. As Daisy secured her climbing harness, we all knew the last seat would demand blood payment.
Jack emerged from burning palms, his new weapon wrapped in C4. Detonator in hand, I remembered my Annapolis professor's first lesson: Winners of survival games never get fairytale endings.