L. Sellers - The Gauntlet Assassin

Paul was so happy to see her, so mesmerized by her long exposed neck and cleavage, he barely registered her excuse. “I’m glad you’re here. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure. I’ll have a glass of chardonnay.”

She slipped into a chair and Paul signaled the cocktail server. After the young man took the order, Paul checked his iCom. The banquet started in seventeen minutes. He opened his mouth to speak and realized he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t exactly share what he’d been up to lately.

“That meeting sure went long today,” he said, with an accompanying eye roll. “I couldn’t believe Stacia read every line of that memo to us.”

Camille touched the back of his hand. “Let’s not talk about work.”

Paul flushed, feeling foolish, but forced himself to rebound. “What do you have planned for the weekend?”

“The theater with some friends. Maybe some shopping.”

“Sounds like fun,” Paul lied.

“What are you up to this weekend?”

“Uh.” Paul kicked himself for not preparing better. “I plan to get in a workout or two and catch up on my reading.” He sounded boring even to himself.

Her eyes sparked with interest though. “What kind of workout do you do?”

Should he admit he used a VEx? “I jog sometimes.” He had last week, anyway, while chasing a dog.

“I like to stop at the gym and use the elliptical machine.” Camille pulled in her already flat stomach. “The weather is too unpredictable for me to spend much time outside.”

The cocktail server brought the glass of wine and processed Paul’s card with a small handheld device. When he left, Camille asked, “Are you planning to socialize with Thaddeus Morton this evening?”

“I’ll try, but I’m sure he’ll have plenty of people wanting to see him after his talk.”

“He’s a popular man.” Camille touched Paul’s hand again. “I’d love to work for him on the Gauntlet. It would be so much more interesting that HR.”

“But it’s only seasonal work.”

“The director’s job is full-time.” Camille sipped her wine, leaving a hint of maroon lipstick on the glass.

“Do you watch the competition?” Paul asked, not sure what else to say.

She seemed surprised. “Of course. It’s like the Olympics, only intense and entertaining.” She smiled. “And viewers get to participate. Although sometimes I think we all just cancel each other out.”

“That’s why I rarely vote. I don’t trust the system.”

“Will you introduce me to the commissioner?” Camille asked, standing to give him another look at her body.

“Now?”

“Why not? I’m sure he’s in the meeting room now, schmoozing with the attendees.”

“Okay.” Paul was rattled but refused to let it show. He finished his drink, grinned stupidly, and said, “I’m ready.”

They didn’t catch up with Morton until it was nearly time for the program to start. Paul had been practicing what to say since they left the lounge, but as they made their way through the rows of tables to where the commissioner stood, his heart started to pound and the words left him. This would not go well , Paul thought, as they stepped up and stood awkwardly while the commissioner chatted with a stylish silver-haired woman about the foster care system.

After a moment, Morton looked over. “Yes?”

Paul noticed he hadn’t offered a handshake so he nodded. “Paul Madsen. I’m a bronze supporter of Transitions. We met at a fundraiser last year.” Morton nodded back, but showed no recognition. Paul was not surprised. People never remembered him. “I assisted with the auction.” His pitch suddenly came back to him so Paul went right into it. “This is my friend and co-worker Camille Waterson. She admires your accomplishments as employment commissioner, particularly the way you’ve brought business and government together.”

Morton turned to Camille and gave her a warm smile. “It’s nice to meet you. What do you think of the prison reform legislation? I wrote the bill.”

“It doesn’t go far enough.” Camille stepped closer to the commissioner, forcing the silver-haired woman to ease away. “But I’m more interested in the new level of grant money this year for the Gauntlet. Very impressive.”

“AmGo has been a terrific partner. Twenty-five thousand people are now employed as a result of the last two grant competitions.”

“I’d love to work on the Gauntlet if you ever have an opening.” Camille slipped a business card into Morton’s hand.

“Where do you work now?”

“Federal human resources, but I have a background in public relations and broadcasting.”

“I’ll keep you in mind.” The commissioner brought his hands together. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a speech to give.” He abruptly walked away.

Camille touched Paul’s shoulder. “Thank you. I think that went well. See you Monday.”

And his date was over.

Paul found a seat at a table near the back with a small group of women. Three seats were empty and he realized the banquet had not sold out. It was disappointing how few people cared about foster children, especially once they were older. When the kids reached eighteen and the small government checks stopped coming, many foster parents kicked out their charges with no resources and no support. It was brutal treatment for teenagers who already struggled with a lack of life skills. Paul had been lucky. His foster mother had let him stay through college and treated him like a real son. Now he paid Isabel back with monthly checks to supplement her social security, which was no longer adjusted for inflation. Paul realized he hadn’t talked to Isabel in a week or so. He would message her tomorrow.

Paul’s alarm went off at 3:30 a.m. He sat up, confused by the lack of light. He remembered his mission and his pulse quickened. He still had little faith he would actually follow through, but he intended to try.

He dressed all in black and grabbed a small screwdriver from the junk drawer in the kitchen. Not sure if he would bother to wear them, Paul tossed his wig and fake mustache into his backpack. He wondered what he was forgetting, what he’d hadn’t planned for. It seemed like such a simple task.

Paul grabbed a coat and hat, told Lilly to behave herself, and took the stairs down to the garage. He’d taken his little Toyota out two days ago to scope out Janel Roberts’ home situation and again earlier that evening to attend the banquet-just in case things went well with Camille. But those were the only two trips he’d made this month. He’d quit driving to work years ago when gas prices topped eight dollars a gallon and had adjusted to the inconvenience.

His anxiety mounted all the way across town. Rain fell in gusty deluges against his windshield, and there was so little traffic he felt conspicuous to be on the road. As soon as he entered the Crestwood neighborhood, a calm sense of determination settled over him. He could do this. He parked on the street near Janel’s house, eyeing her five-year-old Tiguan in the driveway. The neighborhood was so dark and quiet, Paul didn’t bother pulling on his wig. The rain slacked off, giving him further confidence. He called on his long-dead brother for courage and bolted from the car. His plan was to move fast and get it over with, rather than worrying about being quiet or sneaky.

He hurried down the sidewalk and squatted near the Tiguan’s back left tire. After removing the cap, Paul pressed the screwdriver against the stem and let out most of the air. He stepped quickly to the other back tire and sabotaged it as well. He didn’t want Janel to simply throw on a spare and be on her way to work. She needed to be late. She was already on the edge for missing too many workdays and coming in tardy too often. One more late day, plus the sexually-implicit text to her boss would likely put an end to her federal employment. Paul still had to push Rathmore to the top of the hiring process, but he had an idea for that too.