L. Sellers - The Gauntlet Assassin

At eight o’clock, Paul grabbed his wig and mustache from the back of the closet and stuffed them into a backpack. He changed into a pair of dark blue athletic pants and a zip-up jacket, which he’d purchased for the occasion. No one who knew him-and he could count those people on one hand-would ever connect him to someone dressed this way. Now that he belonged to a gym, that might change in the future. He’d arranged the meet for nine o’clock and hoped no one in his complex would see him go out.

By the time he climbed on the bus, the diet pill had reached its maximum potency and Paul’s nervousness faded. He rode to the corner of Florida and Holbrook and headed for a nearby gas station, where he planned to use the restroom. The once-bustling business had only one car at the pump. The dirty metal door on the side of the building was locked, and Paul had to ask for the key. The semi-bald guy in the station booth barely looked at him, and Paul was momentarily grateful for his bland appearance.

He pulled on his disguise and checked his iCom for the time: 8:47 p.m. He headed back out and circled behind the gas station so the attendant wouldn’t see him in the shoulder-length wig, then walked in the direction of the Pizza Hut, where the transfer would take place. If Rathmore had followed directions, he would be there now, sitting in a booth near the door with his back to the entrance. A manila envelope would be on the table, where Paul could simply grab it, turn, and leave. This meet was simpler and less cautious than the previous mission, but Rathmore had followed directions last time, so Paul was less worried about a confrontation now.

The rich aroma of melted cheese and sizzling pepperoni hit his nostrils as soon as he stepped through the glass door, yet neither his brain nor his stomach responded with a craving. Again, Paul was impressed with the MetaboSlim supplements.

Only three tables in the restaurant were occupied, but his eyes were drawn to the one filled with an African American woman in her late twenties and three small children. The group seemed noisy and happy, but Paul thought it was too late for school-age children to be out having dinner.

In the booth nearest the door, he saw the back and shoulders of a tall man. Paul couldn’t be certain it was Rathmore, but the guy had the same short gray hair and long pale neck. The man didn’t turn at the sound of the door closing. Excellent. Paul took three quick steps, bringing him parallel with the back of the booth. He stopped abruptly, grabbed the manila envelope from the table, and spun back around.

As he strode toward the door, a child’s voice called out, “Hey, that man stole something!”

His nerves jumped at the sound, so Paul shoved the parcel inside his jacket, pushed opened the glass door, and pulled up his zipper. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rathmore rise from the booth. Damn! Was he coming after him? Or pretending to be for the sake of the restaurant’s other patrons? Paul broke into a casual jog, like a man trying to burn a few calories. He heard the jingle of the restaurant door open and close behind him, then the sound of footsteps picking up pace.

Paul sped up, heading for Tennessee Avenue. He’d planned to catch a bus after the drop, but now he just wanted to lose Rathmore. Few businesses were open and he saw nowhere to duck into. He rounded a corner and tried to plan an escape as he ran. The footsteps pounded behind, Rathmore’s long legs closing the gap, his pursuer silent and determined.

Feeling unnerved, yet strangely exhilarated, Paul charged toward Maryland Avenue, where he thought he could catch a bus or taxi. A couple came out of a lounge and stared as Paul and his pursuer raced by. As he reached the corner, Rathmore caught up to him and grabbed his jacket. He tried to jerk free, but the man hung on. Nerves bursting, Paul finally spun around and shoved Rathmore with all his might.

To his surprise, the taller man went down on his butt and cried out in pain. Paul turned and ran, pushing past a group of homeless women to round the corner. No footsteps came after him. He kept running, and two blocks later, waved down a cab.

“You okay?” the driver asked, as Paul climbed in, breathing heavily.

“Yeah. I almost got mugged.”

“You need a weapon.” The cabbie, a middle-eastern looking man, grinned at him in the rearview mirror.

“I think you’re right.”

Back in his apartment, Paul dumped the envelope on his kitchen table and was relieved to see a bundle of cash fall out. When he counted the hundred-dollar bills, he realized Rathmore had shorted him $1,700. What the hell?

Disappointed, but still pleased to have another $8,300 to fund his makeover, Paul wondered how he should handle the shortage. He was tempted to mess with Rathmore’s files, let him struggle a little to explain himself in the interview. As he got ready for bed, Paul decided to let it go. Rathmore had paid $18,300 for the possibility of a better job, and Paul realized there were others just like him.

Mon., May 8, 9:05 p.m.

Lara reacted first like a paramedic, kneeling next to the victim and pressing two fingers against Kirsten’s neck. She had no pulse. Christ . Lara flashed back to how she and Kirsten had worked together just that afternoon to shove a long pole into a bizarre door key. Now this vibrant young woman was gone. Lara tried not to think about the victim’s parents and how they would react to the tragic news. This time she would not be the one to tell them.

She spotted parallel burn marks in the V above Kirsten’s plunging neckline. Her roommate had been hit by a stun gun.

Her next reaction was pure civilian. She jumped to her feet, looked around in panic, and thought, Oh fuck, they’ll blame me.

After mentally replaying her heated encounter with Kirsten and realizing the cameras had caught it all, Lara’s detective training kicked in. She checked her iCom, then scanned the room in a slow rotation and took it all in. The body was near the door with no sign of struggle and no defense wounds that she could see. The killer had simply come to the door with the stun gun ready and hit Kirsten in the chest as soon as she opened it. Most stun weapons weren’t lethal even at the highest settings, but they could be, and Kirsten was clearly dead. Had her attacker smothered her while she was unconscious?

Why, for christ sake? Kirsten was annoying, but now that she was no longer a contestant, why would anyone come here and kill her? A realization hit Lara like a body slam. The assailant could be Bremmer, the shooter who’d followed her here. The son-of-a-bitch might be worried that she could identify him and now wanted to silence her. Poor Kirsten had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fuck! Another death on her hands. Rage erupted in her chest and Lara wanted to hit something. She paced the room, trying to decide her next move. She had no choice but to report the body, but as soon as she did, the D.C. police would haul her in for questioning. When they discovered her Taser-which was on the video footage from yesterday morning-they’d keep her in lockup until she could hire a lawyer. That’s what she would do if she were assigned the case. As a detective, she’d also look for a better motive. Even though she and Kirsten had argued, Lara had no reason to kill her. She’d already beaten her in the Challenge, and Kirsten was scheduled to fly home in the morning.

Fighting back anguish, Lara accepted that the Gauntlet was over for her. She’d miss her round in the Puzzle while they questioned her, and afterward she’d probably be quietly sent home with the others who’d failed.

Lara made two decisions. One, she would hide her 9-millimeter, which no one seemed to know she had, so the police couldn’t confiscate it, and two, she would call the employment commissioner before she did anything else. If the killer really was his boyfriend, Morton needed to know Bremmer was out of control. And if anyone could or would keep her in the competition, it was the commissioner. She could still make trouble for him by telling the cops about the shooting incident at his house.