L. Sellers - The Gauntlet Assassin

“I really want that job, Paul. I’m perfect for it. I would do a lot more media interviews and programming partnerships. I was meant to network. I’m withering away in this dead-end paperwork position.”

“You should be on camera,” Paul agreed. “You’re beautiful and dynamic.” He thought the job was more complex than she realized, but he wasn’t foolish enough to say it.

“I hear Morton is bisexual, but with a preference for men. Can we use that against him?”

A tingle of excitement ran up Paul’s spine. They were in it together now, a mission to get Morton fired, so Camille could have his job and they could openly be together. “We have to be careful. I can’t hack his message account without drawing the FBI’s attention.”

She scowled. “They’ll never do a serious investigation about something so minor. They’re too busy tracking all the ID thieves and terrorists.”

“Morton is doing a great job and he’s well-respected. Getting him fired won’t be easy.”

She sat on the bed again. “You’ll figure it out. And I will be very grateful.” Camille stroked his penis, giving him another spasm of pleasure.

“Let’s brainstorm tomorrow over dinner at Georgio’s.” Paul wanted to be with her every day.

She shook her head. “I can’t see you again until next weekend. I’ll cook for you at my condo.”

A wave of hurt washed over him. She didn’t want to be seen with him in public. Despite his new nose and chin and beautiful teeth, he still wasn’t good enough for her. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“No. Don’t say that. You’re an attractive and respectable man.” Camille grabbed her sweater and purse. “Restaurants are expensive, and I like to cook for you. Staying in together is a good thing. It’s what couples do.”

She’d called them a couple . Paul let go of his hurt and paranoia. “When you’re the employment commissioner, we’ll be a power couple.”

She gave him an odd smile. “I’ve got to go. See you Monday at work.”

Paul spent the weekend thinking about Thaddeus Morton and how to get him fired. Just because he couldn’t use the federal system to send fake messages didn’t mean he couldn’t launch a cyber-attack from outside the system. Inappropriate photos on his WorldChat page, outrageous comments on political blogs, spam from his personal number-so many possibilities. Paul had never done anything like it before his first arrangement, and he detested people who did, but he now had the motive to pull it off.

Where would he get inappropriate photos? He’d already checked out the commissioner’s WorldChat page and it was sparse, with very little personal information and few pictures. Paul considered following Morton around for a while, hoping to catch a camera shot of something scandalous, but that seemed like a time-consuming endeavor that might not pay off. He remembered how he’d let the air out of Janel Roberts’ tires. Maybe he had to be more aggressive again.

Paul picked up the stun gun that had arrived with his weekly mail. Could he use it somehow?

On Sunday, he drove by Morton’s house on Frontier Street, a neighborhood of upscale homes not far from the Gauntlet arena. Once the airport had shut down, the nearby neighborhood had been renovated with access to the river. A tall hedge surrounded Morton’s oversized brick home, but from what Paul could see through the gate, the place was quiet. No cars were in the driveway and there was no sign of movement. Paul remembered the commissioner also had a home in Eugene and commuted back and forth between the two. How did he afford both on his federal salary? Then Paul recalled that Morton had been a high-earning executive at one of the AmGo companies before the merger. He probably owned the house in Eugene outright.

Could he dig up some financial dirt on the commissioner? Paul turned at the corner and started to circle the block. A woman in a Fusion Hybrid sped out of a driveway directly in front of him and slowed to a crawl.

“Get the hell out of my way!” Paul slammed his palm into the steering wheel. This was why he hated driving. He resisted honking, but blew past her when she finally pulled to the curb.

He drove around the block and slowed down to assess Morton’s home again. The metal gate likely opened with a remote, but the hedge was shorter along the sides of the property and could be scaled. What would he do once he was inside? One option was to lie in wait with a camera and hope to catch Morton with a male date. Paul rejected the idea. It made more sense to follow the commissioner and watch for an opportunity to snap an incriminating photo with his iCom.

Paul sped up and left the neighborhood. He needed to know Morton’s schedule and he could find it if he accessed the commissioner’s message center. He would get in and out quickly. As long as he didn’t send any fraudulent texts, the FBI would never know.

Fri., May 12, 9:05 a.m.

Lara rode the shuttle to the arena with the two other contestants who remained in the competition: Makil Johnson of Georgia and Jason Copeland, the cocky Illinois competitor who’d annoyed her from day one. Makil worried her the most. He looked about five-eleven, but compared to Jason, he was slender and ageless. His straight black hair was pulled into a ponytail and she knew from his blog he was Chinese, Puerto Rican, and Cherokee.

This morning they would run the Obstacle, a collection of challenge courses that changed every year and could be anything. Lara hoped speed and agility would be more important than strength. Tomorrow would be all about endurance, a twenty-six mile marathon through the suburbs.

“I can’t believe you made it to the final phases.” Jason turned in the van seat, smiling in his smarmy way.

“I just may be the last one standing.” Truthfully, she was a little stunned. Like the other contestants, she’d entered the Gauntlet with the abstract idea that she could pull it off, but the reality of the close calls in every round made her feel lucky to still be here.

“I wonder what they’ve constructed this year,” Jason mused. “I hope there’s a rope climb. I am the master of the rope.”

Lara didn’t feel like chatting. They weren’t on their way to camp. “We’ll see.”

“When this thing is over, I plan to watch your two Battle rounds. That guy from Texas was big. I don’t know how you beat him.”

“The second fight with Eric was harder. I got lucky.” The weapon had been a flying hammer, a cross between an old-style flail and a nunchuk. Made of synthetic polymers, it had a short chain linking two padded ends that were used as both a grip and a strike. Lara had practiced with nunchuks when she was much younger, but had gone into the red circle with little confidence. Fortunately, her second Battle opponent had underestimated her speed and made a fatal error.

“Luck won’t help you today.” Makil spoke from the back of the van for the first time.

Lara turned and nodded, but didn’t respond. They had pulled up in front of the third massive structure on the compound. The Obstacle was open to the sky, with moveable walls that served only to keep the construction a secret. Despite the effort to surprise contestants and viewers each year, some details occasionally leaked out. Lara could see several tall structures but had no idea what they were.

“What have you heard?” Jason asked Makil as they climbed from the van.

“Why would I tell you?” Makil shook his head and trotted over to the row of reporters who stood waiting for them. He was the favorite to win and she’d heard a rumor that he already had spokesperson offers.

Lara braced herself for more media bullshit. It was almost over. Today, the Obstacle; tomorrow the Marathon. She was in the competition to the end now, with both events being strictly about finishing order and voter points. The three contestants who’d made it through the Battle tournament competed in the last phases with no elimination.