L. Sellers - The Gauntlet Assassin

“You would be great for it,” Paul said. “You have the right background and you’d be excellent as a commentator on the Gauntlet.” The audience would love her, he thought. Her face was a work of art and she was hard to look away from. He couldn’t believe Camille was thirty-three-and still single.

“You think so?” She gave him a tiny wink.

Paul felt a surge of pleasure, followed by an inkling of possibility. Was she flattered by his compliment? And possibly interested in him? “I’ve met the commissioner,” he offered casually.

Camille leaned forward, giving him a whiff of her tropical shampoo. “How well do you know Mr. Morton?”

“I met him at a fundraiser for Transitions. We’re both heavily involved with the charity.” Paul had volunteered with the foundation in his twenties when he realized most foster kids had nowhere to go when they aged out of the system. He’d been lucky to have Isabel’s support.

“Do you have any actual influence with the commissioner?” Camille asked.

Paul felt his cheeks grow warm. “I don’t know. I might.” On some level, he understood that Camille was mostly interested in what he could do for her, but he’d wanted her for so long, he would take any opening. “Maybe I’ll suggest you to him for his replacement list.”

“That would be fantastic.” She gave him a hundred-watt smile and his heart melted.

Paul struggled for the courage to say something, anything, to prolong the moment. Finally, he blurted out, “We could have dinner after work sometime and talk about how to beef up your resume.”

Her smile faded and he watched her formulate her next words.

“I’m seeing someone now, Paul, so dinner may be not a good idea. But we could take a coffee break together at the Kiva tomorrow. I’ll bring my resume.” She stood and smiled. “See you then.”

“Definitely.” Crushed by the news that she was dating, Paul told himself to forget it. He would never be in Camille’s league. He simply wasn’t attractive enough. His nose was too big, his hair was too thin, and his chin was nonexistent. He’d had one girlfriend in his life, briefly, and she’d been on the rebound. Once Nina had regained her self-confidence, she’d dumped him for a good-looking bartender. Paul had not dated in the five years since.

But you have power now. The thought made him sit up straighter as he stared at the database. He might not end up with Camille, but he vowed to make the most of the opportunity he’d been given.

Sun., May 7, 8:17 p.m.

Lara’s flight landed at Dulles Airport just as the sun was setting. It was her first-and likely only-visit to the Washington D.C. area, and she hoped to take the metro into the capital after the contest to see the historic monuments. If not for the Gauntlet, which had paid for the coach airline ticket, she might never have made the trip. Her last venture had been to Alaska years ago to attend her brother’s funeral. At the service, she’d seen her parents for the first time in twenty-five years, and they’d been as ignorant and judgmental as she remembered them.

She picked up her checked bag and headed for the nearest restroom, feeling a headache coming on from the long day of travel. Inside a stall, she retrieved her 9-millimeter from her suitcase and strapped it on under her shirt. A wave of comfort rolled over her the moment she felt the weapon against her side. The gun was her equalizer. No matter how hard she worked out or how fast her hands were, the world was still full of assholes, most of them bigger than her and many carrying weapons of their own.

As Lara walked out of the airport, the excitement of being in a new place put a little energy back into her step. It was good to get the hell out of Eugene and see another part of the country. She stood near the Georgetown Limo Services sign, as instructed, and sent a message on her iCom. Breathing in the exhaust-heavy air of the shuttle buses, her excitement waned a little. Twenty minutes later, a private car arrived, another luxury she’d never experienced. The driver, a young man with mahogany skin, took her suitcase and put it in the trunk, but Lara clung to her shoulder bag, her survival kit. As a detective and a paramedic, she’d learned to carry a lot of little necessities, including a mini-flashlight, a small roll of duct tape, and an Epi pen.

Darkness fell quickly as they drove and Lara tried to take in what she could of the countryside. They headed west through suburbia toward the capital. AmGo had built the huge Gauntlet arena on the site where the Ronald Reagan airport had once stood. It was prime real estate, but nobody was building homes or offices anymore.

“I need to stop somewhere to buy a blender,” she told the driver.

“Is that a new energy drink?” He looked at her in the rearview mirror.

“It’s a small kitchen appliance, like a juicer.”

“Oh yeah, my mother had one of those.”

Didn’t anyone use them anymore? Lara refused to let his comment make her feel old.

Forty minutes later, they exited the parkway and traveled along a wide, elevated, and mostly empty road that had once led to the airport. Soon, they passed under a new silver-and-white arch with the word AmGo illuminated at the top. A tremor ran up Lara’s spine. She was finally here at the Gauntlet, a constructed world where she would be tested to her limit. The driver stopped in front of a small, elegant hotel. Lara’s understanding was that the Gauntlet Suites had been reserved for contestants and media people that week. For the rest of the year, the hotel attracted tourists who paid to visit the arena when it was not in use. The stadium where the Battle took place, the one phase of the contest that wealthy viewers could watch in person, was occasionally rented out for concerts and other events. AmGo had made a long-term investment in the property.

Lara stood in the hotel foyer and breathed it all in. In addition to the light scent of fresh lilies, she inhaled the hygienic smell of luxury. Everything was constructed of smooth, dense material that didn’t retain the odors of the people who passed through.

At the black marble counter, Lara gave her name, half expecting the young man in the suit to say she wasn’t on the list. She dug out her IDB card, which linked to files with all her banking, employment, and medical records. She handed it to the clerk to scan.

He checked her photo that came up on his Dock and handed the card back. “Welcome, Lara. Someone contacted us earlier asking about you.” The sweet boy smiled, as if he’d just delivered good news.

She felt a tingle on the back of her neck. “Who was it?”

“He said he was an old friend but didn’t say his name. I didn’t give him any information, of course.”

“What else did he say?” Lara fought the urge to slide her fingers around the butt of her gun.

“Not much. He just said he was a friend and asked for your room number. I told him I couldn’t give it to him, but that he could leave you a video message. He said he’d try you on your iCom.” The desk clerk bit his lip. “Is there a problem?”

“I don’t have any friends who would contact me here, so it’s a bit odd.” Lara thought about the man who’d shot the commissioner and wondered if he’d followed her here. Why would he, if he was really an angry lover? “If he comes to the desk, note his description please, but tell him I’m not here.”

“If he messages again, should I put him through?”

“No.”

As she entered the elevator, Lara studied the two other people on board. Were they contestants or media? The man looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t recognize the older woman.

The man stuck out his hand and grinned. “I’m Jason Copeland, competing for the state of Illinois.”