Peter Kirsanow: Second Strike

Luci draped the ice pack over the back of Garin’s neck and handed him the Gatorade.

“You didn’t pace yourself, Tom,” she admonished. “You need to have something in reserve for the Cauldron.”

“How much time do we have?”

“First round starts in twenty minutes. You need to get out of the sun. Go into the tunnel to the locker room. That’s the coolest place in the stadium. They’ve got examination tables you can lie down on. I’ll rub you down to keep you loose.”

Several of the competitors were beginning to make their way to the tunnel. “Thanks, but I’ll stay here—too crowded in there.”

“That’s crazy, Tom. The sun will take it out of you. They’ve already taken four people to the urgent care.”

“I’ve been in worse.”

All of five foot three, 105 pounds, Luci Saldana looked up at Mike Garin with a stern expression. “No self-respecting support member would let their competitor do that. You could get heatstroke. Go into the tunnel. Right now.”

“I’ll be okay out here, Luci. Besides, it’s going to smell like a zoo in there.”

“I don’t care. Go in there.”

“No.”

Luci was furious. “Then just remember, if you don’t win the competition, it’s because of this boneheaded decision.”

And that’s precisely what Garin was hoping Luci, and everyone else, would think.

BETHANY BEACH, DELAWARE,

AUGUST 14, 3:35 P.M. EDT

Alone figure with a patrician bearing stood on the second-floor balcony of the large beach house, smoking a Winston and watching the gulls skim across the surface of the ocean searching for prey. It was a hot day, but the northerly breeze skirting along the coast made it bearable. Comfortable, almost.

His cell phone rang as expected, the ringtone reserved for a specific caller. He transferred the cigarette to his left hand, reached into his pocket with his right, and spoke without any salutations or pleasantries. “Status?”

“Double-blind staging is almost complete,” the assassin replied.

“Implementation?”

“Forty-eight hours.”

The patrician paused for a moment, drew the cigarette to his lips, and then expelled the smoke slowly. “Begin to execute.”

“The impediment, however, remains.”

“The impediment is not operational.”

“The impediment remains formidable,” the assassin insisted.

The patrician was unused to the assassin expressing concern about obstacles to mission success. He brought the cigarette to his lips again, inhaled deeply, and scanned the horizon for several seconds before speaking. “Where is the impediment?”

“Secured.”

“How much time is needed to address the impediment?”

Silence for two beats. It also was unusual for the assassin to hesitate. “Unknown.”

The patrician was neither surprised nor perturbed by the response. Their previous experience with the impediment demonstrated it was the most truthful answer.

“We have ninety-six hours to execute. Use whatever assets are necessary to eliminate the impediment.”

Ending the call, the patrician turned around and walked casually to the picture window facing westward to gaze upon a mainland that soon would be changed forever.

IRVING, TEXAS,

AUGUST 14, 2:45 P.M. CDT

Of the forty remaining competitors, those who ranked among the top eight were chosen to compete in the Cauldron. As the competitor with the most points thus far, Garin was the number one seed. His opponent was the eighth seed, Magnus Olsen, with the winner advancing to the semifinal match.

At six foot four, 250 pounds, Olsen had accumulated much of his point total in the strength events, but he was surprisingly agile and had impressive endurance for a man his size. According to the media guide, he’d been an All–Big Ten tight end at Minnesota before spending several years in the Marines. He now was a construction contractor. Solid, but under ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t last more than fifteen seconds against Garin’s speed, skill, and ferocity. More lethal fighters had lasted even less.

But this was Magnus Olsen’s lucky day.

Garin’s was the last of the four matches in the preliminary round. Wells had already prevailed in his.

The match took place in a conventional boxing ring in the center of the football field. No holds or punches were barred, save for strikes to the eyes, throat, and testicles. Points were awarded for punches landed, takedowns, and knockdowns.

A buzzer signaled the start. Magnus Olsen strode purposely from his corner toward Garin, fists up, weaving from side to side. Garin stood his ground and assessed: ponderous; poor weight distribution. If this were a true fight out in the field Garin would’ve incapacitated him with a single blow.

But he endeavored to make it look like a fight, a real struggle. As Olsen got within arm’s length to deliver a blatantly telegraphed left hook, Garin dropped to the canvas, wheeled his right leg toward Olsen’s calves, and swept his legs, sending him crashing onto his back.

Rather than seize the advantage, Garin rose sluggishly and withdrew, allowing Olsen to roll away and get back to his feet.

Garin advanced toward Olsen with his hands down and an air of cockiness. Olsen spun to his right, slamming his right elbow into Garin’s left cheekbone. Garin crashed to the canvas as if falling through a trapdoor. Although the blow was quite painful, Garin remained in complete command of his faculties. He made a show of rolling about for a second on the floor, then staggered to his feet in time to receive a knee to his abdomen before he could stand fully erect. He suppressed the instinct to jam the heel of his hand into Olsen’s foolishly exposed face and instead permitted his opponent to throw an uppercut into Garin’s purposely exposed jaw, snapping his head back. Again, he dropped to the canvas.

That really hurt, thought Garin. He’d resolved to lose, not get injured. He rolled about on the floor for a few seconds. Olsen didn’t press, knowing the match would be over in seconds and that he led on points. The buzzer sounded. Garin succeeded in dropping out of medal contention and remaining in relative anonymity. A fairly credible performance, thought Garin. No one would think that he tanked it.

Murmurs of disappointment came from the crowd, which, like most sports crowds, had been rooting for the unknown rookie who looked on the verge of upsetting the champ. No one, however, looked more disappointed than Luci. More accurately, no one looked more bewildered. She knew Garin’s capabilities, watched him train at the Dale City Recreation Center, where she worked part-time. His workouts were brutal. She’d never seen anyone with an even remotely comparable pain threshold. Olsen’s blows wouldn’t even have slowed the Tom Lofton she knew, which made her angry.

Lofton stepped out of the ring and proceeded to the locker rooms as the next match was set to begin. Luci ran up beside him.

“That was a hell of a performance,” she hissed. “Why’d you take a dive?”

Garin was startled. “What are you talking about?”

“You heard me. You were going to win the championship. Prize money. Endorsements, fame. Why on earth would you tank it?”

“He beat me.”

“Bullshit, Tom.”

“Okay. You’re right. I should’ve listened to you. I was drained. Had nothing left.”

“Again, bullshit. You always have something left.”

More than feeling guilty for deceiving Luci, he regretted disappointing her. This wasn’t just his competition. She devoted time and effort to be his support team, too. Being the trainer of the best-conditioned person on the planet could have done wonders for her career. He stopped and looked at her. “There’s always next year, Luci. And I can always do Badwater or CrossFit.”