Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

In the end, Badwater was still a voluntary test of physical and mental toughness. He wouldn’t have been shot; he would’ve suffered no grievous wounds that nearly required amputation; no RPGs would’ve exploded about him. And he wouldn’t have suffered the psychic trauma of having the contents of a teammate’s skull splattered across his face — all of which he’d endured during the course of his career.

As Garin finished his beer, he sensed the presence of someone standing behind him. Perhaps it was a combination of the alcohol and self-confidence, but the usual alarms didn’t sound and he made no effort to even turn around. In truth, his lack of urgency had more to do with simple calculation: There were only a handful of men in the world who had any hope of sneaking up on him undetected, and he was expecting one of them to join him at some point that night.

Luci Saldana was fascinated by the madman.

This was her third consecutive year acting as part of a support crew for Bob Janasek’s attempt to finish Badwater. For the third consecutive year he’d failed, but this time he’d made it almost to the one-hundred-mile mark.

Luci and fellow support-crew member Vicki Starks made sure Janasek was properly hydrated, properly medicated, and resting comfortably in his hotel room before they proceeded to the Diamondback to party — for some, the primary attraction of Badwater.

And shortly thereafter the madman appeared.

What fascinated Luci most about the madman was that he had absolutely no business being here. He wasn’t a distance runner. In fact, Luci doubted he had ever run even a half marathon, let alone an ultramarathon, and one in 110-degree heat no less. She knew this because Luci was a runner herself — mostly 10Ks and the occasional half marathon — and she was familiar with the distance runner’s physique: muscular calves, lean but developed thighs, thin, almost emaciated torso and arms. The madman, however, was built more like an NFL running back or mixed martial arts competitor: six feet two inches, approximately 210 pounds, sprinter’s legs, broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, and powerful arms — far too much muscle and upper-body weight to be carried over long distances.

The madman’s name was Tom Lofton. He occasionally patronized the Dale City, Virginia, recreation center, where Luci worked the desk part-time while she was studying for her master’s in physical therapy.

For the last year, Lofton had been coming in to work out once or twice a week. Unlike most of the other patrons, whose workout schedules rarely varied, Lofton never came in at the same time twice in a row. Sometimes he arrived at five A.M., other times at ten P.M., and a variety of times in between. Occasionally, he wouldn’t show up for a week or two.

The rec center members who were distance runners would hit the treadmills for five- to seven-mile runs during the winter. In warmer months they would run several miles outside after some light weight training. Lofton’s workouts couldn’t be more different. Although they varied, each consisted of intense cross- or interval training. Numerous sprints up the steep hill behind the center followed by multiple sets of squats, dead lifts, power cleans, presses, and plyometrics, with virtually no rest in between.

Luci occasionally saw male rec center members, including some of the former Marines from Quantico who resided nearby, watch in fascination. Lofton’s sessions were brutal, almost sadistic. But they weren’t distance workouts. They were the workouts of someone for whom superb conditioning was more a matter of function than fitness.

The male members weren’t the only ones to notice Lofton. Shortly after he began working out at the rec center, Luci noticed that the female members began paying more attention to their appearances. Day-Glo spandex shorts replaced drab sweatpants. Some sported new hairstyles and hints of makeup. They weren’t daunted by Lofton’s unpredictable schedule; they simply attended more often on the chance that he might be there.

The ladies were, however, frustrated by Lofton’s apparent obliviousness to their presence. In the gym he was all focus and exertion.

Luci was one of the few people at the center to whom Lofton ever spoke, even if it was just a greeting. Luci found him courteous and respectful, not qualities she normally found among the good-looking guys she knew. And Lofton, thought Luci, was hot. Not in the soft, pretty-boy way some guys in school or the center looked; rather, he had an intense, serious appearance that suggested looks were not an acceptable substitute for accomplishment.

Despite what Luci believed to be the wrong training approach, it seemed Lofton had planned to make one of those accomplishments completing the Badwater course. Impossible. But those who knew him as Mike Garin wouldn’t have bet against him. Not even his fellow operator Gene Tanski, whose long familiarity with him had produced something closer to reverence than proverbial contempt. They’d seen him go from challenge to challenge. Battle to battle. And prevail. Always. No matter the obstacle.

Luci was more than a bit disappointed when Lofton was unable to participate. On first seeing him at Badwater, she was hoping she would have a chance to get to know him after the race. In fact, had she known he was actually going to show up, she would’ve volunteered to put a support team together for him. The man had a story, and she was determined to find out what it was.

Vicki prodded her to make a move. Luci didn’t need much encouragement. The interest was certainly there; it was more a matter of screwing up the nerve. Lofton wasn’t the most approachable person. Not only did he have the demeanor of an executioner — albeit a handsome one — but when he spoke, his unnervingly deep voice tended to intimidate everyone within earshot.

Luci knew she was attractive enough. She was pretty and fit and, as the baby sister of four older brothers, was comfortable around men and knew how to make them comfortable around her. She had an infectious gregariousness that made everyone near her more talkative.

Luci had observed Lofton sitting alone in the corner of the lounge for the last hour. In that time she had fended off the good-natured advances of two members of other support crews, downed four beers, and toyed with three different opening lines to use on Lofton. She finally rose from her seat and told a giggling Vicki to wish her luck, when she noticed a tall, wiry man who looked as if he had just driven a herd of cattle to the rail yards approaching Lofton from behind. Luci took a few tentative steps forward before the trail boss took a seat opposite Lofton. He wore cowboy boots, jeans, and a black T-shirt that revealed Popeye forearms laced with a road map of veins and arteries. His hair and beard were the color of pewter and his deep-lined face was almost as taciturn as Lofton’s. Whoever he was, he looked like a serious man who had seen and done serious things. Luci returned to her seat and ordered another beer.

The man who had sat across from Garin was Clint Laws, and although not truly a trail boss, he was, at least, a Texan.

The magic waitress placed beers in front of both men and nearly succeeded in escaping with Garin’s empty when Clint placed his hand on her arm. “Darling, I truly appreciate the effort. I do. But is there any chance on your next trip back, those pretty little legs of yours might just bring me something a man all growed up might drink? I’m thinking Jackie, Johnnie, or maybe even Jimmy?”

The waitress gave Laws an easy smile and walked away more slowly than she had moved all night.

“Class. Real class,” groaned Garin. “Your sorry butt’s way too old for her, Clint.”