The man in the blue suit sat on the bench at exactly six o’clock. He took out a Dock and began to read. After two minutes, he abruptly slipped the tablet into his briefcase and stood, as though he suddenly remembered he had to be somewhere. The white bag stayed on the seat. As Rathmore walked away, Paul pulled on his backpack and started across the grass toward the bench, about a hundred feet away.
At fifty feet from the bag-his lifeline to a better future-a young man with a dog zoomed up the path on his skateboard. The unleashed Boxer slowed as the pair passed the bench, then turned and trotted toward the sack. The dog sniffed the bag, then grabbed it with his teeth.
No! Heart hammering, Paul sprinted toward the bench, watching in horror as the Boxer trotted off with the cash.
Paul pushed harder, arms pumping, his thick untrained legs weak from the exertion. The dog picked up speed as it ran after its owner, who was still unaware of the distraction. The wind tugged at his wig, but Paul didn’t slow down or grab for it. He kept pumping his arms and legs, working them harder than he had since he’d run from bullies in junior high. Ten thousand dollars! He had to catch that Boxer.
“Put it down!” Paul yelled, desperate to get the dog or the young man’s attention. The skateboarder slowed and turned. He saw the bag in the dog’s mouth and put his foot out to stop. As the Boxer caught up to its owner, the young man reached down to take the sack. Paul sprinted up and grabbed it from the dog’s mouth, tearing the bag a little as he pulled.
“That’s mine.” The words were barely audible as he sucked in rapid gulping breaths. Pain searing his lungs and legs, Paul turned and jogged away with the bag.
“Sorry,” the young man called out behind him. Paul kept moving, grateful the Boxer hadn’t put up a fight. He would have hated to strike an innocent dog to free the bag.
He ran for the sidewalk, wanting desperately to look in the sack, which had been stapled shut. Even more, he wanted to get as far away from this near disaster as he could.
He caught a bus at the corner of South Carolina and 3rd Street and hurried to a seat in the back, next to an older woman who looked displeased to see him take up the space. He slipped off the backpack as he sat down and crammed the paper sack inside. The scent of burger and fries wafted from the paper. The idiot had used his empty dinner sack. No wonder the dog had grabbed it. Paul let out a small nervous laugh. That had been so close, so nearly ruinous. What if the Boxer had torn open the sack? What would he have done? Paul couldn’t bear to think about it. He had the money and Rathmore had no idea who he was. That was all that mattered.
Paul’s heart skittered. Did he really have ten grand in his possession? His fingers itched to tear open the bag, which seemed like the right weight for a stack of bills. But the bus was nearly full and the woman next to him seemed like the type to snoop, so he waited
He exited a few blocks from his apartment complex and entered a crowded McDonald’s, where he headed straight for the bathroom. In the stall, he yanked out the white sack and ripped open the top. Inside were three stacks of gorgeous green bills. Yes! He’d pulled it off. Nearly dizzy with excitement, Paul shoved the bag to the bottom of his backpack. He would count the cash when he got home. He’d stomached all he could of public bathrooms for one day. He pulled off his wig and mustache and changed back into his wrinkled work clothes, shedding his new alter ego.
Being Paul the frumpy programmer again was simultaneously a relief and a letdown. Still, he left the warm greasy air of the restaurant feeling successful and strode into the wind toward home. On the way, he remembered he still had to arrange to have Janel Roberts fired. A few ideas came to mind, but they all made his stomach churn.
Chapter 8
Mon., May 8, 12:58 p.m.
As Lara entered the arena, the cool air made goose bumps pop up on her arms. She’d changed into a snug- fitting, water-repellent bodysuit that wouldn’t keep her warm unless she was moving. She knew from watching the contest in previous years that the huge indoor space was divided into areas with different configurations and had a hallway around the perimeter. From the front section, all she could see was a portion of the gray twenty-foot walls, constructed of a plastic-metal blend that resembled concrete. The windowless space looked like a giant underground bunker, lit up with metal halide lamps and cameras mounted everywhere.
Kirsten came in behind her and they took their spots on the large red Xs marked on the floor. The first dividing wall, about thirty feet away, had a wide set of metal stairs leading to a platform halfway up. A door in the middle of the wall had no obvious handle she could see. Lara assumed it was electronically operated. Was it controlled by the viewers?
The director hustled into the room, carrying her oversized microphone. Minda Walters wore a black skirt, knee-high boots, and a pastel pullover. Her assistant and co-host, Serena Panjib, was a step behind, followed by two men with shoulder cameras.
Minda stood in front of the contestants and spoke to the audience. “For viewers just tuning in, welcome to the Third Annual Gauntlet, sponsored by AmGo, makers of the Dock and iCom and a host of other technology that connects us to each other. Today we begin the first phase of the competition, the Challenge.”
The director stepped toward Kirsten. “One of our first two contestants in the 2023 Gauntlet is twenty-four- year-old Kirsten Dornberg, a graduate physical education student, competing for the state of Florida. Welcome, Kirsten. What have you been doing to prepare for the competition?”
Kirsten leaned toward the cameras, showing off her cleavage in a low-cut bodysuit. “I’ve been training at a military base, running obstacles courses, and swimming for an hour a day.”
They’d been coached to give short responses at this point, having been interviewed already in the lobby. Lara thought about her own training at the National Guard center in Salem, where they’d enhanced their courses just for her. The state had given her what little support it could afford.
Minda walked toward Lara. “Our second contestant is forty-two-year-old Lara Evans, ex-police officer and paramedic, competing for the state of Oregon. Welcome, Lara.” A wicked smile played on Minda’s lips. “The pundits are betting heavily against you in this first event. How do you plan to overcome the odds?”
Lara had steeled herself for this kind of bullshit. “I hope to be faster, smarter, and more aggressive than my competitor.”
Minda stepped back and spoke to the viewers. “It’s time to cast your first vote. Who do you think will win this round of the Challenge?”
Lara tried not to think about the millions of people watching. Her body hummed with adrenaline, eager to run and sweat and work her muscles. She glanced around the room, looking for something that would open the door. A variety of objects-plastic rings, spiked weapons, and a big red ball-lined the floor, but the ten-foot heavy black pole caught her eye.
Minda made her final pre-start speech. “As the commissioner mentioned, this first phase involves teamwork. To reach the competition area, the contestants must work together to open the door at the top of the stairs. They have only three minutes to do so. If they fail to open the door in time, neither will earn any points for entire Challenge, but the winner will advance anyway.” She looked at Kirsten, then at Lara. “Are you ready?”
They both nodded and Minda walked between them toward the door. “Let the games begin.”
Kirsten charged forward, but Lara yelled, “Wait. We need a key.” It was a guess, but she trusted her instincts. The teamwork probably involved carrying the key up the stairs together, which meant it was something heavy or awkward, like the long pole.
Her competitor turned back. “What key?” Kirsten glanced around, looking skeptical.
“I think it’s the pole.” Lara was already moving toward it. “It’s the only thing that requires two people.”
Kirsten ran to the other end, and Lara was grateful she didn’t argue. They squatted and lifted together, and Lara was surprised by the weight. On the other end, Kirsten grunted with the effort. They started forward, parallel to each other with pole in front, struggling with the awkwardness.
“Up on the right shoulder,” Lara shouted. “Like a construction worker would carry it. I’ll take the lead.” Lara swung her end out front as she called out directions. Kirsten hung back and together they heaved the pole onto their right shoulders, staggering for a moment under its weight. “Let’s go.” Lara charged forward, bearing more of
