“Contact the commissioner. I believe he’ll support my position.”
“No. Just no. You’ll have a cameraman with you during the whole race. I’ll alert him to watch out.”
“Will he be armed?”
The director pressed her red lips together. “No.”
“Then I have to be. Text the commissioner.” Lara stayed on her feet. She needed every advantage.
Minda shook her head. “If you choose not to compete under my terms, so be it. We’ll run the marathon with only two competitors.”
“The commissioner won’t allow that, the viewers will complain, and it will hurt the pay-per-views.”
Minda glared, then turned to her NetCom and keyed in a message. After a long moment of silence, the director’s tattooed eyebrows puckered. “He’s working at home today, but he’s granted your request.”
“Thank you.”
“You must keep the weapon concealed.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve been a royal pain in the ass, and I’ll be glad when this year’s Gauntlet is over.”
Lara bit her tongue and walked away.
Twenty minutes later, she hurried out of the hotel, ready to catch her last shuttle ride to the arena. Her competitors were nowhere in sight. The air was a little cooler today, maybe only eighty-five, and she heaved a sigh of relief. The first hurricane of the season had come ashore in Georgia that morning and was headed north. Clouds formed on the horizon and threatened rain. She hoped it did come down. The rain would feel like running at home in Oregon. She touched her 9-milliter under her loose-fitting tank top and boarded the shuttle. She would be glad when this whole thing was over.
The driver dropped her off in the center of the main parking lot, where a crowd of media and race attendants had gathered. Lara participated in two brief interviews, then took her spot on the white line. Three cameramen, each in their own battery-operated cart, lined up behind the runners. In addition to filming, they would supply the contestants with sports drinks and keep them updated on their time and progress. Minda and her entourage were in a large golf-cart type vehicle. They would supply the viewers with streaming commentary, or babble, as Lara thought of it.
She looked over at Jason, thinking he would probably start the race too fast, eager to be out in front. She would let him run ahead, and when he slowed at the midpoint, she would pass him. Makil and his long legs would likely take the lead and keep it, so she couldn’t pace herself to him. Would she have enough juice in the end to pass him and win? Either way, she had to finish and earn as many viewer points as she could.
A starter pistol went off and the whole circus show charged forward.
Once they were through the gates, they passed the hotel, nearby restaurants, and retail stores. They ran along what used to be a wide airport access, with their cameramen rolling along behind. The now-private road had little traffic except for reporters leaving the property. Makil set a strong pace and Jason pushed to stay directly behind him. Lara suppressed her competitive impulses and ran at her own speed, letting the men pull ahead.
Every five minutes, her cameraman shouted her time and distance in a friendly update. Nick was heavyset, thirty-something, and had forearm tattoos and curly hair. She wanted to tell him not to bother, but it was his job and she let him do it. They passed over the George Washington Parkway and, moments later, a cluster of railroad tracks. It was Saturday and the traffic below was light. Most people were home watching the event on their NetComs. Lara tried not to think about the millions of viewers witnessing her sweat and breathe through her mouth in the heat and humidity.
On the other side of the congestion, they ran along 25th, passing nice homes with tree-filled yards. The sun beat down, and wind bombarded her from the south, but Lara felt strong. At first, she watched every vehicle that drove down the street and listened for traffic behind her. Eventually, she started to relax. It seemed unlikely the shooter would come after her in such a public way.
At the Grant intersection, she spotted an old white Toyota in the road waiting to make a left turn. The driver had shaggy light-colored hair and a mustache. She ran past the vehicle and stared inside. It was Blondie!
She glanced back and watched him make the turn. He looked preoccupied and hadn’t seemed to notice her. Did he live in this neighborhood? A moment later, it hit her. The commissioner lived in this area. Blondie was on his way to try and kill Morton again. Oh christ! She had to warn the commissioner or stop it somehow.
“I need a favor,” she called back to Nick. “Text the employment commissioner and tell him Blondie is coming.”
“What?”
Lara turned to face him as she ran. “I just saw someone who’s a threat to the commissioner. I need you to let Morton know.”
“I can’t send messages for you. You know that. Don’t mess with me. I need this job.”
He thought she was trying to cheat somehow. Crap. The commissioner’s house was only a mile or so away. Lara made a decision. She stopped, turned around, and started back toward the corner.
“Where the hell are you going?” Nick drove his cart up on the sidewalk to follow her.
“The commissioner’s house. He’s in danger.”
“You must be serious if you’re willing to blow off this marathon and a shot at the grant money!” Nick shouted to be heard over the noise of a passing vehicle.
Lara turned on Grant Street and picked up her pace. “Text Morton now!”
“I don’t have his private number.”
“Get it from Minda.”
“She won’t answer her iCom while she’s broadcasting.”
Lara tried to remember the number she’d called, but it felt scrambled. “Try 541-628-2028.” It was hard to talk while sprinting.
A few seconds later, Nick yelled back, “That was a tavern.”
She made another guess, but it was hard to think straight.
“That’s not it either.”
The Toyota had disappeared. She remembered her earlier trip to Morton’s house after he bailed her out of jail. “Where is Frontier Street from here?”
“I think we go left at Grove.”
She visualized the online map she’d studied and the turn seemed correct. “Contact the D.C. police. Ask for Detective Harper. If he’s not available, tell them to send a patrol car.”
At the corner, Nick yelled, “What’s the address?”
“I don’t know, but it’s in the middle of Frontier.” She was only a few blocks away and would get there in minutes. Blondie was probably turning down the street now. Lara pushed herself to run faster.
She heard Nick explaining the situation and realized the police were skeptical about wasting their resources. Thank god she had her gun. The thought of aiming a weapon at an armed suspect brought back a devastating memory she’d spent years trying to forget. Lara tried to suppress it, but the scene played out in her mind in full detail as she ran the last block.
She’d been called out to a homicide in the Bethel area. A father had come home to find his teenage daughter dead, her skull crushed. Lara had been given the lead and two other detectives were on site to help process the scene and question neighbors. After a couple of hours, the chaos started to settle down. The medical examiner took the body away, and the patrol cops returned to the streets. Detective Schakowski had gone to question the neighbors, and Detective Quince went to the girl’s bedroom to look through her personal items.
Lara sat down at the kitchen table with the father and began to interrogate him again. He’d been too shell- shocked earlier to provide much information. After a few minutes, she asked, “When did you arrive at home?”
“A little after four.”
“Earlier you said you came home at four-thirty.”
“It was somewhere in there.”
“Your 911 call was logged at 5:12. What did you do between the time you arrived and the time you made the call?”
“Nothing! I was in shock. I called 911.”
His anger was unexpected. “Please calm down. I have to establish a timeline. Are you saying you sat in the house with her dead body for forty minutes?”
