The Gauntlet Assassin

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.

Chapter 4

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.”

And for Mr. Personality. Lara shook his hand-liking that he wasn’t afraid of germs- and sized him up. Five-ten and bulky with muscle, his face had rugged features and sun-weathered skin.

“Lara Evans, competing for Oregon.”

“Oh yes, the paramedic who kickboxes.” He nodded his approval. “I researched you, of course.”

“You’re an ex-Marine and current firefighter.” She’d done her homework on the other competitors as well. They reached the third floor and the elevator doors opened. “Best wishes to both of us,” Lara said, stepping out.

“See you at orientation.” Copeland gave a little wave.

Save it for the cameras, Lara thought, walking away. Still, she was pleased he’d been friendly. She’d braced herself for a dog-eat-dog competitive atmosphere with contestants practicing psychological warfare.

At room 308, she let herself in, happy to see a small suite with two bedrooms and a sitting area. Thank goodness, she would have some privacy. She passed through the foyer and was immediately engulfed in cloud of perfume. Oh crap. Her roommate had already checked in and was seated in front of the built-in NetCom, chatting loudly. She was an Amazon, with a long blonde braid and chiseled cheekbones. Double crap. Exactly the kind of contestant she didn’t want to be standing next to in front of the cameras.

Her roommate glanced over, held up her hand, and said to the monitor, “I should go. Call me again later.” She turned to Lara. “I’m Kirsten Dornberg from Florida.”

“Lara Evans, Oregon.”

“What did I read about you?” Kirsten touched a long finger to her lips. “Oh yeah, you’re an ex-cop and a marathon runner.”

“Yes. Nice to meet you.” Lara forced herself to smile. “Which bedroom is mine?”

Kirsten pointed to the one on the left. “They’re exactly the same, so my getting here early wasn’t an advantage.”

That was more like the competitive element she’d expected. “Excuse me. I need to unpack.”

As she lifted her suitcase and unzipped it, Lara’s headache intensified. She clamped her jaw and marched back into the sitting area. “I don’t want to get off to a bad start, but I’m allergic to perfume and you can’t wear it in our shared space.”

Kirsten’s face froze. “That seems a little excessive.”

“I’m sorry, but it makes me physically ill, and the contest rules explicitly say no smoking or perfume in the