“One kiss,” I say as if that explains everything. Then I leave her outside my tent and fall into bed. The merciful darkness takes me quickly.
SHUFFLING WAKES me from a cold sleep. I jerk from my facedown position and have to take a couple of seconds to understand where I am. There it goes again—the shuffling. The more lucid I become, the more the shuffling becomes a struggle. A couple of people are arguing in hushed, hissed tones. I don’t know where. They can be close or they can be yards away, I don’t know. I’m still a fourth of the way asleep.
What wakes me up the rest of the way are the pins and needles killing my calf. I shift. First on my elbows, then onto my side. When I fell into bed, apparently my left leg didn’t make it with me, left hanging over the side of the bed. I’m paying for it now. I continue shifting further until I’m sitting up and my legs are on the ground. More of the muffled argument. I rub grit out from the inner corners of my eyes, then stumble to the small table where a bowl and a pitcher sit. I pour water into the bowl and plunge my face into the cool goodness. I even take a drink before straightening. I wipe my hand down my face and reach for the towel beside the bowl. Its softness almost makes me want to go back to sleep, but the grunt of alarm propels me out of my tent.
The night is still too deep for any light to come from the sky, so I let my eyes adjust to the LEDs the race staff use to light the city of tents. No one is about. It’s a ghost town. Why wouldn’t it be when everyone, the drivers especially, have just come from a marathon? I wait. No point in searching when silence is what greets my exit.
Then comes the grunt.
I whip my head to the left and the rest of my body follows. The groan of pain is what allows me to take a step. The sound is actually closer than I thought. I round my tent and spot a couple of shadows yards away in the darker side of the encampment. Something catches what little light there is. I immediately recognize the steel of a knife.
“Hey!” I start running. My mind immediately goes to the killer. He’s finally come for Viper.
The shadow sitting atop the groaning mass looks my way before it gets up and runs. I skirt around the body on the ground to give chase, not bothering to check who it is, when a hand wraps around my ankle. I fall face-first and inhale the dust the impact of my body kicks up. A coughing fit follows. My ribs remind me of their still-bruised state with each inhalation.
“RC,” the mound whispers.
My ears register Viper’s voice.
Ignoring the pain, I scramble to my hands and knees and crawl to him. Even in the dark I can make out the agony in his features. He’s also gone shades paler. My gaze moves to his hand clutching his gut. Dark liquid oozes from between his fingers.
“Racing gods!” I apply pressure on the wound with him. All the frustration I began to feel from being prevented to give chase evaporates. “Viper, did you get a good look at the killer?”
He doesn’t respond. At first I’m afraid he’s died of blood loss. But the shallow rising of his chest knocks the breath out of me. I fumble for my phone in my pocket. My first impulse is to call Brody, but what can he do from HQ? Then my brain finally starts working properly and I fill my lungs with air and scream for help.
EVERYONE AT the camp, from the drivers and mechanics to the racing staff, stand in a wide semicircle, watching the helicopter airlift Viper back to the city. The wild wind whips all our hair, even lifting the hem of our shirts. My hands are sticky from dried blood. I refused to let go of Viper until the medics had to place him into the chopper. One of them assured me he’ll live if he makes it through the night. He’s lost so much blood. I should know since most of it is on my hands and legs. The bottom half of my shirt is soaked. I can easily fit into a gory movie set looking the way I do.
“Did you get a look at who did it?” Ace asks from beside me.
I don’t take my eyes off the helicopter even if it’s a dot on the lightening horizon. Another day, another stage of the race. “You were supposed to be watching him,” I say.
“We were.” Bedlam’s throaty reply reaches my ears.
“Our only hope is he survives and gives us a description of the killer.”
I glare at Ace even if I know the truth in his words. It’s in the way he said them, like we’re talking about the kind of racing line to take down a mountain. Like Viper being stabbed is nothing. Like there isn’t a real threat looming over all of us, especially over me. Unable to speak, I ignore the concerned looks on my crew’s face. Even Star is worried as her eyes follow me. I can’t take people right now. I really can’t.
So I return to the city of tents, but instead of ambling back to mine in the hopes of getting a shower in before leaving for the third stage, I make my way to Slipstream’s tent. With Viper out of the picture, he’s the next target. I don’t want him to be. I’m prepared to get on my knees and beg him to withdraw from the race if I have to. At least at the Open Arms I know he’ll be safe. He can hate me all he wants, but at least he will be alive doing it.
“Hey, Slip,” I
