Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) (13 page)

“Wish me luck. First throw.” His right shoulder jerks. Our heads slip from their braced positions.

And then we fall.

I want that insane screamer to just shut the hell up. We are still in a narrow space, there’s not enough room for all that noise. When we hit the wall and the shrieking stops, I realize I am cursing myself. I have only my fingers threaded through Sebastian’s belt, and now I clutch it for dear life, but his shorts are sliding down under my weight. In a few seconds he is going to be naked from the waist down and I am going to be dead. It is a miracle we both aren’t dead already, but he obviously managed to hook the damn tree and hold onto the rope, even if the move did break our bridge.

I am making sounds that aren’t even close to words, and clawing up with my free hand to grab onto anything, which turns out to be the tail of his running shirt. It’s stretchy, though, so it doesn’t do much to relieve my anxiety. It’s likely to strangle him before it rips and we both fall to our deaths.

Whose stupid idea was this, anyway?

Sebastian grunts something.

“What?” I manage to yelp.

“Climb. Up.” Sounds like he’s talking through clenched teeth, and as a matter of fact, I can see that every muscle in his body is clenched. Climb up what? The wall we are dangling from is ice and rock, and almost as slick as glass.

We slip an inch farther and both gasp simultaneously.

“Now!” he yelps.

The only thing to climb is Sebastian. So I do. Feeling like a cad only out to save herself, I swing my foot up on top of his, catch hold of his windbreaker and monkey my way up his back, whacking both our bodies repeatedly with all the gear in my pack on my chest. When my arms reach his shoulders, I cling for a minute, checking out the edge of the crevasse a few feet above my  head. We are hanging from the rope, and the tree—more of a twig, actually, is bending under our weight. Any second now, the rope will slip off.

Sebastian groans beneath me.

There is only one way. “Sorry. Sorry.” I keep apologizing as I shimmy up, grabbing him around the forehead and hauling my knees up to his shoulders. Then, placing my hands against the wall, I move my feet up to his shoulders—“Sorry”—and finally I reach the edge and manage to pull myself up, dislodging a small avalanche of snow and pebbles onto my partner’s head. “Sorry!”

The twig bends more, the rope slips more, and Sebastian slides down another couple inches. I throw myself down in the snow, bruising my left breast on the aluminum water bottle in my kangaroo pack, and grab for the rope. I barely have the fingers of one hand around the braided nylon when the little tree snaps. The rope nearly yanks my shoulder out of its socket. I quickly apply the other hand, too.

Sebastian’s weight slides me halfway off the edge. From here I can see all the way down to the bottom of the crevasse, and I have the sickening feeling we will both soon be there again. I curl my feet, digging the toes of my running shoes into the snow.

Bracing myself as best I can, I close my eyes as I slip closer to the edge.

“Whatever you’re going to do, do it quick,” I hiss.

I feel him swing on the rope, and I envision him bracing his feet against the wall as he walks up. His weight drags me closer to the abyss.

I have a quick and cowardly thought about how easy it would be to simply let go. Then at least one of us would live.

My next thought is that there’s a big difference between being alive and being able to live with yourself. Gritting my teeth, I try to imagine my body weighs a ton. I dig in my running shoes, my hipbones, my pack, and press as tightly to the ground as I can while trying to ignore the screaming burn in my arms and shoulders and back muscles and the icy lumps that are gouging my armpits and groin. The pack scoops snow up into the neck of my jacket as the rope steadily pulls me into the crevasse. My shoulders are off solid ground. I’m half suspended over space, waiting for the final yank that will be the end.

There’s a heavy crunch on the ice next to me and Sebastian’s weight shifts off, but I still can’t move because I’m balanced so precariously. I slide another inch forward toward my certain death. This swan dive will end with my skull on the rocks.

Then a strap digs into my shoulder and next, my pack clobbers me in the throat as Sebastian hauls me backwards.

We both fall in the snow and lie looking up at the unfamiliar stars that appear between gaps in the swirling clouds. There are no words for what we just went through. For several minutes we lie side-by-side on our backs, panting in unison. Gradually my heartbeat returns to normal.

“Is that the Southern Cross over there?” I point.

“No clue.”

Buzzing radiates down from the heavens. “The drone?” I ask.

“Sounds like it.”

“What the hell has it been doing? I’m surprised a team of Navy Seals didn’t slither down that crevasse to haul us out.” I’m still jittery with adrenaline flooding my body.

“Maybe it didn’t see us fall,” he suggests. “Maybe it got lost in the fog.”

“What kind of tracking is that?”

After a pause, he says, “The inept kind?”

It crosses my mind that maybe the plan was to leave us in the crevasse. Maybe that was The Threat that the secret squirrels kept mentioning. But who would be behind that plan—the race officials? And why?

It seems more likely, but perhaps even more unsettling, that the Secret Service is simply incompetent.
Don’t trust what anyone says, only what they do.
At any rate, right now I’m glad the rescuers didn’t show up.

“We still have a chance of winning,” I say.

Sebastian raises an arm to study his wrist device. I turn my head to look at him, knowing we’re both wondering how much time our little rabbit hole escapade cost us and if we could still possibly be contenders.

And then we both find this so funny that we sit in the snow laughing until we realize that we are going to freeze our sweaty asses off if we don’t get moving. We are both shivering.

He stands and pulls me up. He chafes my arms with his hands, which feel like icicles sliding over my skin. When he plants a quick kiss on my lips, I start to feel a little warmer.

We both dig for our energy gel in our packs, stamping in the snow to regain control over our rubbery legs.

As we squeeze the last of the sugary glop into our mouths, I gaze into his eyes, trying to decipher what’s going on inside his head.

Bash lowers his gel tube. “I’m glad we didn’t die today, partner.” He holds out a fist.

I bump it with my knuckles. “Me, too.”

Moving in full darkness, slipping and sliding, we ascend the remaining two miles of slushy snow slopes, moving in and out of swirling clouds, following the line on our wrist devices. Finally, we spot the checkpoint, all lit up, on what looks to be the summit. When we get there, we realize that the camp is actually set up a little way down from the high point, which overlooks a crater buried in dirty gray snow, with only a few wisps of steam escaping here and there. I guess I was expecting molten lava, scarlet and bubbling and spitting rocks into the air. But Mount Everett is a dormant volcano, and dormant means sleeping. I guess that’s what Everett is doing, taking a nap right now.

Team Seven is now in fourth place, which is uber-depressing. Third belongs to a pair of runners I’ve never even heard of, Gabriella Taylor and Tober Collins, who make up Team Eight. In second place is Team Five, Marco Senai and Suzana Mistri. And—of course—the team of Cole and Rossi is in the lead.

The reporters and cameras are waiting for us as we run into camp. They surround us as we emerge from the medical tent. The Prez’s son is always worth covering, even when he’s in fourth place.

“What happened in that crevasse?” they all want to know. We are glad the secret squirrels help us ditch them outside the mess tent.

It seems as if the newsquackers believe we intentionally tumbled down the crevasse just to get some quality time to ourselves.

Miss Perfect left me peace roses this time. They sit on the table next to my plate. Blossoms with creamy centers, petals warming outward to gold and then to a rosy pink at the curled edges. Their perfume is divine, especially in this glacial environment, and they are so beautiful they make my heart ache. For some inexplicable reason, they remind me of Maddie.

I have an elastic wrap on my left foot—not sprained but strained, say the docs, and GluSkin holding my small chin gash together. Sebastian’s temple received more GluSkin, so we both have big red glue welts on our faces.

The camp is shrinking in size, along with the number of competitors, but here on the snowy flanks of the volcano, it’s also less flimsy, with all the tents tied to wooden platforms. Tonight, the mess tent feels almost cozy with just the two of us (and two of our Secret Service minders, of course). We are told that the other teams have already eaten, and everyone is waiting for us in the media tent.

“You still have a little time to eat,” the officials assure us.

Thanks so much. No pressure to gulp down our food or anything.

The news vids are in the mess tent tonight, but the media has been shepherded to a different tent. The day’s coverage includes a scene of Cole and Rossi galloping prettily across the snow, well in the lead. Viewers can tell the Golden Couple is working hard only because their breath is actually visible in the cold mountain air. Wisps of clouds stream in and out of the frames. Far down the mountain flank in the distance there are two black dots—Sebastian and me. A red circle appears around the black dots as the announcer identifies us. Then we simply disappear.

The film cuts to Team Five, Marco and Suzana, as they confront one of the island’s feral buffaloes. The bull paws the ground and lowers its head threateningly. Marco and Suzana separate, each moving in a different direction, and for a second, the beast can’t decide which one to attack. Then it gallops after Suzana, who screams when she glances over her shoulder and sees it closing on her. Marco runs up beside the buffalo, coming at it from an angle, and then he chucks the big rock in his hand. It bounces off the buffalo’s flank. The beast turns to find the attacker. But Marco is already dashing away and Suzana never stopped running, and so the buffalo stops, shaking his head and blowing out angry snorts.

Apparently Marco knows buffaloes, as well as crocodiles.

Then the vid cuts back to Team Seven as Sebastian crawls out of the crevasse over my back and then hauls me backward to safety. Neither of us appear the least bit glamorous; we’re soaked and bloody and our clothes are pulled every which way. We look like dweebs with our packs on backwards. Then there’s our laughter and our kiss and our fist-bump.

Our eyes meet across the table in real time. Then we both quickly look away. I don’t have a clue what Sebastian is thinking. Does he have a girlfriend back home?

I, of course, am wondering what Emilio will make of that kiss. With luck, that segment won’t be shown wherever he is today.

Something bleeps. The secret squirrel standing to my right presses a button on his wrist and pulls a tiny microphone from behind his jaw closer to his mouth. “Silverman,” he says quietly into the mike.

I hear the buzz of someone talking on the other end, but I can’t make out the words. The voice sounds angry, and although Silverman’s expression remains stoic, the color of his face morphs from olive to plum. “I’ve been told it was interference with drone signal, Sir. Contact was temporarily lost.”

More angry buzzing from the other end.

His gaze bounces across the room to connect with Hasanov at Sebastian’s side. Hasanov lifts his shoulders slightly in a shrug, or maybe a question.

“Yessir. I’ll check on it right away, Mr. President.” He casts a last glance at Hasanov and then darts his eyes toward Sebastian and me. Even I can read that—
watch these two
.

When Hasanov nods, Silverman ducks out of the tent flap, still repeating, “Yessir, yessir, I understand.”

The blond female agent and Hasanov exchange guilty glances. That phone call had to be about why our drone didn’t do anything to rescue us or even check on us, after Sebastian and I fell into the crevasse. I’ve been asking myself the same thing. I wonder if the drone staff includes any of the keepers who camp with us each evening, or if there’s a separate drone crew off in a tent somewhere more hospitable, manipulating controls and watching the video feed. Maybe the drone operator took a bathroom break at a bad time and simply lost us. I probably wouldn’t admit to that, either.

The tension in the room feels like static electricity. Whoever’s in charge of our drone will probably be fired tonight.

Mr. Wrinkle interrupts the awkward moment to deliver a box of packages and letters to Sebastian, and a laptop to me. Which indicates that maybe I have at least a couple of messages. Marisela has sent me a long email about her fears as she watched me on television and her gratitude that I have survived so far.
Winning is not important
, she writes,
you have the rest of your life to win other races
.

I bite my lip. Little does she know. I was trying not to think about losing this race. Now she’s reminded me.

Kai says it’s
rad
that I’m now a mountain climber, and Kiki asks if I’m in love with Sebastian.
He’s so SO
, whatever that means to an eight-year-old,
but what about cousin Emilio
?
Aren’t you getting married?

I moan and hold my head in my hands. Married? I am seventeen, I want to scream. I have zero intentions of becoming anyone’s wife for at least the next ten years.

Across the table from me, Sebastian rips open an official-looking letter and scans it.

“Yeah, right,” he says, and then tosses it onto the floor.

The blond agent retrieves the page. She seems to be in charge of picking up things that The President’s Son throws away. I think Sebastian told me her name is Macey. Her eyes widen as she reads it. Sebastian angrily snatches the page back and stuffs it into his box.

“Bad news?” I ask.

“Full ride to Harvard to study law,” Sebastian growls.

“In whose world is
that
bad?”

He shrugs. “They’re offering only because The Prez went there. I am, as they say, a ‘legacy’.” He makes finger quotes around the words in the air.

I don’t respond. How can he be so ungrateful?

“I already have a full scholarship to Enciron U,” he explains. “And I
earned
that one. I don’t want to study law. Haven’t lawyers already ruined this country?”

Enciron U, located in Northern California, is the most innovative university in the United States, maybe in the world. They offer practical programs to study real-world problems, and ingenuity is prized far more than memorization among their students. Every science nerd I know wants to go to Enciron. Their grads walk into big salaries the instant they get their degrees.

I swallow down my bitterness to ask, “What do you want to study?”

“I
am
studying Environmental Chemistry,” he says, reminding me that he’s two years older than I am, not to mention a lot further down the road to a meaningful life than the one I have, shoveling giraffe doodoo in Seattle.

Environmental Chemistry could mean practically anything. I raise a questioning eyebrow.

“I’m working on a strategy to mine landfills.” Having delivered those picturesque words, he inspects the dessert plate in the middle of our table, selects an artistic little fruit tart from the array, and bites into it.

I picture garbage blasting heavenwards and then raining back down. Disgusting. Why in the world would anyone
─

He spots the confusion on my face, licks a piece of kiwi from his upper lip, and grins. “Not to blow them up, silly. Mining, as in recovering the valuable minerals and chemicals buried all over the earth. Converting plastic back to petroleum.”

His explanation comes too late, because I’ve already flashed back to that dumpster I hid out in three years ago. I can smell the sour odor, see that ugly damp patch of God-Knows-What on the rusty metal wall across from where I’m crouched.

He continues. “It’s the ultimate recycling, plus the only way to clean up all the waste dumps.”

“How noble.” It sounds sarcastic, but I really mean those words. It’s just that I’m fighting down a surge of nausea. The fish on the plate in front of me is not helping. I suck down a big gulp of air.

He sighs heavily. “My first semester at Enciron, I had a solid B average. After the big reveal, suddenly I became smarter. Now I get all A’s.”

He has no idea how petty and privileged all this sounds to me. I stare at the table and rub the back of my aching neck, trying to smooth down the knots there.

“What do
you
want to study in college?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No money; no college. At least not for now.”

I’d give anything to go to college. But half my school records say Robinson and half say Grey. That could be a big problem. Not to mention the money angle. Even the best scholarships don’t pay for all expenses. I lost everything that night three years ago—my family, my name, my future.

“Sir, the threat level is still high,” says one of our guards.

I’ve had it with all this secrecy. I jump to my feet. My chair falls backward behind me with a clatter.

“
WHAT
is this
freaking, world-shattering
threat?” I yell at the suit. I feel the fireflies on my back light up with my anger.

The Secret Service agent acts as if he doesn’t hear me. He focuses his gaze on the far wall of the tent.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sebastian tells me.

I angrily squint my eyes at him.

He dips his chin, which needs a shave, and calmly explains, “There’s
always
a threat to the president and his family and pretty much everyone who works with the president. There will always
be
a threat. This is Garrison’s way of trying to keep me in captivity.”

I glance at Hasanov, the suit by Sebastian’s side. If ever a man could do an eye roll without moving a muscle, this pointy-nosed Secret Service guy is doing it.

I turn back to the laptop and do a Net search through the latest news for
threat to United States
. Whoa! So many hits. A few are economic articles, pretty much nonsensical to me. But then there are more links that mention all the civil wars in the Middle East and Afghanistan. Big surprise. Always plenty of threats there.

Hasanov twitches, looks at his wrist gizmo, frowns, glances quickly at me and then back at the gizmo again. I have a sneaking suspicion. I search for
Secret Service Verde Island
, which gets no hits, but his gaze darts in my direction again. Damn. He’s monitoring my keystrokes.

I guess I should have expected that.

A new email message pings onto the screen:
HOW COULD YOU?

Emilio has apparently seen the vid of today’s events. No
Are you okay?
or
I can’t believe you fell down a crevasse!

Shadow
would
focus on that two-second kiss. I decide to let him cool off before I answer.

I toy with the food on my plate, suddenly feeling completely exhausted. Defeated. My foot hurts. My whole body is sore. I feel like I’m seventy instead of seventeen.

“Fourth place,” I murmur despondently.

Sebastian’s hand lands on top of mine. “We could still win. Team Four just dropped out. He got an ACL injury.”