Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) (19 page)

Bash and I are stretching and doing our best not to be creeped out by standing in the clearing where we were darted and captured. I try to distract myself by searching for that impressive spider that tap-danced over my face.

A miracle has happened. When The President’s Son and I were captured, the race was halted. (Never underestimate the power of the U.S. White House.) After two days of decent food and activity, we have recovered from our captivity and are rejoining the remaining competitors. Each team will start the last segment from the point at which the race was called off. None of us was allowed to learn how far apart we are or to plan a new route. Sebastian and I have new wrist gizmos with our old route already plugged in.

It’s as if the last five and a half days never happened, which makes me feel as if I’ve been deluged with hallucinations. It seems like I’ve been on Verde Island for weeks now.

The discovery of the underground bunker and the treasonous activity of two Secret Service members—Hasanov and Macey—explained a few other mysteries of the race. Their allegiance to their birth country was clearly greater than their loyalty to their jobs or the United States.

The Secret Service had set up operations for our drone in the bunker and apparently operations were normal for the first few days of the race. Then Hasanov and Macey’s plan went into effect.

After Sebastian was rescued, the bodies of the two original drone operators were discovered near the bunker. Those boot prints we found on our path belonged to the terrorists, who hiked in to take over the bunker, and then mined the road to warn them of any approach by land. The takeover of the drone by their inexperienced operators caused the glitch in our vid coverage when we fell in the crevasse.

I bet Secret Service candidates, even those who are fluent in all those languages our government so desperately needs, will be screened more thoroughly from now on.

In spite of the Secret Service scandal, President Garrison is now more popular than ever. He has not only resisted terrorist demands, but also recovered his son and captured the kidnappers.

I relish the feeling of wearing clean dry racing clothes, even though I know they’ll be soaked and filthy within a few miles. My shredded skin is healing nicely, and I hope nothing changes that today, although I’m certainly going to do anything I can to get to that finish line. This morning, I was finally ready to ditch our remaining climbing harness and rope, but Bash insists on carrying them.

A loud beep sounds from a drone overhead, the first of three. I look over my shoulder at Bash, standing on the spot where he was felled by the dart. He gives me a thumbs up. Another beep. I lean forward. I suck in a deep breath.

And then the long shrill blast that signals the restart of the race. It feels good to run again, to use my muscles to cover the ground. Although resuming the race from this point seems fair, I’m not so sure about letting Tober Collins and Gabriella Taylor continue. When last I saw them, Team Eight was so hypothermic that they were both immobile. Now they are competitors again. Still, they are behind us, so I push them out of my mind and focus on putting one foot in front of the other as fast as possible.

I try to believe that we have a chance of winning. Today I don’t even look at the scenery except to figure out the best places to leap over fallen logs and dart between trees. I am vaguely aware of a flock of brilliant blue birds that rocket out from the canopy and I spy a green zigzag on a tree trunk that is most likely a vine snake. If there are buffaloes or that tiger, I will outrun them. If there are crocodiles, I will dance on their heads.

Bash has vowed to stay right on my heels. I hear his footfalls behind me, as close as my shadow. It’s a comforting feeling.

Where are Senai and Mistri? Cole and Rossi? After at least ten miles of running, our first glimpse of our nearest competitors comes as we almost fall off the lip of a small canyon. Or maybe it should be called a wash, because its steep sides have clearly been carved by the small creek cascading down the middle. There’s some sort of an animal trail leading up the opposite side. From where we stand, it’s only about thirty feet to the bottom, but that’s too far to jump without incurring an injury.

Crashing sounds call our attention to the right, and we spot Senai and Mistri hurtling through the brush as they run around the lip of the canyon, about half a mile in front of us.

Bash and I grin at each other and quickly secure our climbing rope to the nearest tree. He snaps on the climbing harness and I scramble onto his back. We zip to the ground like experienced climbers, maybe a little too fast, because Bash’s feet hit so hard that I am dislodged and fall on my backside. The pain in my ass is nothing compared to our excitement, though, as we ditch the harness and rope and dash ahead, passing Team Five.

Bless you, Bash, for insisting on carrying the rope and harness today.

I check my wrist device. We have only five and a half miles to go. Do we have a prayer? Please If-There’s-Anyone-Up-There, now is the time to provide divine assistance.

We gallop through dense forest. Thick vines strangle grayish trees. A monkey or bird screams overhead. I can’t tell if the noise behind me is only Sebastian, or if Team Five has caught up with us, but I can’t spare even the fraction of a second to check.

Four miles left. Sweat streams down my face and chest. My stomach wants food, my throat wants water, but I will not pause for an instant.

Three miles. I collide with a big blue butterfly that was innocently flitting past. It clings uncertainly to my wet race bib, its beautiful wings open and immobile. What could be going on in its little insect brain? I hope it’s not injured.

Two miles. The trees are getting further apart, and the ferns between them are nearly as tall as I am. A turquoise parrot flees from a palm as Sebastian and I crash through the vegetation toward it.

The forest opens up, letting in shafts of sunlight between the trees. I spy a flash of black shorts ahead. A long gold ponytail streaming in the wind. Catie Cole. Her partner Ricco runs a parallel course about twenty feet away, leaping over ferns and fallen branches, slapping tree trunks to give himself a push as he passes.

I pick up my pace and pray that Bash is keeping up. The scenery is a blur as I dash toward the edge of the forest, gasping for air.

Please, for Bailey
.

Bash and I emerge from the forest into a clearing, almost side by side with Catie and Ricco. Up ahead I can see the beach and the red and white banner of the finish line. I hear a roar. I don’t know if that’s the crowd, the surf, or the blood rushing through my head.

So close.

My feet hit the sand. The soft footing slows my stride. I clench my teeth and imagine myself propelled by jets, giant waves, shooting forward at incredible speed. I pass Catie by a stride, but Ricco Rossi is at least a yard ahead as we near the finish. I lean forward and stretch out my arms and legs, but it looks to me like I’m half a stride behind Ricco as we pass over the finish line. In my peripheral vision, I catch sight of Catie Cole faltering and stumbling before crossing the line.

I plow to my knees and then fall back on the sand, gasping. I still can’t hear worth a darn, but everyone is waving their arms or clapping and I’m sure the cheering is loud. I can’t get my breath. Where is the oxygen on this cursed island? The hot humid air feels too dense to inhale. Beside me, Bash hunches over, his hands on his thighs, blowing like a Thoroughbred who has just run the Kentucky Derby.

I was second over the line. But who was third? Catie and Ricco are doing their own finish line mambo a few feet away, stumbling around, trying to catch their breath.

Who was third? It’s a team race; both members have to cross to win.

The officials have their heads together over a screen.

Senai and Mistri gallop in to more arm waving and clapping.

Finally, my lungs return to some semblance of normal. Bash pulls me to my feet as the officials approach us. Mr. Bronze and Barbie Doll again.

They hang heavy medals on red-white-and-blue ribbons around our necks, then grab our wrists and pull our hands toward the sky. Catching the clue, The President’s Son and I clasp hands and raise them in a victory posture for the cameras.

The photo finish flashes on the screen: Ricco leading the pack, me half a stride behind, Sebastian’s foot only inches back from mine, and then Catie.

I can’t believe she stumbled like that. Neither can Ricco, obviously, since it looks like he’s yelling at her. Catie’s gaze meets mine. She smiles briefly. The cameras move in on Team One, and Ricco Rossi abruptly remembers his manners and gallantly turns to face them, grabbing for Catie’s hand. If Marco Senai and Suzana Mistri are upset to win third, they are gracious enough not to show it.

Tober Collins and Gabriella Taylor trot in. When they spy Bash and me with gold medals around our necks, Tober grins and then slowly and dramatically claps his hands.

At the finish, we all look like salmon that have finally reached the end of their mad swim upstream. Like those fish, we have expended our last ounce of energy and shredded our bodies to get to our destination.

The officials allow us to clean up and change clothes before they line us up for the grand finale on the traditional three-tiered stage.

Bash and I climb to the top. Over the array of cameras, screens, and people in front of us, we see the beach. I feel a welcome breeze on my face as the wind and surf roll in. I can’t wait to get out there in those blue waves.

A screen shows President Garrison’s face as he watches the ceremony from the White House, and another shows Mr. and Mrs. Callendro and Sebastian’s sisters. For me, they have managed to gather a group of my coworkers from the zoo and a few of the guys from Dark Horse Networks. I guess it was the best they could do. Marisela and Shadow are in separate locations and probably at work anyway. Other screens show the supporters of Teams One and Five.

Barbie Doll hands me a giant piece of cardboard designed to look like a check for five hundred thousand dollars. I do my best not to grimace when she gives an identical cardboard sign to Sebastian.

In words that I lip-read more than hear, Barbie asks The President’s Son, “What will you do with your winnings?”

For once, Sebastian Callendro focuses directly on the camera. I watch his face on a screen opposite us as he says, “I will save a life.”

Then he twists sideways and pushes his giant fake check into my hands.

The microphone appears in front of my lips, but I am so overcome that I only shake my head. My tears blur the crowd into an impressionist painting.

Sebastian puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. Putting his lips to my ear, he murmurs, “I want something in return.”

I face him. “Anything. I’ll give you anything I can.”

He puts a gentle fingertip on my lips, and his mouth forms the word, “Later.”

Then he kisses me hard, turns back to the cameras and holds up our conjoined hands.

On the screen, President Garrison claps heartily along with the crowd.

I haven’t been in my new place long enough to make many improvements. It’s a ramshackle old farmhouse with rusty plumbing and a leaky roof, and a seventy-minute commute from my job at the zoo, but Sabrina lives with me now, so we carpool. The sixty-five acres of grass and woodland that it sits on, and the double eight-foot-tall electrified fence that surround the property, are the reasons I bought it. The former owner raised bison, which have now all gone elsewhere, most likely into packages on grocery store shelves.

Emilio visited while back in the States on leave. He was understandably perplexed and disappointed in my choices about spending the prize money. But before he left, he took me salsa dancing, and he mentioned Michoacán and the monarchs again. I still get lost in his black coffee eyes. His kisses still feel like the closest thing to home I’ll ever have again. If he can just wait until I know who I am going to be, maybe we have a chance for a future together.

Emilio was also nice enough to help me replace the leaky pipe under the kitchen sink, so I no longer have to listen to the nerve-wracking drip-drip-drip, but I still have a To-Do list that will easily stretch into next year. It’s a good thing that Marisela taught me to be pretty handy. Don and Melody are coming next weekend and bringing some friends. We’ll have a work party.

Sabrina’s covering for a vacationing colleague at the zoo and I’m hammering a sheet of soda-can aluminum over a hole in the roof when the cell phone in my pocket chimes. I carefully plant my butt on the slanted shingles and dig out my phone, tugging down my shirttail against the brisk breeze from the southwest.

“You live in Fort Knox now, Tarzan?” Bash’s voice warms me from the inside out.

Dark Horse Networks set me up with a dynamite security system to guard my new home; the hardware and software are probably worth more than my house. If I were downstairs, I could see Sebastian’s face on the security monitor. I buzz him through the front gate and then shimmy down the ladder to clean myself up as best I can before he reaches my front door.

I’ve just managed to wash off the smudge on my cheek when the doorbell rings.

“Coming!”

I take a couple of minutes more to sniff my armpits (not too bad), run a comb through my snarled hair, and rinse my mouth out with peppermint wash. When I get to the front door, Bash has climbed down off the porch and is leaning against a rattletrap pickup twenty yards away, inspecting my house and frowning a bit.

I stride toward him.

“I don’t understand the attraction,” he says, peering at my home.

“That’s the greeting I get? After saving your sorry royal butt from international terrorists?”

If I hadn’t heard his voice, I might not recognize him. He has grown a goatee and mustache. These, plus the black cowboy hat that shades his eyes and the sharp-toed boots on his feet, transform him into a Mexican bandito.

“Is that really you?” I ask. He’s even sporting a belt with an ornate silver buckle.

He laughs and pulls off the hat. “I’m changing my image.”

His hair is now a close crop. Although he no longer looks quite like my race partner Bash, he looks good, much more rested and cleaner than when I saw him six months ago at the finish of the race. Since then, I’ve only seen Sebastian Callendro on the front pages of newspapers and in e-zines. In all those photos he still had his ponytail, wore casual tees and jeans, and drove a black Audi sports car.

The old truck he is leaning on now is mostly green where it’s not rusted. It has more dents than chrome.

“What’s up with the beater?” I ask.

“My new ride,” he says. “I traded with a gardener named Francisco, who claimed to be from Jalisco. Or maybe he was just a poet at heart. I hope the Secret Service doesn’t use torture to interrogate him.”

It’s a disturbing thought. I would just as soon not have known about some of the military incidents Emilio recounted during his visit. I hope one day human beings can learn how to peacefully co-exist with each other, but I’m not going to hold my breath waiting for that to happen.

The press quickly forgot that I was along for the wild ride of Sebastian Callendro’s kidnapping, although for a few weeks they pestered me about that life I had vowed to save. When I wouldn’t give up a name for the bleeding-heart feature story they wanted, they left me behind like a bad smell.

Naturally, the opposition tried to use the embarrassing infiltration of the Secret Service against Garrison, but master politician that he is, he managed to hang all the blame around the neck of the Director, who resigned, leaving President Garrison with the credit for thwarting the terrorists and rescuing his son.

The President’s Son is still harassed by paparazzi. Every photo shows him either shielding his face or glaring at the camera.

Here and now, he throws his arms around me and lifts me from the ground in a bear hug, shouting, “Go, Team Seven!”

An ear-shattering trumpeting erupts from the nearby orchard, followed by thundering steps and crashing tree limbs. I quickly shove Sebastian away and turn toward the racket.

“What the heck?” Bash grumbles.

I drown him out as I bellow at the top of my lungs, “Down! Stop! Down! Friend! Friend!”

The giant beast slams to a stop a couple of yards from us, flapping his ears and waving his trunk threateningly above Sebastian’s head, his murderous gaze fixed on this intruder.

Sebastian stares back, his eyes round. “You really are Tarzan.”

I take his hand. “Bash.” I reach for the elephant’s trunk, and pull the tip of it gently toward the human’s hand. “Meet Bailey.”

“Really?” Sebastian says. “You have an
elephant
?”

I chuckle. “Doesn’t everyone?”

After Bailey has patted and sniffed Sebastian all over, leaving a diagonal stripe of snot across Sebastian’s black tee shirt, my elephant decides this interloper can remain alive. Bailey returns to the orchard where he is engaged in making sure every last apple is removed from the trees.

I pull Sebastian onto the porch swing. “Bailey doesn’t get along too well with most people.”

Bash runs his fingers through hair that is no longer there as he says, “You’re kidding. He seemed perfectly charming to me.”

“Martha, another elephant at the zoo, didn’t like Bailey. Elephants live in a matriarchal society. She pushed him around; he pushed back. There were … incidents. The managers couldn’t find another zoo who would take him. He’s fifty-one years old; it’s unlikely he’s going to change his ways. So-”

The thought is still so repellant to me that I can barely bring myself to say it. “So they were going to sell him to a big game ranch in Texas.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Clearly Sebastian Callendro doesn’t know the exotic animal business. I clarify. “A ranch in Texas where hunters pay thousands of dollars to shoot exotic animals.”

His mouth drops open. “They were going to
kill
him?”

I nod sadly. Then I shake off the thought, because it’s not going to happen now, at least not to Bailey. “He’s happy here. He’s a changed elephant.”

Over Sebastian’s shoulder I see Bailey emerge from the woods again. He’s not alone. “Bailey also has friends here,” I say.

Sebastian crooks an eyebrow. “You have
more
elephants?”

I rise from the swing. Picking up a tin bucket resting nearby, I give it a couple of thumps. Hooves clatter our way, right up the front steps and onto the porch. Two pygmy goats, one white and one black. I rub their heads between the buds of their horns.

“Salt.” I point to the white goat. “And Pepper.” Pointing to the black one would be redundant.

For a moment, Sebastian looks confused. Then the light dawns. “Madelyn Hatt.”

I nod, and we sit in reverent silence for a few minutes, reflecting on Verde Island and everything that happened there. Pepper butts Bash’s leg, and then Salt butts Pepper. Goats are like that.

“I didn’t just come to visit,” Sebastian finally says. “I came to collect on our deal.”

I wet my lips with my tongue, anxious about what he’s going to ask for—a contract to pay back the money? Kinky sex?

Like everyone else in the world, Emilio saw photos of our prison in that now famous underground bunker, the mattresses side by side.

“Were you sleeping together?” he demanded via videochat. I knew he was thinking that he and I had not yet made love, and now I was sharing my body with The President’s Son.

Sometimes I feel like I know Bash a lot better than I know Emilio, even though Bash and I were only together for ten days and I grew up with Emilio during the last three years.

Of all people, Emilio should understand why I will always have a special relationship with Sebastian. Together, we have survived a battle. Emilio will always have his war buddies, and I will always have mine.

“Yes, Shadow,” I answered. “We were
sleeping
together.”

It wasn’t even remotely sexual. I’m not saying sex never crossed my mind, because I did wonder if I was going to die a virgin. But when you think you’re going to be killed at any moment, you just want to feel someone’s arms around you.

That someone takes my hand now. “Amelia Robinson,” he murmurs.

My blood freezes in my veins. My heart skips a beat. Has he put it all together?

“How did—” I stutter. Has he told the government who I am, or did
they
tell
him
?

“Your nightmares. Aaron. Your tales of Mount Baker. An old photo on the Net.”

Oh God, he found the one photo I can never figure out how to take down, a photo posted by my middle school, showing the track team medalists. I’m in the middle of the group and although I was only thirteen then, I’m still recognizable to anyone searching for my face.

“And another thing.” He turns to his beater truck, pulls open the passenger door, and extracts a small package, untidily wrapped in brown paper and taped as if it’s already been opened.

The return address, written in pencil, says P.A. Patterson, from a P.O. Box in Johannesburg, South Africa. My mouth drops open. “Where did you
─
?”

“It was mailed to me,” he explains. “With a letter that asked me to get it to you.”

Holding my breath, I unwrap the paper to reveal a padded envelope that has been slit open. I extract a beautiful carving of a running cheetah. And a note:
Please contact me, Amelia. – [email protected].

Anxiety sweeps over me like a wildfire. Who the hell is P.A. Patterson? What does this mean? I’ve been studying the photos of my parents from the scrapbook, trying to identify all strangers, looking at those scans of accounts and reports, looking for clues.

“Sorry, Tana. I wanted to be sure it wasn’t anthrax or a letter bomb, so I opened it,” Sebastian murmurs, touching my hand.

His gaze is as laser-intense as always. He asks, “What happened to Amelia Robinson?”

For a second, it seems as if time stands still, and all I can hear is the rush of my own blood in my ears.

Can I share my history with Sebastian? Government lackeys follow him everywhere. Words don’t seem safe, so I just shake my head.

“I haven’t told anyone.” He puts both his hands on my shoulders. “I will never tell anyone.”

I look deep into his eyes. For more than three years now, I have so desperately wanted to tell someone. I so badly need an ally.

Sebastian Callendro and I have faced death together. If I can’t trust him, I can’t trust anyone.

I pull him down to sit on the front porch step. The sun sets over the Olympic Mountains in the far west as, finally, after three years, I tell another person about what happened to my family in Bellingham. An entire household erased overnight. A teenage girl on the run from enemies she can’t identify.

“It sounds crazy, even to me,” I conclude.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned since becoming The President’s Son, it’s never to underestimate what evil lurks in the hearts of men.” After a beat, he adds, “And women.”

I grin at that; I know he’s thinking of Agent Macey. I remember our guards—all male. “But mostly men.”

He sighs. “You’re probably right.”

I look at the note again. “Please contact me. No way in hell am I going to do that.”

He stands and holds up his right hand. “I solemnly swear to always protect your secrets, Tanzania Grey.” He lets his arm drop back to his side. “Now, it’s your turn to pay up.”

I push myself to my feet so I can look him in the eye. “What do you want?”

His laser-green gaze searches mine. “I want you to teach me how to disappear.”

This startles me. I had nothing to lose by disappearing; he has everything. “But college, your family…”

“The semester is over. I’ve signed up for correspondence work for the next two. Garrison will be out of office in ten months. I only need you to help me vanish for one year.”

With his haircut and goatee and mustache, he is already halfway to a totally different person. I sag with relief and plant a brief kiss on his lips. “That I can do.”