Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) (5 page)

Two hours, three spiders, and four and a half flocks of pissed-off parrots later, Sebastian and I stagger up to the first checkpoint just as the sun sinks beneath the western horizon. The actual check-in station is simply a flag planted next to a folding table, manned by two attendants lounging on lawn chairs. These two are a married couple, aging marathoners I’ve seen at other events. When Sebastian and I burst out of the woods, their weathered, creased faces are startled into alertness. They push themselves up from the chairs.

A short distance away there’s a cluster of tents dotted with a few battery-powered lights that do a poor job of illuminating the area. Mr. Wrinkle blows the whistle hanging around his neck, which brings a couple of camera operators scrambling from one of the tents. They snap what will be incredibly unflattering pics and capture vids of us as Sebastian and I stagger around like zombies, trying to work the kinks out of our overstressed muscles.

“Together.” The photographers knock forefingers together as if we don’t understand English.

So we stand next to each other. I gasp like a beached fish, trying to get my breathing under control. Sebastian wipes sweat out of his eyes. Yeesh, he stinks, but I’m reasonably certain I reek just as bad. I’ve got a blister the size of Washington State on each foot from running in wet socks, and I’d guess Sebastian does, too.

“Well?” I finally huff, unable to stand the suspense any longer.

“Team Seven,” Mr. Wrinkle intones dramatically, “enjoy your ten hours of mandated rest.”

“You are in first place!” Mrs. Wrinkle chortles.

Sebastian and I straighten, turn toward each other and high-five. The cameras click. In the illumination of the flash, I see the Secret Service goons waiting on the sidelines, whispering to each other.

I’m starting to worry about what they might be saying. In theory, they should protect me if it would benefit The President’s Son, but they also have good reason to thoroughly check me out. Although my fictional background fools the average Joe, I’m not at all sure it can stand up to real inspection by a professional intelligence agency.

Marisela promised my back-alley Social Security number would pass. So far it has. She knows how to slide by the authorities without being noticed. Maybe her contact works at the Social Security Administration. My adopted mother and I don’t ask each other a lot of questions.

Please, Almighty Power That May or May Not Exist, don’t let them blow my cover.

Sebastian and I hit the showers, where a couple of pounds of dirt and sweat wash off down the drain. Then I go through the required medical check where I have to pee in a cup, donate a few drops of blood, have my blisters drained, and get my glued thigh wound inspected. Apparently Sebastian did a decent job on that, because the docs give me a shot of antibiotics but don’t even apply a bandage.

Then we sit down to eat heavenly quantities of chicken cacciatore and spinach salad and spiced carrots and luscious banana cream pie. That’s another thing I love about endurance racing—I eat better on every night of a race than I do the rest of the year.

The buffet, dining tables, and video screen are all in one big tent, along with all the media waiting for the racers to come in. It feels like a slightly subdued small town circus in here. Absolutely no privacy and a lot of loud chatter.

The cameras hover around us as we watch the endless loop of race vids shown to the folks back home today. I have to say that Team Seven appears brazenly gutsy in comparison to the other teams, who all look like they bolted from the same herd of sheep as they lope along the jungle paths. There is one dramatic scene of Team Three surprising a humongous python, but both humans and serpent slither off in different directions, no harm done. On Team Six, the woman is limping, and although it’s not very sportspersonlike to wish that your competitors get injured, I wouldn’t be sad if a few teams dropped out tonight.

Sebastian and I look like superheroes as we slide down our ropes and drop into the rapids. I’m grateful when the next scene reveals Sebastian crawling out while I’m on the bank doing an imitation of a nearly drowned but strong and stoic river rat, with blood running down my leg. The Secret Service cut out the helicopter drama. I’m sorry that the audience doesn’t get to see The President’s Son flip the double digit to the sky, though.

The vid switches to the other competitors, dwelling mainly on Catie Cole and Ricco Rossi running stylishly along a path. They both have big wet rings darkening their armpits—it’s nice to know that even celebrities sweat now and then. Madelyn Hatt and Jason Jones—Team Nine—barely look winded, which is a little disheartening, and Marco Senai and Suzana Mistri—Team Five—cover the terrain like graceful gazelles from Senai’s home country of Kenya.

Then the story moves back to Team Seven. The camera lingers on us as Sebastian glues my thigh wound, and if that wasn’t mortifying enough, it zooms in to show the expression on my face as I gaze down at him. I was feeling both pain and gratitude at that moment, but on screen it looks more like some sort of erotic trance, as if I plan to rip off his shorts as soon as we’re hidden in the jungle again.

My face flames in embarrassment. I sure hope that Emilio can’t see this coverage wherever his unit is stationed. I comfort myself with the knowledge that endurance racing is so far behind all the big corporate team sports like football and basketball that many Americans haven’t even heard of it. Marco and Maddie and Catie and I might be endurance racing stars, but to the world we are relative unknowns, in the same category as ping-pong champions or archery masters. Some of the sports channels might be following us, but this race is not likely to be featured in the regular feeds for more than a few seconds on a slow news day. Only two aspects of this competition make it newsworthy at all: the gorgeous Catie Cole, and the new national celebrity sitting beside me now.

I pretend to be fascinated with the rest of the vid, and then with dissecting a big piece of chicken on my plate. I feel Sebastian studying me, probably wondering about that close-up shot of my face in the film. The cameras in the room are aimed at me now, and the eyes of the robots are on me, too. I wish I was back home in my private little room.

Sebastian may not have asked for all this attention, but neither did I.

“Miss Grey,” one of the suits says.

I twist around at the voice. “Yeah?”

This suit has a sharp nose that matches his razor sharp haircut. He speaks with a slight accent, like he wasn’t born in the United States. He is sitting on a chair against the wall to the side of our table, frowning at a handheld computer. Without looking at me, he asks, “Where did you live before you became an emancipated minor?”

The cameras are always rolling in here, so I put on the sorrowful face that everyone expects. Actually, I don’t have to pretend to be sad, because this guy has just reminded me of that horrific Halloween Eve.

“After my parents died,” I say, “I lived several different places, pretty much with anyone who would take me in.”

I wave a hand vaguely in the air to demonstrate the nebulosity of my living situation.

“I was living with Marisela Santos and her family when I petitioned the court.” I always toss Marisela into the mix because law enforcement types can easily find records of phone calls between me and my adopted mom. Marisela has always kept up her side of the story, which is not hard for her, because she knows only the mythical diving accident version.

The suit is watching me carefully now. He’s still frowning. “How is it that you did not end up in a foster home?”

I wave my hand again. “That’s the system for you. Understaffed, overworked…they pretty much take whatever solution is presented to them these days.”

I don’t really know if this is true, but it sounds plausible, doesn’t it? Over the years, I have become an excellent liar.

It crosses my mind that maybe these secret squirrels could help me find out who murdered my parents and what happened to my brother. Then I remember the black SUV parked around the corner from my house that night. The same type of black SUV the Secret Service likes to use when they’re trying to be invisible.

My father always told me, “Never trust what anyone—your friends, the television, the authorities, the government—
says
. Judge people by their actions, not by their words.”

That’s another weird thing that I never thought about until he was not around to explain. Dad was an accountant who specialized in the import-export business. What did he have to be paranoid about?

No, I cannot confide in these Secret Service suits.

“I really don’t like to talk about those times.” I choke up a little for effect.

Sebastian tells him, “Lay off her, Hasanov.”

And Hasanov does, but perhaps only because our little dinner party is interrupted by the blond female agent who walks in with a phone in hand.

“Call for you, sir.” She places the phone in front of Sebastian.

It’s President Garrison on the tiny screen. The camera is aimed at Sebastian, of course, but I sit up a little straighter just in case he can see me, too.

“I’m proud of you, son,” Garrison begins.

“Thank you,” Sebastian responds.

“First place,” the President says.

“So far. It’s only the first day.”

“And you’re taking good care of that Zany girl.”

I grimace at those condescending words, but Sebastian says, “We’re looking out for each other.”

The President’s voice changes to a more serious tone. “Son, the Secret Service advises me that the threat level is still extreme.”

Threat of
what
, I want to yell, but I can tell that nobody in this room will answer me. This threat is apparently some sort of state secret that I’m not allowed to know.

“My partner and I
will
finish this race,” Sebastian growls at the screen.

I wish he’d said
win
, but at least he mentioned me. And he didn’t call me Tarzan.

A female voice from off-screen behind Garrison murmurs, “Mr. President, the envoy is waiting.”

She mentions the name of a country in the Middle East. Ugh. I avoid the news as much as possible, but everyone knows there’s a civil war going on there again. When
wasn’t
a war going on in those sad countries? It seems to be an eye thing; people have been killing each other there for eons.

Yes, it’s awful. But after spending zillions of dollars and killing thousands of soldiers, our leaders finally admitted we’re not changing anything by diving into these bloodbaths.

President Garrison says he’ll keep America strong and rebuild the economy by keeping the country out of international conflicts. Unfortunately, his strategy for growing the economy is to put the corporations in charge of every decision. One guess how well
that’s
working out for most of us.

On the screen, the Prez glances briefly toward his aide, murmurs something unintelligible, and then looks back at the camera. “Be careful, son. I love you.”

“Good night.” Sebastian presses the
Off
button. His expression is a mixture of exasperation and exhaustion.

“At least
you
got a phone call,” I point out, yawning. Marisela and the kids would be asleep now, and Emilio’s probably cruising around in a tank somewhere.

Outside the mess tent, bells and whistles go off, and we hear one of the newsquackers reporting to his own camera crew in a smooth, rehearsed voice. “Team One, Catie Cole and Ricco Rossi, has just arrived.”

The cameras inside the tent quickly duck outside. I glance at my watch. Cole and Rossi are fifty minutes behind us. Too close for my comfort.

Mrs. Wrinkle delivers two small envelopes to me, laying them beside my plate on the table. Next to Sebastian, she sets down a big bouquet of red roses and a cardboard box containing multiple envelopes.

At the end of each day, competitors are allowed to receive any items and messages our fans want to send, after the items are inspected by the race officials to be sure none of us is getting tips or performance drugs or anything else that’s verboten.

When races are Stateside, the crew often delivers huge piles of gifts and messages to even the lowliest racers. But we are so far away from civilization that it costs a small fortune to ship anything here. So I’m not surprised that I get only two envelopes. I can’t help being envious of my teammate’s bounty, though.

“Wow.” I point to his box. “You must have a lot of rich fans.”

A flash goes off. The cameras have returned to our tent, which means that Cole and Rossi must be in the showers.

Sebastian throws me a look I can’t quite decode. Then he picks up the bouquet and reads the tag in a flat voice. “Good luck from the White House Staff.”

He tosses the bouquet over his shoulder. The female suit rises from her chair to rescue the flowers from the floor.

Sebastian paws through his box. “Senator Barker, Senator McKee, Representative Pickard, Senator Wright, Representative Parenti, Governor Howard—”

“I get it.” I guess it makes sense that the government high-ups would want to please the president by supporting his son.