Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) (9 page)

A school therapist once told me that I torture myself with fantasies because I lack closure. Of course, he only knew the scuba diving story.

I pull out Kai and Kiki’s pictures from yesterday, and they make me smile again.

A white orchid in a transparent tube appears beside my elbow, and I feel Catie’s gentle touch on my arm.

“For you, Tana,” she says, smiling. Her long blond hair is so shiny that it reflects the overhead lights; I wonder what she uses to make it look like that. She holds an armful of orchids in tubes.

“Uh, thanks,” I mumble. Like I said, it’s hard to hate Catie.

“My pleasure.” A flash goes off as Catie hands the next orchid to Madelyn Hatt.

A race official taps me on the shoulder. “Call for you, Miss Grey.”

My heart flutters. It’s not usual for anyone to call me during a race. This was likely to be either really good or really bad. I fold the kids’ pictures into a pocket and then follow the race official to the computer tent.

The blond Secret Service gal slithers out of her position by the wall. She stands watch over me as I videochat with Emilio. Behind him I see an actual wall, the canvas of a tent. I’m glad he’s not out on patrol somewhere in the desert. It seems odd that talking with him like this is actually easier on this remote island than at home because our time zones are closer.

“Hi, Tee!”

I can’t remember when he started calling me simply “Tee” instead of Tana, but the name always makes me smile. “Tee” has a warm and friendly sound, and he says it stands for True Blue and Terrific and Treasure and all sorts of other great things. He smiles at me now, but there’s also a darkness in his eyes.

“Watching you is like watching an old Indiana Jones movie.” He pushes his face close to the screen. “I can’t believe that alligator!”

“Crocodile.”

He grimaces in annoyance and I wonder why I felt the need to correct him. “It feels a lot more real than a movie on this end,” I say.

“You look pretty chummy with Callendro.” He sits back and waits for my response.

“You mean when we were climbing over each other trying not to
die
?” My retort is a little loud. A couple of the other competitors glance over their shoulders at me.

Emilio has the good grace to look chagrined. “So, I got no reason to be jealous?”

“Absolutely none, Shadow.” I smile for the laptop camera. “What’s going on where you are?”

He slides forward again. After a quick look right and left, he says, “One of the new transfers blew himself away today. The bullet went through the wall and nailed a buddy of mine.”

I am shocked. I thought he’d be safe in a camp with solid walls. “That’s horrible, Shadow.”

“It was the transfer’s fourth tour, and he just found out his girl was leaving him.”

I don’t know what to say to that. “Is your buddy alive?”

“For now.”

I’m confused. Emilio’s stories of death and violence often don’t match up with the President’s rhetoric of not getting involved in the conflicts of other countries. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be peacekeepers? Advisors?”

He snorts. “Yeah. We advise these toads on how to kill each other and then we stand around peacefully while they do it.”

I wonder where he is. I know he’s not allowed to tell me. I can’t think of any way to offer him comfort, so I simply say, “Be careful, Shadow. I want you to come home in one piece.”

“Think the First Son’s better looking than I am?”

Really? And people think teenage
girls
are vain.

“No way,” I say. “But as a race partner, he’s all right. Except that we’ve got Secret Service following us everywhere.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m glad you have chaperones.”

It’s my turn to snort. “You really think there’s time for hooking up during a race?” I’m not about to tell him that team members share a tent.

Shadow shrugs. “He’s a dude. And you’re a babe.”

“Hunh,” I scoff. “Believe me, nobody here has the energy for duding or babing after galloping thirty miles through the jungle.”

His expression is skeptical, but he says, “Good to hear.”

Changing the subject, I say, “Kai and Kiki sent me pictures.”

I pull them out and hold them up to the screen. Shadow has the same reactions I did, exclaiming how good Kai’s drawing is, and chuckling over Kiki’s.

“Check out mine.” He unbuttons the flap on his chest pocket and pulls out a little packet. My heart gives me a twinge when I see him separate my photo from the other papers, give it a kiss, and then slide it back into his pocket. He unfolds the other papers. He holds up Kai’s drawing first. Instead of landscape, the background is red, white, and blue stripes. The foreground features a tank with Emilio and his rifle sticking out of the top. It’s an excellent drawing, but not an image I want to commit to memory.

“Very patriotic,” I comment.

Next he shows me Kiki’s. In this one, Emilio in a green uniform stands on a brown line along with four small stick figures. A circle also rests on the brown line.

“I think it’s supposed to be me playing soccer with the local kids.” He pulls it away from the screen and looks at it with a perplexed expression. “Or me arresting four scarecrows and a watermelon.”

I laugh, and he does, too.

“Yeesh, we sound like an old married couple,” I remark. “Talking about the kids.”

He leans close to the screen. “You can win this,” he tells me. “That half million would buy us such a sweet place.”

I blink at the screen for a second. Half? Damn. Of course I’d have the split the prize money with my partner. How am I going to fix that? I need the whole million.

“Five hundred grand would set us up for life.” He stares wide-eyed at the camera, urging me to respond.

“I’ll try to win,” I say.

Shadow risks his life every day in the military. I’m not always sure that he’s doing anything that protects or even helps the USA, but I know he’s doing his job, and I know it’s hard, dangerous work. He’s a good man. A loyal man.

I can’t tell him that I have no plans to set up house with him, at least not in the near future.

I blow Private Emilio Santos a kiss to end the session.

Across from me, Sebastian says to his screen, “I’m fine. She’s fine. We’ll do our best to avoid crocodiles from here on in.”

Above the computers, his gaze meets mine. He winks.

Marco Senai sits in front of another laptop, laughing and chatting in Swahili or whatever his first language is. He doesn’t even look tired.

After Sebastian ends his chat, it’s all I can do to drag my body out of the folding chair. Before we head to our sleeping tent, The President’s Son and I both hand our orchids to Marco.

The next morning we learn that no racer was disqualified yesterday. There are still eight teams on this third day. Sebastian and I are in the middle of the pack. As I dress, I pray to Whoever-Might-Be-Listening.
Please
,
let no disasters befall us today; let Team Seven surge to the front again
.
I ask this not for me but for Bailey, who deserves to have a good life
. It sounds good and selfless in my head;
befall
seems like an appropriate word for a prayer.

Sebastian and I confer over a breakfast of multi-grain pumpkin pancakes, yogurt, fruit, and nuts, with a side of fried ham. Only one obvious trail—it looks like a Jeep road—is on the map of today’s course, but it loops around every little hill as if the trail builder was determined to achieve minimum elevation gain and maximum mileage. The contour lines indicate a valley a short distance from the obvious route. The valley is likely to be a drainage route of some kind, but if there’s a creek, it looks pretty small and the terrain through there seems to offer a much more direct path to the next checkpoint than the Jeep road. Even though we didn’t do so well with our cross-country route choice yesterday, we decide to go for the valley today. We’re willing to get our feet wet again if we can gain some time on our competition. And it seems unlikely that any self-respecting crocodile would be haunting a small creek.

We start off on the Jeep road—it’s just tire tracks through grass and dirt—but soon we veer off into the jungle, following the shortest route through the forest to our valley.

We have been running away from the Jeep road for only half an hour when we stumble across a wide trail, graded like a bulldozer blazed it through the jungle sometime in the past. The trail hugs one side of our valley. This was not on our maps.

It looks like an old logging road, or maybe an access road to an electrical transformer or water pumping station, probably something the military left behind. Dozens of tiny trees are beginning to struggle up in the abandoned roadbed, but the path is still flat and smooth enough that a high-clearance vehicle could probably get through. Someone has recently come this way on foot, because we find a couple of boot prints in a muddy spot. Sebastian and I don’t care about this route’s history; we’re just happy to have found it and to be making excellent time.

What incredible luck. Maybe I’ll say a prayer every morning.

The vegetation beside the trail is too dense to see the creek at the bottom of the valley below, but I hear running water now and then. The path we are following gently hugs the contours of the slope to our right. After we round a slight bend, we are almost rendered unconscious by an unbelievable stench.

The putrid smell emanates from the bloated corpse of one of the wild buffaloes that we were warned about, lying off to the side of the abandoned road. The carcass stinks even worse than the inside of my dumpster hideaway. I don’t really intend to inspect the remains, but I can’t help noticing that it’s not a whole body. It’s only the front half of a buffalo. An abrupt chill shoots down my spine.

“Tiger?” I gasp.

After all,
half
the buffalo is missing.

Sebastian and I jog in place, our backs to each other, holding our noses for a few seconds as we search the area for the predator that did this. Finally we face each other. Our eyes connect. I shake my head, and then so does he. Neither of us spotted anything. So without another word, we start jogging again. After a couple of steps, I glance over my shoulder to see if there’s a hungry cat running after us. Sebastian does the same.

Then abruptly, the weed-cloaked road opens up at our feet and Sebastian almost falls into a gigantic pothole, only managing to leap across it at the last minute. I guess these craters are left from the last bomb run on this island. I scout ahead for more of the depressions.

“Stop!” I bellow, imitating a windmill with my arms to halt my forward motion.

Sebastian copies the motion, flailing his hands in the air. “What?” he yells.

“Those spots.” I point at the dozens of odd-looking lumps in the dirt road, scattered like polka dots on fabric. “What are they?”

He squints against the sun to bring them into better focus. “Pimples?”

“I saw this film on Afghanistan. A charity organization there was raising money to defuse land mines left behind by the military. They showed this guy walking across this field, pointing out the mines. They looked
exactly
like that.”

“You’re shitting me.” Sebastian wipes the sweat out of his eyes, and then bends over and grabs up a rock from the side of the road. He inspects the road ahead for a second, during which I say, “Don’t—”

And then he lobs the rock way up in the air and down the road.

I instinctively turn and duck. It’s a good thing I do, because a big ka-boom forces me to my knees, takes my breath away, and obliterates my hearing. Beside me, Sebastian is also down on his knees with his hands over his ears. A golf-ball-size stone thunks me on the shoulder, and the next one whacks the back of my calf. Hundreds more projectiles crash around us. Dirt rains down as I tuck myself into a ball with my hands over my head.

When the hail of Planet Earth stops falling, I slowly uncoil and stand up, rubbing my shoulder and clawing dirt out of my hair. My leg hurts, too, where the stone hit. I flex my foot to test the muscle. Sore, but usable. There will be a big bruise on the back of my calf later. All I hear is the noise my cell phone makes when it loses its signal, but somehow the volume on this non-sound is turned all the way up to maximum roar.

Sebastian is already on his feet. He’s covered in dirt, too. There’s a small gash on the back of his neck, right at his hairline beside his ponytail. Blood trickles in a thin line down his neck to stain the back of his shirt. He claps a hand over the cut as he stares ahead.

Sure enough, there’s a huge crater in the road where his rock landed.

“Smooth move,” I say to him in what I think is a loud voice. I can’t tell whether I’m talking in a reasonable tone or shouting, but he gets an embarrassed look on his face before he turns away, so I guess he heard me.

We survey the territory. We can get off the old roadbed, but the bordering hillside is steep and we’ll have to climb over rocks and wade through tall grass and scratchy brush. And while we can more or less see the land mines placed in the road, the hillside is so rough and overgrown that there’s no way to tell if a bomb is buried under the vegetation there.

Sebastian takes his hand off his neck and wipes the blood on the front of his filthy shirt. He shouts, “I bet it’s only the road.”

He’s just a few feet away and his voice is uber-loud, so although I still hear ringing like an old-fashioned dial tone in the background, I know my ears are recovering. Since he’s yelling, maybe his aren’t doing as well. Or maybe he thinks I’m still deaf.

“Don’t yell,” I say. “I can mostly hear again.”

In a lower voice, he says, “They were aiming for vehicle convoys.” He walks carefully to the side of the road, avoiding all lumps of dirt, and then steps off into the deep grass there. “That’s why they mined the road.”

It makes logical sense and I follow, but we’re both spooked and moving slowly now. Not that we could travel much faster, because the grass is almost up to my waist, not to mention so thick and coarse and razor-edged that if we tried to run through this, our legs would be shredded like cheese on a grater.

We’ve climbed at least a thousand feet since leaving the camp. I hope there are no snakes at this altitude, because most of the time I can’t see anything below my waist.

We are about halfway around the pimpled section of the old roadbed when Jason Jones and Madelyn Hatt burst around the bend. Clearly they decided this valley was a good bet, too. When they spot us wading through the dense grass, their eyes say they believe they are about to move to third place, or if both our teams were right to choose this route, maybe even first.

“Don’t─” yells Sebastian at the same time that I wave my arms and bellow, “Stop! Stop!”

But Jason instantly retorts “Yeah, right,” and he and Maddie jog on down the abandoned road.

We wait for the explosion.

Nothing happens.

Maybe Sebastian set off the only live mine buried there? What are the odds? As they pass beside us, the Mad Hatter glances back at me, gloating over her shoulder. She’d probably stick out her tongue if she weren’t running.

And then she’s flying through the air. A fist-sized rock whizzes over my shoulder like a bullet and I hear the explosion echo in my head. A tsunami of dirt rolls my way like a Sahara sandstorm. The dust is suddenly so thick that it takes more than a minute for my eyes to locate everyone again.

Sebastian is still just ahead of me. He looks whole, even if he’s filthier than he was before. His eyes are glittery with shock. We wobble gingerly down the side of the hill.

Jason Jones is lying in the road. His left thigh ends in a bloody stump. I can see that he is writhing and screaming, but I hear only the ringing in my ears. My legs are so shaky I can barely stand up. Sebastian crawls on his hands and knees out to Jason, carefully avoiding the road pimples. I follow in his tracks. I don’t see a sign of Maddie anywhere. I’m not sure I want to look for her.

As well as the missing leg, Jason has a big gash in his right arm, from which blood is flowing like a spring. I can see the white splintered end of a broken bone through the red meat. I feel sick at the sight of all that torn flesh, but I know it’s crucial to stop the bleeding. Jason’s wearing a bandanna on his head. Sebastian pulls it off and ties it tight around the remains of Jason’s arm. I untie my own kerchief from my forehead and offer it for Jason’s leg. The fabric is saturated with dirt and sweat, but it’s not like we have a sterile environment to work in.

Then, screwing up what little courage I have left, I carefully stand up on my tiptoes to try and find Maddie. I finally spy the toe of a running shoe sticking up through the grass, and I cautiously shuffle in that direction.

The shoe is not connected to the rest of Madelyn Hatt. She lies a few more yards down the hill.

She’s not wearing her other running shoe, either, and I’m not going to look too closely at what’s left of her legs. The Mean Hatter is little more than a rag doll with her stuffing spilling out down the front of her jersey and running tights.

My traitorous brain instantly transports me to Halloween Eve, shivering outside my house in the sleet, staring at my parents on the dark floor. Blood everywhere. Aaron screaming.

Daymares, Marisela calls them.

I suck in a deep breath, clench my fists and dig my fingernails into my palms to drag my mind back to the ghastly reality in front of me now.

I hope Madelyn Hatt is beyond feeling pain, because nobody could survive these wounds. Her face is already gray, and although I’ve never seen anyone die close up, I realize I’m going to see exactly that within a few minutes.

Nobody should have to die alone. I kneel beside her and take her left hand between mine.

“Maddie,” I murmur. “You have always been my hero.”

Of course this isn’t precisely true, but I have always respected her as a challenger.

Her hand is already limp and cold. I wonder if she can feel me holding it. I hope Mom and Dad died so quickly they didn’t miss someone holding their hands. I hope they know I loved them. I hope they forgive me.

Mixed into the ringing in my ears, I hear my brother’s screams again coming from our dark house. If Aaron survived, would he ever forgive me? I don’t see how; I can’t even forgive myself.

It’s horrible how many memories can race through your head in only a second or two. If you really do see your life flash before your eyes before you die, you’d like to think you’d see all the good times, not the awful events you’d just as soon forget. Reliving all the times you were scared out of your mind; that’s another blessing of PTSD. The gift that keeps on giving.

“Promise…” I’m mostly lip-reading, but I’m sure Maddie’s word is little more than a croak. A trickle of blood spills out from between her lips and streaks down the side of her face.

I lean close. “Promise what?”

She takes a ragged breath, and when she exhales, more blood runs down her chin. Her eyes widen as she struggles to force out words. I watch her lips closely as she says, “Take care … salt … and … pepper.”

That makes no sense, but her eyes are already getting a far away glaze, so I say, “I promise, Maddie. I will do my best.”

Her mouth forms the word, “Thank…” but I don’t hear a sound. And then her face simply goes blank, her lips go slack, and Madelyn Hatt leaves the planet. I lay her cold hand back on the ground.

I try to tell myself that death is preferable to living after what has happened to her body. I believe most athletes would feel the same.

I am pushing myself to my feet when I sense thunder. At first I brace myself for another explosion, but then the wind whips my face and I realize a helicopter is hovering above us.

Although the idea of flying instead of walking is extremely alluring right now, this damn well better not be the Secret Service coming to scoop up Sebastian.