The Gauntlet Assassin (An Action Thriller)

by L. J. Sellers

  “I know the odds are against me, but sometimes the underdog will surprise you.” Lara recalled the time she’d chased down a plane on a runway to stop a murderer, but she kept it to herself. She was uncomfortable with the interview and wanted it to be over.

  “Which competitor are you hoping to be paired with in the Challenge?”

  Lara had given this some thought, but she couldn’t share her reasons. “At this level of physical fitness, it doesn’t matter. Every contestant will be equally hard to beat.”

  “Jason Copeland of Illinois said he wanted to compete against you in the first round. He says at forty-two, you’re the weakest link.”

  Lara gave a bright smile. “He must not be very confident.” The two-faced prick.

  Jessie leaned forward and her voice softened. “Some pundits say you might draw sympathy from older viewers and survive the Challenge only because of that. How do you feel about the sympathy vote?”

  Lara bit her tongue to keep from saying bullshit. “That’s nonsense. Viewer demographics are skewed young and are definitely not in my favor.”

  Jessie spotted the Adonis-like competitor from Texas and clicked off the mic. “Thanks for your time.” She signaled her cameraman and rushed after her next sound bite.

  Lara took long slow breaths to center herself. She couldn’t let anything personal or emotional distract her from competing at her best. She wished she knew what was in store for her beyond the elevated maze. The competition was different every year to keep states from copying the Gauntlet for their regional tryouts. The organizers wanted each phase to be a surprise for the participants and the viewers. That element kept the pay-per-view money coming.

  At ten o’clock, the employment commissioner strode onto the stage. Sizable and handsome in a charcoal suit, he seemed like a different man from the one she’d found on the floor two days ago, clad in black leather and bleeding from his shoulder. Lara couldn’t detect any sign he was favoring a gunshot wound. He must have injected a numbing agent around the wound before making the public appearance.

  The commissioner leaned into the mic. “Welcome, everyone, to the Gauntlet, now in its third year. Congratulations to each of you for being the best in your state. The grant-money prize is bigger than ever this year, thanks to our co-sponsor, AmGo, which plans to build a distribution center in the winner’s hometown.”

  The crowd interrupted with applause. Thaddeus Morton smiled for the viewers, showing perfect white teeth, and waited for the noise to settle down. “We’ve designed a whole new set of scenarios that we think will be both challenging and fun.”

  Lara suppressed a grunt. Fun for the viewers. For the contestants, the rounds were carefully planned versions of hell.

  The commissioner continued. “In the new spirit of national unity, we’ve added a teamwork component to the first section of the Challenge. To enter the main arena where you will compete against each other, you and your opponent must first work together. You’ll be given only five minutes to realize your challenge and work as a team to unlock the door. If you fail to enter the arena in the time given, neither contestant will earn any points for the Challenge, but the person who completes the courses first will proceed in the competition.”

  Groans filled the auditorium. Lara tried to visualize what they had in mind by teamwork and who she would be paired with. She hoped it was a woman, thinking a female might be more cooperative, but quickly realized it didn’t matter. Everyone in the room would do whatever it took to earn points. For each of the five phases, the viewers could award up to 25 popularity points in addition to the 50 given automatically to the winner of the phase. In the end, the points determined which contestant went home with the grand prize.

  “You won’t know your time slot or competitor until a half hour before your turn at the Challenge. The pairings will be announced every hour and a half.” Morton pointed to a four-foot digital screen hanging near the main entrance. “The start times and pairings will be posted throughout the arena. If you go back to your hotel room, please check your iComs regularly.” In a less friendly tone, he added, “As you already know, anyone caught watching the streaming feed of the contest will be immediately disqualified.”

  People from around the world would watch the daily coverage of the Gauntlet, but Lara wouldn’t see any of the events until it was over. Blocking the competitors from viewing was a level of fairness that kept the last contestants in each round from having an advantage by knowing what to expect. The rounds were timed and each contestant went into the arena with the same knowledge.

  Lara shifted in her chair, feeling impatient. Waiting to compete was how most of her time here would be spent. She planned to read nonfiction on her Dock and watch breaking news. She would interact with the other contestants just enough to keep the viewers happy.

  The commissioner went over a few new rules and outlined specifics of how the grant money would be awarded. Near the end, he said, “The Challenge begins this afternoon at one, Eastern Standard Time, with Kirsten Dornberg of Florida and Lara Evans of Oregon.”

  Lara’s heart missed a beat at the sound of her name. She and her roommate were scheduled first and it wasn’t likely a coincidence. Was the director trying to flush them out early or capitalize on their little squabble in the hotel room? Lara decided it didn’t matter. She was excited to compete early. Waiting was not her strong suit. She was also pleased to be paired with Kirsten. She’d asked the commissioner to set her up with someone tall because shorter contestants performed better when balance was required. Had he followed through or had Minda made the decision after reprimanding her and Kirsten? Either way, Lara planned to beat the Amazon woman fairly.

  Pulsing with energy from not working out yet, Lara was eager to get going. She glanced toward the exit, wondering if she could leave, even though Morton was still speaking. A blond, medium-sized man stood near the door, intently watching the commissioner. Was that Bremmer, the overheated boyfriend who’d shot at her? It sure looked like him. What was he doing here? Was he keeping an eye on his lover… or had he followed her and asked about her at the hotel?

  Lara jumped from her seat and strode toward the man, thinking she would drag him out of the room and confront him. He saw her coming and a look of recognition flashed on his face. The man bolted as Lara heard her named called again and had to turn back.

  Chapter 7

  Six and a half months earlier: Tues, Nov. 15

  Paul woke from a heart-pounding dream, realized today was the money drop, and broke into a sweat. He’d never experienced this kind of anxiety before. His sedate, predictable life had disappeared.

  Determined to calm his escalating pulse, Paul emptied his mind and began his morning routine. While he brewed a pot of jasmine green tea, he took Lilly out for her morning pee. When he got back, he carried his mug and his Dock to the chair by the big window and read selective sections of the Wall Street Journal. Usually he would search the internet for a new charity, but today he felt impatient, so he went to the Transitions website and quickly donated ten dollars. He’d begun the daily routine of contributing when he landed his federal job. He knew he was lucky, and starting his day by sharing with those less fortunate kept him from feeling guilty when he read the news.

  He set his Dock on the table by the door, plugged his VEx device into his NetCom, and positioned himself on the area rug for his morning workout. He pulled the VEx cap over his head, set the timer for twenty minutes, then began a series of movements that somehow managed to make his heart rate escalate without him breaking a sweat. The best thing anyone had ever invented.

  Afterward, he forced himself to complete fifty stomach crunches, hating every single one. Lilly watched and gave an occasional sympathetic whimper as he grunted his way through them. They hurt a little less today, but it was only because he was distracted by the events ahead.

  After work he would pick up ten grand in cash from Alan Rathmore. Paul had planned the exchange carefully so they would not meet face to
face, but he was keenly aware that things could still go wrong. He did twenty pushups, a new addition to his workout, then showered and ate his usual oatmeal and fruit for breakfast.

  He’d loaded his backpack the night before with jogging pants, a t-shirt, a fake mustache, and a wig with collar-length blond hair. He always wore black athletic shoes, so they would serve him for both work and the mission afterward. He grabbed his Dock, slipped it into the outer pocket of the backpack, and hurried downstairs to catch the bus.

  The morning went quickly as Paul immersed himself in writing code to fix a glitch in the federal compensation software. But the afternoon dragged, and Paul found himself watching the clock and thinking of leaving early for the first time since the flu outbreak in 2019.

  A knock on his door brought welcome relief. “Come in.”

  Camille stepped into his office, every curve in her body accentuated by a tight-fitting, one-piece pantsuit. The black and blonde combo nearly gave him an erection.

  “Hey, Paul. I can’t get into the pay-grade file and I need your help.”

  Paul popped out of his chair, excited to show off his sleeker stomach. “Of course.”

  He followed Camille to her workspace, enjoying the view of her lush butt, but wondering about what her personal visit meant. In the past, she would have simply sent him a message and he would have dealt with her issue remotely. A little burst of joy filled his heart as he realized that Camille coming into his office for such a small thing meant she wanted to spend time with him. He couldn’t wait to get his new nose. As soon as he had the first half of the money, he would schedule his procedure. He’d already visited the Surgical Arts Center for a consultation.

  As he checked her login access path, Camille stood close by and he could feel her presence like a warm caress. After a moment, she said, “Thaddeus Morton is speaking at the Hyatt Regency next Thursday night to raise money for Transitions. Will you be there?”

  Paul turned, surprised. “I hadn’t planned to attend. Why?” He rarely participated in social events because he was embarrassed to always go alone.

  Camille shrugged. “I knew you were involved with the charity and thought you might be interested.”

  Was she hinting that he ask her to go? Had she noticed his weight loss? Paul’s nerves jumped with uncertainty. If he asked and she said no, he’d die of shame. If she wanted to be his date and he didn’t ask, he’d kill himself for being so cowardly. “I am interested. I love the work Transitions does with older foster kids. Were you planning to attend?” Paul watched her face carefully, desperate to get a read from her.

  “The ticket is too expensive for me.” She smiled warmly, her big blue eyes pulling him in. “I thought if you were going, you might mention me to the employment commissioner.”

  Paul worked up his courage. “I’d love to take you as my guest.” He could hardly afford one ticket, let alone two, but she was worth it.

  Camille’s eyes registered a hint of surprise. “I’d like that too, Paul, but I’ve already made other plans.” She smiled again and touched his shoulder. “We can meet for a drink in the lounge before the banquet.”

  Paul’s heart fluttered at her touch, then lurched at her offer. “I’d love to. Should we meet at six?”

  “Six-thirty would work better for me.”

  That would only give them half an hour. “Okay. Six-thirty at the Hyatt Regency lounge next Thursday.” Paul resisted the urge to say, It’s a date.

  Emboldened by his earlier success with Camille, Paul got off the bus and strode toward Garfield Park. He’d picked this location because it was small enough for him to keep watch over and had easy access to the bus line. The day was warmer and he noticed a few joggers in addition to a small homeless camp in the park. Perfect.

  He entered a restroom at a nearby fast-food restaurant and moved quickly into one of the stalls. The urinal smell was intense and Paul held his breath while he pulled off his slacks and shirt and stuffed them into his backpack. The near public nudity unnerved him, and he quickly pulled on the athletic pants and t-shirt, an outfit he’d never worn in public before. He dug into the bottom of the backpack for the wig and wig cap. The white nylon wig cap went on easily. He’d already tightened the clips on the wig to fit his head and had practiced putting on both pieces several times. As he turned the artificial hair in his hands to find the center, someone rushed into the restroom and slammed open the other stall door. Paul jumped at the sound and dropped the wig in the toilet. Damn! He fished it out in a flash, but not before the ends got wet. Oh dear God, how could he put that on his head now?

  It’s only water, he told himself. And it wouldn’t actually touch his head. Cringing, he pulled on the wig, straightened it as best he could for the moment, and checked his iCom: 5:46 p.m. He still had plenty of time. He secured his thin, fake mustache in place, picked up his backpack, and stepped out of the stall. After studying himself in the mirror to make sure everything looked right, he headed out into the fading evening sun. The wind had picked up and weather reports warned of possible tornadoes from the temperature shifts.

  Paul jogged to the park and saw that a few more people were passing through. Good. He wanted to be one of a small crowd. He’d made a trip to the area before contacting Rathmore and scoped out his vantage point—a picnic table from which he could observe the rendezvous bench to his left. Paul stood near the table and stretched the way he’d seen runners do. He was a little early and hoped Rathmore would be too. He was glad to be conducting his mission in the fall, despite the unpredictable weather. Had it been July, they would have had to meet indoors.

  After six long minutes of stretching, jogging in place, and keeping an eye on the darkening sky, Paul saw a tall Caucasian man with a gray crew cut approach the bench. He wore a dark blue suit and carried a briefcase, along with a white paper bag. Paul had instructed Rathmore to bring the cash in a plain sack. His thinking was that if the container looked valuable, someone might grab it before he got there. A small paper bag would likely be ignored. Either way, Paul intended to move in and take possession as soon as Rathmore was far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to double back and confront him.

  The man in the blue suit sat on the bench at exactly six o’clock. He took out a Dock and began to read. After two minutes, he abruptly slipped the tablet into his briefcase and stood, as though he suddenly remembered he had to be somewhere. The white bag stayed on the seat. As Rathmore walked away, Paul pulled on his backpack and started across the grass toward the bench, about a hundred feet away.

  At fifty feet from the bag—his lifeline to a better future—a young man with a dog zoomed up the path on his skateboard. The unleashed Boxer slowed as the pair passed the bench, then turned and trotted toward the sack. The dog sniffed the bag, then grabbed it with his teeth.

  No! Heart hammering, Paul sprinted toward the bench, watching in horror as the Boxer trotted off with the cash.

  Paul pushed harder, arms pumping, his thick untrained legs weak from the exertion. The dog picked up speed as it ran after its owner, who was still unaware of the distraction. The wind tugged at his wig, but Paul didn’t slow down or grab for it. He kept pumping his arms and legs, working them harder than he had since he’d run from bullies in junior high. Ten thousand dollars! He had to catch that Boxer.

  “Put it down!” Paul yelled, desperate to get the dog or the young man’s attention. The skateboarder slowed and turned. He saw the bag in the dog’s mouth and put his foot out to stop. As the Boxer caught up to its owner, the young man reached down to take the sack. Paul sprinted up and grabbed it from the dog’s mouth, tearing the bag a little as he pulled.

  “That’s mine.” The words were barely audible as he sucked in rapid gulping breaths. Pain searing his lungs and legs, Paul turned and jogged away with the bag.

  “Sorry,” the young man called out behind him. Paul kept moving, grateful the Boxer hadn’t put up a fight. He would have hated to strike an innocent dog to free the bag.

  He
ran for the sidewalk, wanting desperately to look in the sack, which had been stapled shut. Even more, he wanted to get as far away from this near disaster as he could.

  He caught a bus at the corner of South Carolina and 3rd Street and hurried to a seat in the back, next to an older woman who looked displeased to see him take up the space. He slipped off the backpack as he sat down and crammed the paper sack inside. The scent of burger and fries wafted from the paper. The idiot had used his empty dinner sack. No wonder the dog had grabbed it. Paul let out a small nervous laugh. That had been so close, so nearly ruinous. What if the Boxer had torn open the sack? What would he have done? Paul couldn’t bear to think about it. He had the money and Rathmore had no idea who he was. That was all that mattered.

  Paul’s heart skittered. Did he really have ten grand in his possession? His fingers itched to tear open the bag, which seemed like the right weight for a stack of bills. But the bus was nearly full and the woman next to him seemed like the type to snoop, so he waited

  He exited a few blocks from his apartment complex and entered a crowded McDonald’s, where he headed straight for the bathroom. In the stall, he yanked out the white sack and ripped open the top. Inside were three stacks of gorgeous green bills. Yes! He’d pulled it off. Nearly dizzy with excitement, Paul shoved the bag to the bottom of his backpack. He would count the cash when he got home. He’d stomached all he could of public bathrooms for one day. He pulled off his wig and mustache and changed back into his wrinkled work clothes, shedding his new alter ego.

  Being Paul the frumpy programmer again was simultaneously a relief and a letdown. Still, he left the warm greasy air of the restaurant feeling successful and strode into the wind toward home. On the way, he remembered he still had to arrange to have Janel Roberts fired. A few ideas came to mind, but they all made his stomach churn.

  Chapter 8

  Mon., May 8, 12:58 p.m.