The Gauntlet Assassin Read online

  Forty minutes later, they exited the parkway and traveled along a wide, elevated, and mostly empty road that had once led to the airport. Soon, they passed under a new silver-and-white arch with the word AmGo illuminated at the top. A tremor ran up Lara’s spine. She was finally here at the Gauntlet, a constructed world where she would be tested to her limit. The driver stopped in front of a small, elegant hotel. Lara’s understanding was that the Gauntlet Suites had been reserved for contestants and media people that week. For the rest of the year, the hotel attracted tourists who paid to visit the arena when it was not in use. The stadium where the Battle took place, the one phase of the contest that wealthy viewers could watch in person, was occasionally rented out for concerts and other events. AmGo had made a long-term investment in the property.

  Lara stood in the hotel foyer and breathed it all in. In addition to the light scent of fresh lilies, she inhaled the hygienic smell of luxury. Everything was constructed of smooth, dense material that didn’t retain the odors of the people who passed through.

  At the black marble counter, Lara gave her name, half expecting the young man in the suit to say she wasn’t on the list. She dug out her IDB card, which linked to files with all her banking, employment, and medical records. She handed it to the clerk to scan.

  He checked her photo that came up on his Dock and handed the card back. “Welcome, Lara. Someone contacted us earlier asking about you.” The sweet boy smiled, as if he’d just delivered good news.

  She felt a tingle on the back of her neck. “Who was it?”

  “He said he was an old friend but didn’t say his name. I didn’t give him any information, of course.”

  “What else did he say?” Lara fought the urge to slide her fingers around the butt of her gun.

  “Not much. He just said he was a friend and asked for your room number. I told him I couldn’t give it to him, but that he could leave you a video message. He said he’d try you on your iCom.” The desk clerk bit his lip. “Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t have any friends who would contact me here, so it’s a bit odd.” Lara thought about the man who’d shot the commissioner and wondered if he’d followed her here. Why would he, if he was really an angry lover? “If he comes to the desk, note his description please, but tell him I’m not here.”

  “If he messages again, should I put him through?”

  “No.”

  As she entered the elevator, Lara studied the two other people on board. Were they contestants or media? The man looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t recognize the older woman.

  The man stuck out his hand and grinned. “I’m Jason Copeland, competing for the state of Illinois.”

  And for Mr. Personality. Lara shook his hand-liking that he wasn’t afraid of germs-and sized him up. Five-ten and bulky with muscle, his face had rugged features and sun-weathered skin.

  “Lara Evans, competing for Oregon.”

  “Oh yes, the paramedic who kickboxes.” He nodded his approval. “I researched you, of course.”

  “You’re an ex-Marine and current firefighter.” She’d done her homework on the other competitors as well. They reached the third floor and the elevator doors opened. “Best wishes to both of us,” Lara said, stepping out.

  “See you at orientation.” Copeland gave a little wave.

  Save it for the cameras, Lara thought, walking away. Still, she was pleased he’d been friendly. She’d braced herself for a dog-eat-dog competitive atmosphere with contestants practicing psychological warfare.

  At room 308, she let herself in, happy to see a small suite with two bedrooms and a sitting area. Thank goodness, she would have some privacy. She passed through the foyer and was immediately engulfed in cloud of perfume. Oh crap. Her roommate had already checked in and was seated in front of the built-in NetCom, chatting loudly. She was an Amazon, with a long blonde braid and chiseled cheekbones. Double crap. Exactly the kind of contestant she didn’t want to be standing next to in front of the cameras.

  Her roommate glanced over, held up her hand, and said to the monitor, “I should go. Call me again later.” She turned to Lara. “I’m Kirsten Dornberg from Florida.”

  “Lara Evans, Oregon.”

  “What did I read about you?” Kirsten touched a long finger to her lips. “Oh yeah, you’re an ex-cop and a marathon runner.”

  “Yes. Nice to meet you.” Lara forced herself to smile. “Which bedroom is mine?”

  Kirsten pointed to the one on the left. “They’re exactly the same, so my getting here early wasn’t an advantage.”

  That was more like the competitive element she’d expected. “Excuse me. I need to unpack.”

  As she lifted her suitcase and unzipped it, Lara’s headache intensified. She clamped her jaw and marched back into the sitting area. “I don’t want to get off to a bad start, but I’m allergic to perfume and you can’t wear it in our shared space.”

  Kirsten’s face froze. “That seems a little excessive.”

  “I’m sorry, but it makes me physically ill, and the contest rules explicitly say no smoking or perfume in the hotel rooms.”

  Her roommate waved a dismissive hand. “I’m already wearing it, so there’s nothing I can do about it today.”

  “Please wash it off. It’s giving me a headache.” Lara’s capacity for diplomacy was exhausted.

  “Seriously?” Kirsten rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll ask for another room assignment.” Lara turned to grab her stuff and leave.

  “You don’t have to.” Kirsten stood and moved toward the bathroom. “I’ve already asked to be reassigned once and I don’t want to piss off the director. I’ll go wash.” Her tone and movements pulsed with irritation.

  Lara hurried over to the small window, desperate for some fresh air, but like most new buildings, the glass didn’t open. Damn. The room reeked and even if Kirsten stopped wearing the spray-on chemical, it would be days before the stink cleared.

  Lara waited for her roommate to exit the bathroom, then went in to rinse out her nostrils. Inhaling water burned like hell, but it was temporary and the only way to clean the perfume oils out of her sinuses. Once the competition began, she needed to be one hundred percent. Any discomfort could make the split-second difference in winning and losing a round. A headache could make her scowl, and a single frown could turn viewers against her. In the Challenge, with a simple vote via their preferred device, viewers could make or break a contestant by determining the level of difficulty for each phase. The ability to affect the contest pulled in millions of pay-per-view voters from around the globe, but it could be hell on the contestants.

  Lara glanced at herself in the mirror, and in the harsh bathroom light, saw only the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes and the deepening furrow in her brow. Police work had done that to her forehead. She’d started using rub-on Botox a few months back, but it could only do so much.

  She stepped out of the bathroom and saw Kirsten digging into the suitcase she’d left unzipped on her bed. “Hey, what are doing?” Lara rushed across the sitting area.

  Kirsten spun around with the Taser in her hand. “Why did you bring a stun gun?”

  Resisting the urge to shout, Lara commanded, “Put it down before you hurt someone.” Kirsten complied and Lara grabbed the Taser. “I’m an ex-cop and a paramedic. Dealing with noncs can be dangerous. I always carry a weapon.”

  “I don’t think you’re allowed to have it during the competition. I could report you.”

  “Weapons are only banned in the arena. And I could report you for wearing perfume and rifling through my things.” Lara felt rattled. She’d been there ten minutes and was already on the edge of trouble. This was not the plan. She wanted to be charming in her social encounters and ruthless in the competition. “Let’s forget all of it, okay? I’d like to get along.” What she really wanted was for Kirsten to leave the small colorless room so she could be alone for a moment.

  The NetCom made a soft noise, then a woman’
s voice came through the speakers. “This is Minda Walters, director of the Gauntlet. Do you hear me?”

  Lara spun toward the desk. The video app on the monitor showed a thirty-something woman with close-cropped black hair and permanent eye-makeup tattoos. Lara stepped forward, a sick feeling in her gut. “This is Lara Evans. Kirsten Dornberg is here too.”

  “I’d like you both to report to my office on the fourth floor. It’s suite 402. Bring the perfume and the Taser.”

  Kirsten started to speak, but Lara held her finger to her lips. She grabbed her room card and motioned Kirsten to follow.

  In the hall, her roommate’s face crumpled. “I forgot about the cameras in the sitting area. I hope she doesn’t boot us out.”

  “Are you sure it’s video?” Lara knew the staging areas in the arena had cameras everywhere because the event was broadcast, but she hadn’t expected them in the hotel rooms.

  “It’s new this year, and the notice was in the file they sent us last week. You signed a consent form or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Lara had read five pages of fine print but didn’t remember such a reference. Damn! As they walked toward the elevator, her anxiety built like pressure in a teakettle. Would they be given a warning or simply kicked out? Last year, the director, nicknamed the Axe, had terminated a contestant before the Gauntlet even started, and all he’d done was smoke a cigarette, an activity that was banned almost everywhere.

  Suite 402 was on the top floor at the end of the hall and the door was open. A good sign, Lara thought. A huge metal-and-glass desk sat in the middle of the main room, and the woman behind the desk seemed tiny in comparison. Lara recognized her as Minda Walters, the Gauntlet’s director, who also served as co-host for the competition. Lara saw Minda glance up at a vent on the wall, then click her keyboard. The room was wired for video, she realized, and the director had just shut off the cameras.

  Minda’s tight expression made Lara wince, but she introduced herself with confidence anyway. She didn’t offer a handshake. The custom had faded after back-to-back influenza outbreaks, and many younger people had never adopted it. Her roommate plopped in a chair, looking glum.

  “Put the contraband on that table and have a seat.” Minda gestured, but her facial muscles didn’t move. Lara suspected her lip color was permanent as well.

  Kirsten dropped off her perfume bottle, but Lara held on to her weapon.

  The director ignored it for the moment. She introduced herself, then stared at Kirsten. “The rules are clear about perfume. This is your only warning. If you violate another rule, you’re out.”

  “I’m sorry. Thank you.” Kirsten closed her eyes in relief.

  Minda turned to Lara. “The rules concerning weapons are less clear. You can’t bring a weapon into the arena, but federal law allows you to carry one in public as long as you’re licensed. However, I want the Taser to remain with me during the competition.”

  Lara knew she should simply set the stun gun on the table and let it go, but she couldn’t. She’d been beaten and sexually assaulted as a college student in Seattle. She’d fought back and saved herself from a full rape, but the trauma had triggered her obsession with self-defense skills. Later as a detective, a police sergeant under investigation had viciously attacked her, and once on an emergency call, a man had charged her with a knife. Her Taser had saved her.

  Then the laws changed and people started carrying guns and using them more freely. Distrust and the need to be prepared were part of her DNA now. She would rather walk around naked than be without a weapon.

  Finally, Lara said, “I prefer to keep it with me.” She counted on the director not being willing to attract negative publicity over the issue.

  Minda glared and pressed her red lips together. Lara had second thoughts. The director could sabotage her in the competition in so many ways. Then Lara remembered she had the commissioner on her side.

  “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to sleep without it. I have PTSD from my last year as a homicide detective.” Lara hated to pull the sympathy card, but she needed both the security of her weapons and the director’s goodwill. She was glad Minda didn’t know about the Kel-Tec.

  “I’m not willing to make an issue of it then.” Minda’s left eye twitched. “I’d rather the other contestants don’t know that you have the stun gun.”

  “Trust me, I don’t plan to share.” Lara didn’t want to make the situation worse, but she had to know. “Are there cameras in the bedrooms or bathroom?”

  “Of course not.” Minda looked offended. “Our coverage is family-oriented. And, since you obviously didn’t read the guidelines, I’ll remind you that the cameras in the hotel-room sitting areas shut off at eight.”

  Kirsten suddenly spoke up. “I’m not sure Lara and I are compatible. Would you consider reassigning me?”

  “No. Your personal conflict is good for ratings. The difference in your ages and physical appearance adds to the tension. Not only will you share a room, I’d like you to keep the conflict going throughout the competition.” Minda raised her tattooed eyebrows. “It’s in your best interest, if you know what I mean.”

  Back in her room, Lara sent a message to the only number she had for the employment commissioner, the one he’d used to summon a freelance paramedic. She hoped it was his personal iCom or would route to it. Her text said simply: I may need your help. I’m on Minda Walters’ shit list already.

  Chapter 5

  Seven and a half months earlier: Sat., Oct. 29

  Paul picked at his microwave dinner as he watched a game show on his Dock. He’d been cutting calories since his first coffee date with Camille and he was down five pounds. He sucked in his stomach. The daily thirty crunches he’d added hadn’t done a thing for his abs though, so he decided to increase his effort to fifty. None of it changed his reality. He was alone on a Saturday evening, like every other weekend of his life.

  The day before, he’d finally worked up the nerve to send a text message to the employment commissioner, suggesting he consider Camille Waterson as one of his replacements on file. Morton had shot back a terse note, essentially telling him to mind his own business. Paul hadn’t told Camille about either message and didn’t plan to.

  He put the rest of his dinner on the floor for Lilly, but she wasn’t interested. His little white Lhasa-Poo was a picky eater but he didn’t mind. Sometimes the beat of her heart in his lap was all that kept him going. Paul moved to the couch and Lilly followed to lie at his feet.

  He clicked on his wide wall screen and it automatically tuned to the same program as on his Dock. A commercial for a cosmetic surgery center filled the room with upbeat music. Paul reached to mute it. The screen flashed before-and-after photos of a man who’d had a nose procedure. The effect was stunning. Paul touched his own bulbous nose. Would surgery work the same miracle for him? A shimmer of hope pulsed in his chest. Could he make Camille see him differently? Make her want to kiss him?

  Paul scoffed at the idea. He’d thought about the surgery before, but the cost was prohibitive. He didn’t have an extra fifteen thousand and wouldn’t qualify to put that much on a credit card. Even if he did, how would he pay it off? He sent a small chunk of his monthly deposit to Isabel so she could afford her diabetes and heart medications. It left him almost nothing to put in savings.

  Excited and frustrated, Paul began to pace his apartment. He lived in a one-bedroom unit in the Potomac Towers, where he paid too much for rent. But he liked being close to work, and he made the most of his space by keeping his furnishings and possessions to a minimum. He’d been in the building for eight years, since he’d landed his government job, and he felt lucky for the stability. His college roommate had never found a job and ended up living with his parents, and several of his neighbors had been forced to move when they’d lost their jobs. Not to mention the millions of homeless people.

  Paul knew he was fortunate, possessing both a federal job and a partially sponsored med card, but he still had to be frugal b
ecause the price of everything had nearly doubled in the last five years while his salary stayed the same. Could he get his bank to raise his credit limit? Could he afford monthly payments at twenty percent interest?

  He stopped in front of his window overlooking a small grassy area below. He wanted a new nose and he had to find a way to come up with some cash. His thoughts drifted to the replacement database and the trove of personal information it held. Could he make it work for him? Now that he finally had Camille’s attention, he had to keep her interested.

  Paul put Lilly on the leash and rushed for the door. A wild idea had popped into his head and he needed to walk and think it through. He hurried past the elevator and took the stairs, as he’d been doing since his coffee with Camille. In the lobby, Mrs. Olson, an elderly woman who lived on his floor, seemed weighed down by a large sack of groceries. Paul stepped toward her. “Let me carry those for you.”

  “But you were headed out and I’m going upstairs.”

  “It’s okay. We don’t mind.” Paul slipped Lilly’s leash over his wrist and took the bag. His plans could wait a moment. On the elevator, Mrs. Olson chatted about the high cost of fresh produce, but Paul wasn’t listening. His mind raced with dangerous ideas. He carried the sack into his neighbor’s kitchen, then pounded down the stairs again.

  Outside, the cold grabbed him like an icy glove. Yesterday had been sixty, so today’s nearly freezing weather was a bit of a shock. Temperature swings had been common for years, but Paul’s soft, indoor body never got used to them. He wished he’d put a sweater on Lilly, but they wouldn’t be out long.

  He buttoned his coat and strode to a nearby park, where he could walk and think. The idea kept churning as he looked at it from every angle. With twenty-one percent unemployment, jobs were a valuable commodity and those that offered med cards were a premium. What if he could arrange for someone in the replacement database to land a position they coveted? What would he have to do? First, he’d have to find someone who was ready to retire, or hell, even needed to be fired. Then he’d have to target the neediest of the three candidates and offer them the job for a price. Would they pay fifteen or twenty thousand? Why not? Level C positions all had high-end med cards, and the savings of not paying for health insurance was worth that much annually.