Read Online Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) by Pamela Beason - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Pamela Beason
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me.”
“Can’t let half my team disappear.” When he looks up, moonlight defines the planes of his face. “Is that the Southern Cross?”
“Maybe,” I murmur.
In the distance, a creature squeals. It’s not a sound I recognize. Maybe that animal just became lunch for something bigger, maybe that’s an ecstatic mating call. Scritch-scritch noises and rhythmic croaking emanate from the jungle in surround-sound.
“This reminds me of cicadas back home,” Sebastian says. He sounds wistful.
“Cicadas in D.C.?” I don’t think of our nation’s capitol as a place with much in the way of wildlife except for rats and cockroaches.
“Georgia.” The word drops with a bitter thud between us.
Of course. The President’s life is not Sebastian’s life, or at least it hasn’t been until recently.
“It reminds me of tree frogs back home in Washington State,” I tell him.
“We’ve got those, too,” he says.
Having other people stand here with me spoils my solitary ritual of immersing myself in the night, so I raise my arms and murmur, “Well, goodnight, world.”
Then I head back to the tent. My partner and guard silently follow, like shadows.
As we slip into our beds, Sebastian says, “First place,” and then adds in a hokey Old West voice, “We done good, pardner.”
“It’s only the first day,” I remind him. For a second, I think about how close we came to drowning. But we didn’t. I pull the sheet over my shoulder and roll over to sleep. “Yeah, we done good.”
We’ve only been stretched out on our cots for maybe five minutes when we are awakened by bells and whistles and camera flashes outside. The reception committee has gotten its act together now. The third-place team—Marco Senai and Suzana Mistri—arrives ninety-eight minutes after we did.
I hear the creak of a folding chair as one of the Secret Service robots behind our tent shifts his weight. His companion stands up and stretches—I can tell because his shoulder joints pop and I hear the whisper of his windbreaker sliding over his starched shirt. I’ve seen at least six of these suits now. I wonder if Sebastian knows all of them by name.
These guys make me antsy. Surely they realize that there’s no better way to advertise a target than to surround it with guards? Might as well have a neon arrow that points to us with flashing letters: Here they are .
The next team—Madelyn Hatt and Jason Jones—comes in fifteen minutes later to more noisy fanfare. It’s going to be impossible to get any real sleep here.
In the dark tent, I glance at Sebastian lying on the cot across from me. I can’t really see his face, but I see the pale gleam of his eyes in the dark, so I know they’re open. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but in my mind, all these teams are too close to ensure a win for us. Three checkpoints and more than 150 miles to go before the finish line. Anything could happen.
What was that threat the guards hinted at earlier? Does Sebastian know? Does he care? Do I want to know?
I pull the necklace from beneath my pillow and slip the braided cord over my head. I can’t see it well in the dark, but I finger the outline of Africa, trace the shapes of the animals. Who is P.A. Patterson?
Is it possible that my parents are watching me from a distance as I grow up? But that makes no sense. I know all that blood was real. And my brother—what about Aaron?
I decide I have too much to worry about already. We won’t know where the next checkpoint is until we get our download two hours before we have to leave. Which means we now have less than seven hours to sleep.
I finally give up and swallow a pill from the little stash I always carry in my pack when I do multi-day races. These drugs are allowed, but it’s a scary thing for me to take them, especially in a strange place. However, sometimes you’ve just got to have faith that you will wake up in the morning.
I dream of seeing my dead parents on the floor but then,
“Can’t let half my team disappear.” When he looks up, moonlight defines the planes of his face. “Is that the Southern Cross?”
“Maybe,” I murmur.
In the distance, a creature squeals. It’s not a sound I recognize. Maybe that animal just became lunch for something bigger, maybe that’s an ecstatic mating call. Scritch-scritch noises and rhythmic croaking emanate from the jungle in surround-sound.
“This reminds me of cicadas back home,” Sebastian says. He sounds wistful.
“Cicadas in D.C.?” I don’t think of our nation’s capitol as a place with much in the way of wildlife except for rats and cockroaches.
“Georgia.” The word drops with a bitter thud between us.
Of course. The President’s life is not Sebastian’s life, or at least it hasn’t been until recently.
“It reminds me of tree frogs back home in Washington State,” I tell him.
“We’ve got those, too,” he says.
Having other people stand here with me spoils my solitary ritual of immersing myself in the night, so I raise my arms and murmur, “Well, goodnight, world.”
Then I head back to the tent. My partner and guard silently follow, like shadows.
As we slip into our beds, Sebastian says, “First place,” and then adds in a hokey Old West voice, “We done good, pardner.”
“It’s only the first day,” I remind him. For a second, I think about how close we came to drowning. But we didn’t. I pull the sheet over my shoulder and roll over to sleep. “Yeah, we done good.”
We’ve only been stretched out on our cots for maybe five minutes when we are awakened by bells and whistles and camera flashes outside. The reception committee has gotten its act together now. The third-place team—Marco Senai and Suzana Mistri—arrives ninety-eight minutes after we did.
I hear the creak of a folding chair as one of the Secret Service robots behind our tent shifts his weight. His companion stands up and stretches—I can tell because his shoulder joints pop and I hear the whisper of his windbreaker sliding over his starched shirt. I’ve seen at least six of these suits now. I wonder if Sebastian knows all of them by name.
These guys make me antsy. Surely they realize that there’s no better way to advertise a target than to surround it with guards? Might as well have a neon arrow that points to us with flashing letters: Here they are .
The next team—Madelyn Hatt and Jason Jones—comes in fifteen minutes later to more noisy fanfare. It’s going to be impossible to get any real sleep here.
In the dark tent, I glance at Sebastian lying on the cot across from me. I can’t really see his face, but I see the pale gleam of his eyes in the dark, so I know they’re open. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but in my mind, all these teams are too close to ensure a win for us. Three checkpoints and more than 150 miles to go before the finish line. Anything could happen.
What was that threat the guards hinted at earlier? Does Sebastian know? Does he care? Do I want to know?
I pull the necklace from beneath my pillow and slip the braided cord over my head. I can’t see it well in the dark, but I finger the outline of Africa, trace the shapes of the animals. Who is P.A. Patterson?
Is it possible that my parents are watching me from a distance as I grow up? But that makes no sense. I know all that blood was real. And my brother—what about Aaron?
I decide I have too much to worry about already. We won’t know where the next checkpoint is until we get our download two hours before we have to leave. Which means we now have less than seven hours to sleep.
I finally give up and swallow a pill from the little stash I always carry in my pack when I do multi-day races. These drugs are allowed, but it’s a scary thing for me to take them, especially in a strange place. However, sometimes you’ve just got to have faith that you will wake up in the morning.
I dream of seeing my dead parents on the floor but then,
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