by Sean Rodman
Dead Run
Sean Rodman
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2012 Sean Rodman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Rodman, Sean, 1972-
Dead run [electronic resource] / Sean Rodman.
(Orca soundings)
Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0246-9 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0247-6 (EPUB)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings (Online)
PS8635.O355D43 2012 jC813’.6 C2012-902572-0
First published in the United States, 2012
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938208
Summary: Wanting to become a world-class cyclist, Sam ends up working as a courier, delivering packages for a criminal organization, and is soon running for his life.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover photography by iStockphoto.com
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15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1
For Dad
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter One
I have no fear.
I’m tensed and ready, like a coiled spring. I know that the stakes in this race are high. But I am not afraid. I’m totally focused. Nothing exists except the starting signal. And the bike beneath me.
The light goes green. I hammer down, making powerful sweeps with my pedals, surging forward. The BMW to my left starts to accelerate, but I beat him into the intersection. Then I’m across the street. Dodging around a big green Dumpster. Weaving back away from a city bus.
In my mind, I’m ahead of the pack at the Olympics. I’m fighting it out with the best cyclists in the world. But it’s all in my head. So far. The truth is that I’m only seventeen, with just a couple of races under my belt.
It’s a start. I’ve got big plans.
A delivery truck blocks my lane, so I bunny-hop onto the sidewalk. I pull up in front of Quan’s Groceries, leaning my steel-gray racing bike up against a metal grate. I slap my lock around the bike and the grate, then walk in.
“Hey, Sam,” grunts the big guy behind the counter.
“Hey, Mr. Lee,” I reply. “Just need some breakfast.”
“Are you in that bike race downtown today?” Mr. Lee asks. Me and my dad are regulars here.
“Yeah, the Albion Square Crit. I’m on my way.” I carefully pick out two of the least spotted bananas from the display.
“You going to win?”
I come back to the counter. “You can bet money on it,” I say. Mr. Lee chuckles.
“Then the bananas are on the house today. Consider it my big sponsorship for you.”
I laugh and thank him. Outside, I slide the bananas into the wide pocket at the rear of my jersey. I check my watch—damn, I’m late again. Gotta move it. I’m on the bike and back on the road. Fighting through traffic. Racing.
Big sponsorship. That would be nice. I’m still in the Junior category. Which means no real money, not like the pros. Mind you, today is a little different. The Albion Crit—short for “criterium”—is a city race, ten laps around a couple of blocks downtown. Like most races, there’s an individual winner as well as a winning team. But in this crit, there are also special prizes. The judges will ring a bell in the middle of the race. That means whoever wins the next lap gets $100. A little extra money would be kind of a big deal right now. Things are pretty tight at home. Dad works the night shift at a warehouse, which barely pays our rent. Mom—she left a couple of years ago.
My focus snaps back to the street when I see the red brake lights of a taxi flare in front of me. I lean hard, dodging a woman stepping out of the yellow cab. Don’t want to get doored.
By the time I get to Albion Square, there’s a big crowd waiting at the start line. It’s drizzling a little now, a fine mist that slicks the road. I walk my bike in between the brightly colored rain jackets and umbrellas, looking for my team. There they are—two guys working on their bikes, both my age. The tallest one looks over.
“Sam!” Hayden says loudly. “What took you so long?”
“Traffic,” I say.
“Whatever,” Hayden says. He straightens up and looks at me. “It’s always something.” His black hair is plastered to his head with the rain. He’s clearly not in a good mood. “And you didn’t show up for practice last night. What was your excuse for that?”
“No excuse. I didn’t need the practice. My time is good,” I say. I look him right in the eyes, daring him to take me on. Christ, Hayden’s annoying. His dad owns a bike shop, which means we get free gear. Gear that I can’t afford. But Hayden thinks that also means he’s the coach. We lock tough-guy stares for a minute. Then he breaks it off.
“All right, this is the plan. It’s Andrew’s turn to take the lead. You and I will cover him, let him draft behind us. We all hold back for the first eight laps. Then Andrew will break away and go for it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “Andrew isn’t a sprinter. We’ll lose.”
“Actually, he’s right,” Andrew says to Hayden, shrugging. “Sam is a way better sprinter than me…” He’s a small kid, always a little nervous around me.
“You don’t get it, Sam,” Hayden says. “If we don’t give Andrew the chance, he’s never going to get better, right? It’s not like this crit is a big deal. It’s just practice.”
“Now we’re practicing to be losers?”
“Enough. You want to race today or not?”
I do. And as much as I hate Hayden’s attitude, if I want to keep racing on the team, I don’t really have a choice. I suck it up.
“Fine,” I say. “Andrew takes the breakaway.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at the starting line. The street is clogged with brightly colored racers. I recognize a few of the teams. The Red Rock Cycles guys are hard to miss in their red-and-white uniforms. They have the best bikes and pretty much always place in the top rankings. There’s part of me that wants to beat them. And part of me that wishes I were on their team.
Time to pull it together. I take some deep breaths, trying to slow down my heart, riding the adrenaline building in my veins.
The noise of the crowd suddenly drops. There’s a long blast from an air horn. Immediately, the pack of cyclists crashes forward across the line. It’s all pistoning legs, elbows out, just trying to stay upright. One guy spills into the crowd as we go aroun
d the first corner. The pack starts to stretch out, the slowest riders dropping behind while the best ones pull ahead. By the time we’re in the straightaway, my team is right in the middle of the pack.
Six laps later, we’re still in the middle. I’m pulling for Andrew, who is drafting behind me. Hayden and I have been taking turns letting him ride close to our bikes, practically touching wheels. By cycling like this, we make it easier for him to pedal and conserve his energy. That way, he should be rested and ready for his big break. If he’s still up for it. I shoulder-check, then drop back to talk to him.
“Next lap, you ready?” I say. Andrew can’t speak, he’s panting so hard. He just nods and grunts. This plan is not going to work. I look ahead as the pack dives into the straightaway on our eighth lap. On the sidelines I see one of the race organizers lift a big silver bell and ring it. There it is. Winner of the next lap gets one hundred bucks.
Screw it.
I rise up off my seat and push down, hard. In seconds, I’m away from Hayden and Andrew. My chest starts to heave. I focus on the leader, on the back of his Red Rock Cycles jersey. A moment later, I’m beside him. Then I’m on my own and headed to win that hundred bucks. And maybe the race. If I can stay ahead of the pack.
Chapter Two
I’m alone at the front of the pack. I don’t look behind. I just focus on the road scrolling by in front of my bike. My body is a machine, constantly accelerating. I’m unstoppable. The crowd is cheering, and I roar right back at them, screaming as I tear up the streets.
But by the time I come around the final corner, my legs are starting to burn. I’m mouth-breathing like an animal, unable to suck in enough oxygen to fill my lungs. Sweat is pouring down from my forehead and smearing my vision. Even so, I can’t miss the Red Rock guy coming up on my left.
He grinds along, each turn of his pedals killing my lead. The lap is nearly complete. I so badly want to push myself across that line before him. But I can’t. I just can’t. Nothing left. The bell rings and the Red Rock guy has the hundred bucks. Not me.
Still, I’ve got two laps left to finish the race. For a moment, I hold on to the idea that I might come in second overall. Then I hear the pack rattling up behind me. No matter how hard I try and push, I can’t keep up anymore. Rider after rider passes me by. Even Andrew.
I’m not the last one to cross the finish line, but I’m pretty close. I drop my bike and sit down, head on my knees, feeling like I might throw up. I don’t see Hayden come up next to me, but I hear his voice. He doesn’t sound angry. Which somehow makes it worse.
“That’s the last time I’m going to watch you leave us behind, Sam. You want to be out in front by yourself? You got it. You’re on your own.”
“Wait,” I croak. I try and stand, but my legs won’t move.
“Keep the jersey, all the other crap. Just don’t talk to me again.”
All I can do is sit there, chest heaving. Watching Hayden and Andrew wheel their bikes away through the thinning crowd.
I feel sick, and it’s not just from killing myself in the race. I know, deep down, that Hayden’s totally right to be mad with me. For not sticking to the plan. For losing my cool. For not being a professional. It’s the same story in every race.
Racing was going to be the thing that got me out of my crappy life. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve wanted to be a great racer. And I know I could be. I’m sure of it. Except I’ve screwed it all up. Maybe for good this time.
I see the guy from Red Rock Cycles watching me. He’s already got a hoodie on, cooling down. He starts toward me, and a little flash of anger pushes past my exhaustion. He’s older than me, bigger than me, maybe in university already.
“You coming to rub it in too?” I say. “I lost the race. I get it.”
“Take it easy. I’m not interested in making you feel worse. You look bad enough as it is.” He extends a hand. “I’m Kai.”
I grab his hand and pull myself into a standing position. My legs still feel like they’re filled with water. But they hold me up this time.
“Actually,” Kai says, “I came to tell you I was impressed. I’ve never seen a breakaway like that. You tore up the track.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I lost.”
“Yeah, you lost. Know what? It’s just a shitty little crit. You get it together, learn some discipline, you could be winning the real races.”
I didn’t expect that. It makes me feel a little better. “You offering to take me on your team? ’Cause I need one now.”
Kai studies me for a moment with this calculating look, like he’s checking out a new bike. Like he’s measuring me.
“No way. You need someone different from me,” Kai says. “Someone more experienced. You need someone who can handle you. Give you some discipline. Some focus.”
That little lift I just had? It fades away.
“Tell you what,” Kai says. He pulls out an old receipt and a pen from the pocket of his hoodie. He scribbles something down on the back of the receipt and passes it to me.
“Check this guy out. I used to train with him awhile back. Now he runs a bike courier outfit. He might be willing to take you on.”
“What’s so special about him?” I ask Kai.
“He won gold in the Olympics, long time ago. And he’s tough. Tough enough to make you into something.”
Chapter Three
I wake up listening to a garbage truck clank and wheeze down the street. It’s Monday morning, and the house is quiet. Dad is still at his night shift at the warehouse. He’ll come back, grab a couple of hours’ sleep, then spend the rest of time in front of the TV with a beer in one hand, remote in the other. When Mom left, he just kind of pulled back from the world, like a turtle into his shell. I couldn’t handle it and started finding ways to avoid him. These days, we barely talk. But any conversation we have turns into an argument. Like last week, when Dad bugged me about getting a job. Money is always tight with us. He wanted me to stop screwing around with bikes, bring in some income. He called me lazy, told me to pull my weight. Which is ironic, given how much time he spends on the couch. I tried to explain why racing matters to me, how I think I have potential—which he’d understand, if he ever came to one of my races. It turned into a shouting match. We haven’t talked at all since then.
I look over at my bedside table. The receipt with Kai’s handwriting is lying there. Viktor, it reads in blue pen. Champion Couriers, Valleyside Industrial Park.
A coach. Someone who could help me start winning real races. Like Kai said, give me some discipline. Make me into something. Because I’m not making it on my own.
There’s no way I could ever pay for a professional coach. There’s no way my dad would help me out with it.
Still.
What if…?
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in my favorite Lakers T-shirt, Pop Tart in one hand, steering my bike down the street with the other. It takes a little while to find the address. It’s in a part of town I don’t usually go to. Industrial, big blocks of warehouses. Walls of rusty steel siding. But when I get to the address, I can’t miss it. There’s a sign that looks like the gear from a bike. Champion Couriers is painted in peeling white-and-red paint. Below the sign is a big open garage, dark like a cave despite the summer sunshine.
I hop off my bike and wheel it inside. Shelves of bicycle parts clutter the sides of the garage. A metal staircase leads up to another level inside the building. As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I see four young guys working on some bikes. And a girl. She’s got bright-red hair, kind of punk. Kind of hot. Except for the tough look I get when she catches me staring.
Before I can say anything, there’s a burst of noise from the top of the stairs. A tall guy with dreadlocks comes stomping down. A shorter, older guy is right behind him, and he’s mad as hell. I’m not sure what language he’s yelling in, but the old guy is clearly pissed at Dreadlocks. The two of them nearly run me over as Dreadlocks heads for the open garage door.
&nb
sp; “You walk out, you don’t come back,” the old guy yells in a thick accent. “I don’t take you back, never!” Dreadlocks just sticks his arm behind him and flips out his middle finger. Keeps walking.
“You were a crappy courier, Neil! You sucked, always!” the old guy says. Then he switches to another language and yells some more. Russian or something?
Not a good time to introduce myself. But I don’t have another plan. I say, “Viktor?” He spins toward me. He’s got a square face, all hard edges marked with a white mustache, military style and yellowed from cigarettes.
“What?”
“Uh, Kai said I should talk to you.”
“Kai?” I can see his watery blue eyes thinking, remembering. He takes a deep breath, cooling off. “Yeah. Kai. Okay. Many years ago. What does he want?”
“He said that I should ask you about coaching,” I say. Viktor’s face tightens up. I stumble onward under his cold gaze. “Coaching, like for racing bikes. He said you were good.”
“Good? That’s what the big man said?” Viktor snorts. “That kid left me as soon as I made him.” He squints, looking out of the darkness of the garage into the daylight outside. “Look, I don’t coach anymore. I spend all my time on these whiny children. Like Neil. All my time trying just to keep the doors of this business open.” He starts to walk back up the steel stairs and says over his shoulder, “Go home. Tell Kai to stop by sometime. If the big man has time for me anymore.”
I’m watching this Olympic champion walk away from me. And it feels like I never had a chance. My bike clatters to the floor as I drop it and walk after him.
“Wait, you were better than good. You placed in the Olympics, right? Gold?” Viktor stops at the top of the stairs, listening. “You were the best in the world. That’s why I’m here. I could be like that. Like you. But I need a little help.” Viktor turns around slowly. I’m surprised to see that he’s smiling.
“You think you need a little help?” he says. “I can tell. You need lots of help.” Some of the couriers in the garage laugh at that. I’d forgotten about them. I feel my face start to burn when I see the red-haired girl shaking her head.
