by Cindi Myers
The bartender switched the television to a baseball game and Morgan paid for her drink and left the bar. It was too early to return to her room, which had begun to feel more like a prison. She decided instead to walk down toward Union Station, and the finish line. Maybe she’d find inspiration there for the article she had yet to write, summarizing today’s race results. And she could scope out the best location from which to watch the finish tomorrow.
The area around Union Station was undergoing a transformation, with work crews hanging colorful banners from every lamppost down the street leading to the finish line. Flags from every country participating in the race snapped in the breeze around the broad plaza, where more workers were assembling a podium and grandstand. Someone had even hung a banner over part of the station’s iconic orange neon sign, so that the legend would read Travel by Bike.
She crossed the street at Fourteenth and started toward the grandstands, but she hadn’t gone far before a blue-uniformed police officer stopped her. “Excuse me, ma’am, but this area is closed to the public.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She stepped back. Behind him, she could see crews setting up shining metal barriers.
“You can go through the bus station.” He pointed up the block. “Go in the doors of the transportation hall, and downstairs. There’s an elevator at the end that will take you up to street level on the other side of the plaza.”
She glanced at the barriers. “I guess this is all part of security for the race tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am. We want everyone to enjoy the race safely.”
“Thank you.” She retraced her steps down the street. This time, she noticed the extra police on duty, and signs notifying race-goers that they must pass through security before taking their place along the final route or entering the plaza. Luke was out here right now, doing his part to keep people safe, too. If only she could contribute more to the efforts.
She rode the escalator down to the bus station beneath transportation hall. The area was packed with people waiting for or disembarking from city buses. She wove her way through the crowd and had almost reached the exit on the opposite side when someone jostled her.
“Excuse me,” she said, and tried to move away, but a strong hand grabbed her arm.
“Don’t scream,” a voice whispered in her ear, and something sharp jabbed at her side.
“What? Who are you?” Fighting panic, she tried to turn her head, to see her attacker, but the knife jabbed, and a sharp pain went through her.
“Walk,” the voice commanded, and pushed her forward.
She walked, the man’s arm wrapped around her, holding her close, like two lovers making their way through the crowd. Except that one hand gripped the back of her neck to keep her from turning her head or looking at him, and the other held what she guessed was a knife to her side.
He led her, not outside, but to a door marked Custodial. He pulled this open, shoved her inside and then everything went black.
Chapter Fifteen
Morgan’s head throbbed. What had she done to end up with such a headache? Was she coming down with the flu or something? And why was this bed so uncomfortable? She opened her eyes and stared at gray concrete. She tried to move her arms and couldn’t, then realized she wasn’t lying on a bed at all, but on a hard floor. She rolled over again and kicked her feet, trying to get free. She had a dim memory of walking through the transportation hall, of someone grabbing her and then...nothing.
“I wouldn’t thrash around so much if I were you. You don’t want to blow us up. At least not yet.”
She whipped her head around and saw a man standing in front of a door. He was dressed all in black—black boots, black pants, black long-sleeved T-shirt and a black ski mask over his face. At the mention of blowing up, she gasped. “Who are you? What are you talking about?”
He knelt beside her and adjusted something on her chest. Some kind of vest. It wasn’t too tight, but it was definitely heavy. “There are five pounds of pelleted explosives in this vest, as well as several sticks of dynamite,” he said. “It’s wired to go off at a signal from me, but you should probably lie still, just in case your movement happens to trigger a stray spark. It would be a shame to waste all my efforts before the big day.”
He spoke calmly, with an unaccented but definitely American voice. His hands, the only part of him she could see, were white. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “You sound crazy.”
“Your brother is the crazy one. It’s a shame, really, I watched some footage of him, racing. He was good. Though probably as corrupt as all of them.”
His mention of her brother made her break out in a cold sweat. This had to be Danny. The man who had killed the UCI president. The man who had shot at Scott. The person Luke suspected of being responsible for the bombings in London and Paris. She had to learn as much as she could about him. “Were you a racer, too?” He didn’t really have the build for it—he was too soft. “Or was someone you loved a racer?”
“No.”
“Then what do you have against racing?”
She felt his gaze on her, though she could see little of him in the ski mask. “Racing represents everything corrupt about this country,” he said after a moment.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I don’t require you to understand.”
What an odd choice of words. What did he “require” from her? “What are you going to do with me?” she asked. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know the answer to that question, but if she had any chance of surviving at all, she needed to know what was going on in his head.
“The problem with people today is they don’t listen.” He tightened a strap on the vest and stood once more. “I told you, this is a suicide vest. It’s wired to explode at a signal from me. It will kill you, and everyone around you.”
“What did I ever do to you that you’d want me to die?” she asked, hating the way her voice shook on the last words.
“You didn’t do anything in particular,” he said. “But as my mentors have taught me, the best way to get back at the people you hate is to target their loved ones. Your brother and your cop friends are making my life very difficult right now. They’re interfering with plans they have no business trying to stop. They must pay for their mistakes, so I’m going to destroy what they love most. You.”
Did he really think Luke loved her that way—that he’d be destroyed by her death? She closed her eyes and swallowed back tears. Maybe he did feel that way about her. She knew for sure that she cared for him enough to not want to see him hurt this way. And Scott—to have her death associated with the bicycle racing he still loved could be enough to send him into a madness from which he might never recover.
She opened her eyes and tried as best she could to hide her emotions from his scrutiny even though, as Luke had pointed out, she was a lousy liar. “What are you going to do?”
He took something from his pocket—a purple cell phone she recognized as her own. “First, I’m going to take a picture.” He held up the phone. “Smile.”
She stared at him, rigid with fear. The digital shutter clicked and he studied the results on the screen. “That will do,” he said. “You look suitably horrified.”
“Why do you need a picture?” she asked.
He pocketed the phone. “I’m going to send this to the media, so they’ll see what I have planned. But they won’t know where or when.”
Clearly, he was nuts. She had to get away from him, any way she could. “Fine. You have your picture. You can take the vest off now.”
“No.” He moved to her side and pulled a bandanna from his pocket. He stuffed it in her mouth as she fought against him. “Remember what I told you about the explosives,” he said as he taped the gag in place. “You don’t want to set them off too early.” He moved to the
door and flicked the switch to shut off the light, plunging the room into darkness. “I’ll be back in a little while to move you into place,” he said.
What then? she wondered.
He anticipated her unvoiced question. “Then, I’ll blow you up.” The last thing she heard was a choked sound, as if he was chuckling to himself while he shut the door behind him, leaving her alone in the dark.
* * *
“I WAS GONNA call you,” Scott said. He sat on a bench next to Luke, under a streetlight in a park not far from the sofa where Luke had found him. Ace and Dinky, the guys he’d been hanging with, had left. They didn’t want to hassle with a cop. Scott didn’t want the hassle, either, but he figured he had no choice. When Luke suggested they walk over here to the park, Scott had followed. He was tired of running, anyway. “I just had to think how to do it,” he said. “I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“You’re not in trouble,” Luke said. “But I really need your help. I need to know everything you can tell me about Danny.”
“Where’s Morgan? Is she okay?” Scott had been counting on Luke to look after his sister when he couldn’t. If Luke was here with him, that meant Morgan was alone.
“She’s fine. I talked to her yesterday.”
“Why aren’t you with her?” he asked. “I thought you’d look after her.”
Luke shifted on the bench. He looked...guilty. “I’ve been busy,” he said. “With work.”
“I thought with a cop protecting her, she’d be all right. She could be in danger.” Scott fought down his rising agitation.
“I asked the local cops to keep an eye on her.”
“That’s not the same as having someone looking out for her who really cares.”
Luke’s face reddened. “Morgan will be okay,” he said. “But we have to stop Danny. Do you know where he is?”
Scott shook his head. “I saw him this morning, in the bus station. He didn’t know I was watching, but then the crowd cleared out and I was afraid he’d see me. But he left before I did. He got on a bus and I didn’t see him any more after that.”
“Do you know which bus?” Luke had pulled his phone out of his pocket and was typing something into it.
“No. I didn’t see. I got out of there fast. I didn’t want him to see me.”
“What time was this? I can have someone check the bus schedules.”
“Maybe two o’clock? It was after lunch, and before I ran into Ace and Dinky and came here.”
Luke nodded. “What else do you know about Danny? Do you know his full name?”
“He never said. And I didn’t ask. I mean, it wasn’t like he was a good friend or anything. We just...hung out, you know.”
“Did you stay at his camp by the creek?”
Scott looked away. The camp was supposed to be a secret.
“We know the two of you argued there. He smashed your phone and he shot at you. Neighbors reported the shots and drivers on the freeway saw you running away.”
“I told him he had to leave Morgan alone and he didn’t like that.”
“What can you tell us about the camp? What kind of things did he have there?”
“Just, you know, camping stuff. But good stuff. New.”
“What kind of things?” Luke asked.
“Just...a tent and a sleeping bag and some blankets. A couple of chairs and dishes and food and water. And he had a footlocker, where I guess he kept his clothes and stuff. Or maybe he had money in there. He kept it locked and he didn’t like me going near it. Once I made the mistake of sitting on it and he almost bit my head off.”
“Did you ever see him open the trunk?”
Scott shook his head. “Not while I was there, but I only stayed there a couple nights, after we left the men’s shelter.”
“Why did you leave the men’s shelter with Danny?”
“Well, you know...he asked me to.” He began jiggling his right foot. “I was staying there a couple days and then one day Danny walks in. I sort of recognized him, but couldn’t remember him—not really. I thought he was just another homeless dude I’d seen around. But then he comes over and starts talking. He reminds me we saw each other at the bike race in London. He was a fan and he wanted to talk racing, which was cool, you know? Not many people care about racing. But they got mad at us for talking about it. Some of the guys complained and the people who ran the shelter said we had to either shut up or leave. So Danny said we should leave, that he had a nice place down by the creek.”
“If he had the place by the creek, why did he come to the shelter at all?” Luke asked.
“I wondered that, too,” Scott said. “But he said he came to take a shower, and to ask about day labor jobs. He thought maybe the shelter folks could help him out.”
“Okay, so you went to his camp,” Luke said. “Did anyone else come with you?”
“No. He didn’t ask anyone else.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because a lot of those guys are older than us. And Danny said he wanted to talk about racing. They didn’t care about that.”
“So you talked about racing.”
“Yeah. He asked a lot of questions at first. He remembered that I had been a racer and he wanted to know what that was like. He knew a lot of the top racers’ names and he asked about them.”
“Like a fan would,” Luke said.
“At first, yeah. You know, things like ‘Is Victor as intense as he seems when he’s racing?’ and ‘Is Andy a good teammate?’ But later, he asked other questions. Things that didn’t sound so odd to me at the time, but later, when I thought about them, they didn’t seem like the kind of things fans would want to know.”
“What kinds of things?”
“He wanted to know about the end of the race. How long would it take the top riders to get from Boulder to the finish in downtown Denver? How many of them would arrive at once? How close would the fans be able to get to the winners? How many people would be there? Would the crowds be bigger at the beginning of the finish or did most people stay around to see the end? He wanted to know what kind of security they had at races, what the racers did after they finished—did they leave right away or did they stay to mingle with fans? Some of the questions I didn’t know the answer to, but if I couldn’t answer them, he’d get angry.”
“What did you do then?” Luke asked.
“I started to make up things. And sometimes I lied, just because he annoyed me. He made me feel like he didn’t care about me, he was just pumping me for information.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him all the racers stayed until the end, and the crowd stayed, too, so by the end it was this big, wild party. I told him if he wanted his picture taken with the winners, all he had to do was ask. That’s sort of true at some races, though usually you have to be a pretty woman for them to say yes. I didn’t tell him that.”
“Were you staying at the camp with Danny the day you broke down in the hotel kitchen and were taken to the hospital?” Luke asked.
“I don’t know where I would have stayed that night if I hadn’t ended up in the hospital,” Scott said. “When I told Danny that morning that I was going to work, he got mad. He said I didn’t need to go back there. I told him it was a good job and I liked it and the people were nice. I wanted to see Morgan again, too. Danny got really upset. He told me my sister didn’t care about me and none of the people at the hotel cared about me—but that he and I were a team. We needed to stick together.”
“What did you say to that?”
“Nothing. I just grabbed my stuff and told him I was going to work. He yelled at me not to tell anyone about him. I told him I wouldn’t, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. So I’d already decided not to go back.”
“Except you did go b
ack,” Luke reminded him.
“Well, yeah. But only because I was worried he would hurt Morgan. I needed to tell him to leave her alone.”
“He had threatened Morgan?”
“In the hospital.” Scott’s stomach hurt, remembering the menace in Danny’s voice. “He said if I didn’t keep quiet he would hurt my sister. And I could tell he really meant it. You get a feeling about people sometimes, you know?”
Luke nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He looked at his phone. “I’m going to call in a report that Danny was seen in the bus station this morning. That’s very near where the closing ceremonies for the race are going to be held tomorrow.”
“Do you think Danny is the one who planted those bombs in London and Paris?” Scott asked. “Do you think he’ll try the same thing here?”
Luke hesitated. Scott thought he was deciding whether or not to trust him with the information. “He was in London,” Scott said. “And he’s been acting so strange here. I heard the UCI president died—that he was poisoned. I saw Danny doing something with the entrées that night. He’d lifted the lid on one and he really didn’t have any business being around the food. When he saw me watching him, he moved away, but he also told me he’d hurt me if I told anyone I saw him. If Danny is the one who poisoned President Demetrie, then he must hate racing.”
“We think he could be the bomber,” Luke said. “Your coming forward may help us stop him before he kills more people. Thank you. It took a lot of guts to do this.”
Scott looked away, trying to control his emotions. “I hate that I can’t race anymore, but I still love the sport. Someone trying to hurt the sport—and hurting innocent people that way... It’s a lot sicker than I’ll ever be.”
