Then, he vanished, melting into the mass of bodies.
"Shit." Michael appeared beside me, already scanning the perimeter. "Where—"
"Gone, but he was here for a reason."
I looked back at Marcus's transition area. His run gear sat waiting, meticulously arranged that morning. Except...
The bag wasn't quite centered on the rack. The zipper gaped slightly, a detail that I knew was wrong because Marcus always stowed his gear with military precision. Nothing was ever out of place.
Ice flooded my veins as Marcus reached for the bag, fatigue making him miss what my paranoia had caught.
I lunged forward, my hand closing around his wrist. The force of my yank surprised us both—he stumbled back into me as I pulled him clear of the rack.
"James, what—"
The rest of his question disappeared in a violent whoosh of fuel igniting. Heat slammed into us as nearby bags erupted in a chain reaction of carefully orchestrated terror. Screams and shouts of panic surrounded us as athletes scrambled back from the growing inferno.
I pulled Marcus down, shielding him as debris rained around us. My ears rang from the blast, but adrenaline kept me focused on what mattered: his solid warmth beneath me, breathing, alive.
The acrid stench of burning gear filled my nose—melting nylon and rubber. Through the chaos, I heard Michael's voice already taking control of the scene.
All I could focus on was Marcus's heartbeat hammering against my palm where I pressed him into the pavement and the terrifying certainty that this was only one of a series of moves in Elliot's endgame.
Michael materialized through the smoke like a tactical ghost—smooth, controlled, scanning sectors. His concealed weapon appeared in his hand without fanfare, held low against his thigh where panicked civilians wouldn't notice.
"Get him clear." Michael's voice was clipped and precise as he moved into operational mode. "Northwest corner. The coffee truck will give you cover."
The smoke was an unnatural color—not the ominous black given off by ordinary flames, but something precise, almost purple at its edges. The stench had chemical undertones that made my sinuses burn. Whatever Elliot had used, it wasn't a standard accelerant.
"I can help—" Marcus started to push up, but I pressed him back down.
"Don't." My voice cracked. "He rigged your gear bag. If you'd opened it..."
Understanding hit him. A shudder ran through his body.
Michael worked the perimeter in expanding circles, his movements precise as a hunting cat. Four members of his unit joined him. Race officials rushed past with fire extinguishers. We gave them space while Michael focused on the crowd's edges where a shooter—or an arsonist—might lurk.
"Control perimeter!" The command cut through the bedlam. Michale flashed a badge I hadn't known he carried. "Everyone back! This is now a crime scene."
Fragments of burning gear rained down again, chemical-laced ash settling on my shoulders. Marcus's breathing had gone shallow beneath me, his muscles trembling with exhaustion and delayed shock.
"We need to move." I eased back enough to help him up, noting how he favored his right side. "Whatever happened on the bike course—"
"Later." His voice was raw. "Elliot's still here. I feel it."
He was right. The hair on my neck hadn't settled. That predatory awareness still prickled across my skin, telling me Elliot was watching. Studying us. Like specimens under glass.
Michael appeared beside us, his expression carved from stone. "Three different origin points for the fire. No improvisations here. He planned the spread pattern and used the gear racks for maximum effect. The bastard's turning the whole transition zone into his gallery."
"Move." Michael's hand pressed between my shoulder blades, urging us toward the coffee truck's shelter. "I've got units rolling. But right now, you're both exposed, and he's got sight lines from at least six different positions."
The smoke thickened, carrying that wrong chemical scent. It coated my tongue, bitter and metallic. Marcus stumbled slightly, exhaustion finally winning against stubbornness. I caught him.
"I'm fine," he muttered, but his skin had gone grey beneath the road grime.
"Like hell." I tightened my grip on his waist. "Whatever happened out there—"
"Was just the beginning." His voice dropped lower, meant only for me. "He's done playing. This is show time."
