Race with Danger (Run for Your Life Book 1) by Pamela Beason Page A

palms to drag my mind back to the ghastly reality in front of me now.
    I hope Madelyn Hatt is beyond feeling pain, because nobody could survive these wounds. Her face is already gray, and although I’ve never seen anyone die close up, I realize I’m going to see exactly that within a few minutes.
    Nobody should have to die alone. I kneel beside her and take her left hand between mine.
    “Maddie,” I murmur. “You have always been my hero.”
    Of course this isn’t precisely true, but I have always respected her as a challenger.
    Her hand is already limp and cold. I wonder if she can feel me holding it. I hope Mom and Dad died so quickly they didn’t miss someone holding their hands. I hope they know I loved them. I hope they forgive me.
    Mixed into the ringing in my ears, I hear my brother’s screams again coming from our dark house. If Aaron survived, would he ever forgive me? I don’t see how; I can’t even forgive myself.
    It’s horrible how many memories can race through your head in only a second or two. If you really do see your life flash before your eyes before you die, you’d like to think you’d see all the good times, not the awful events you’d just as soon forget. Reliving all the times you were scared out of your mind; that’s another blessing of PTSD. The gift that keeps on giving.
    “Promise…” I’m mostly lip-reading, but I’m sure Maddie’s word is little more than a croak. A trickle of blood spills out from between her lips and streaks down the side of her face.
    I lean close. “Promise what?”
    She takes a ragged breath, and when she exhales, more blood runs down her chin. Her eyes widen as she struggles to force out words. I watch her lips closely as she says, “Take care … salt … and … pepper.”
    That makes no sense, but her eyes are already getting a far away glaze, so I say, “I promise, Maddie. I will do my best.”
    Her mouth forms the word, “Thank…” but I don’t hear a sound. And then her face simply goes blank, her lips go slack, and Madelyn Hatt leaves the planet. I lay her cold hand back on the ground.
    I try to tell myself that death is preferable to living after what has happened to her body. I believe most athletes would feel the same.
    I am pushing myself to my feet when I sense thunder. At first I brace myself for another explosion, but then the wind whips my face and I realize a helicopter is hovering above us.
    Although the idea of flying instead of walking is extremely alluring right now, this damn well better not be the Secret Service coming to scoop up Sebastian.
    Two men glide down from the chopper like spiders, black silhouettes against the bright sky, and for a second I’m living another flashback of the shadowy figures I saw in my house on that horrible night. Dressed all in black, hoods pulled over their heads and gloves on their hands.
    At least I think that’s a real memory. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Sometimes I can’t decide if they were men with black faces and hands, or if they were just wearing black clothing. Everything about that night is dark in my imagination.
    But I see that here and now, these two men wear dark green jumpsuits with a Verde Island race emblem on the chests, so I guess they’re part of the support team. The first clutches what looks like a medical kit in his arms. The second to reach the ground carries a metal detector, which he switches on and then sweeps over the road. Mr. Medical Kit follows Mr. Metal Detector to where Jason lies.
    “We’ll take it from here,” Medical Kit says, kneeling beside Jason and Sebastian. Jason is moaning, so at least he’s still alive.
    My hearing is returning. I’m shaking all over like I’m in the arctic instead of the jungle. My stomach is doing flip-flops.
    Mr. Metal Detector inches along, sweeping his device over the road. At intervals—over each pimple—it beeps and then lets out a protracted squeal. He shuffles over to the side of the road and wades into the