Chapter 23 - The Poisoned Well
Two days later, the morning sun broke over the Indianapolis State Velodrome, casting long, sharp shadows across the banked concrete track. The facility was locked down, restricted only to certified competitors and accredited coaches. After the attack at the barn, Marcus had called in every favor from his twenty years in professional motorsports to secure Mia private track time.
Yet the tension followed us like an invisible gas.
Mia was in her zone, her gloved hands rhythmically hammering the push-rims of her customized carbon chair. *Clack-push, clack-push.* She moved with seamless fluidity, her upper body leaning low over the front wheel, cutting through the headwind with aerodynamic perfection. Her lap times were dropping—fractions of a second shaved off with every circuit.
From the grandstand railing, I watched through binoculars, my nerves strung taut as piano wire. Every sudden sound—a metal door slamming, the distant roar of a highway truck—made my heart hammer against my cracked ribs.
"She’s pushing her heart rate near its threshold," Marcus said, clicking his digital stopwatch. "Forty-two point six seconds on that lap. That’s competitive with the boys’ fourteen-and-under bracket. She’s only eight, Elena. What she's doing isn't just talent; it's defiance."
"I just want to keep her breathing, Marcus," I admitted, my voice trembling with exhaustion. I hadn't slept more than two consecutive hours since the night in the barn. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the black muzzle of Arthur’s pistol pointed at Mia’s heart.
Suddenly, down at the pit entrance, a commotion broke out.
Three men in bespoke dark suits, flanked by a track security official, were walking toward the infield. The man leading them was someone I recognized immediately from the racing journals: Harrison Montgomery, the newly appointed commissioner of the Midwest Youth Athletics League, and the majority shareholder of Apex Steel—the multi-billion-dollar contractor that had taken over the state highway supply lines after Arthur’s father was disgraced.
"Hold up," Marcus muttered, his eyes narrowing as he pocketed the stopwatch. "What is Montgomery doing down here during private practice?"
We walked briskly down the grandstand stairs to intercept them before they reached the track apron.
"Elena Vance," Montgomery said as we approached, offering a cold, porcelain smile that didn't reach his steel-blue eyes. He was in his mid-fifties, with immaculate silver hair and the polished demeanor of a predatory litigator. "I wish we were meeting under less tragic circumstances. We heard about the dreadful incident at your farm."
"Did you?" I responded, my voice arctic. "News travels fast when someone tries to shoot my daughter."
"Naturally, the league takes the safety of its athletes with utmost seriousness," Montgomery said smoothly, clasping his hands in front of him. "Which brings me to why I’m here personally. In light of the ongoing criminal investigation and the... instability surrounding your family, the League Executive Committee held an emergency session this morning."
A knot of ice tightened in my throat. "What are you saying, Montgomery?"
He pulled an official parchment with a gold embossed seal from his leather folder. "Effective immediately, Mia Vance’s competition license for the upcoming National Qualifier is suspended pending a complete psychiatric and security evaluation. We cannot risk the safety of the other participants with an armed fugitive targeting your daughter."
"You son of a bitch," Marcus snarled, taking an aggressive step forward before the two bodyguards closed ranks, blocking his path. "Arthur didn't target the track! He came to her home! And you're punishing an eight-year-old girl for surviving an ambush?"
"I am protecting the integrity and safety of the league, Mr. Vance," Montgomery said, unblinking. "The decision is non-negotiable. Until Arthur is apprehended and the threat neutralized, Mia Vance does not set foot on a sanctioned track."
Just then, the soft hum of rubber tires rolling across the tarmac approached.
May you like
Mia had pulled up to the apron. She sat there, sweat glistening on her forehead, her chest heaving lightly from the four-mile time trial. She had heard everything.
***
