Chapter 27 - Shadows in the Spotlight
Saturday morning broke over Indianapolis in a blaze of crisp autumn sunlight. The city was alive with roaring crowds, vendor tents, and the electric buzz of the Midwest Junior Championship. Over fifty thousand people lined the barricades stretching down Meridian Street and wrapping around the state capitol building.
The news of the legal battle had turned the race into an international spectacle. ESPN, regional affiliates, and major sports networks had their satellite vans parked every fifty yards along the perimeter.
In the staging pens behind the starting line, the tension was suffocating.
Ten elite junior wheelchair racers sat in their customized rigs, their muscles taut, eyes fixed on the long stretch of asphalt ahead. Most of them were twelve to fourteen years old—older, taller, with longer reach and more muscle mass than Mia. And among them was Julian Drake, the reigning junior national champion and the son of Montgomery’s chief corporate attorney.
Julian glanced over at Mia from his bright red, million-dollar racing chair, his expression cold and arrogant. "You shouldn't be here, cripple," he sneered quietly under his breath so the cameras wouldn't pick it up. "My dad says your family is garbage."
Mia didn't even turn her head. She adjusted the strap on her right glove, testing the tension of her wheel rim with a solid, resounding *snap*.
"Save your breath for the hill, Julian," she said softly. "You're going to need it when you're choking on my dust."
In the VIP skybox overlooking the starting line, Montgomery stood with a glass of champagne in his hand, smiling for the cameras alongside city officials. But his eyes were glued to his encrypted phone, his thumbs firing off messages into the dark.
Beside the track, Marcus and I stood in the pit box. Frank Callahan was stationed two blocks away with a local news investigative unit, ready to broadcast the contents of the hard drive the second the green flag dropped.
"Snipers on the roofs," Marcus whispered, scanning the high cornices of the municipal buildings with his binoculars. "Police tactical units are covering every intersection. If Arthur shows his face, they’ll drop him."
"Arthur isn't coming from the roofs, Marcus," I said, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I looked at the cast-iron storm drains lining the street curbs. "He’s coming from below."
The public address announcer’s voice boomed through the massive stadium speakers:
*"Racers to the mark! Three miles through the heart of the city! In five... four... three..."*
Mia lowered her head, leaning forward over her steering fork, her body forming a tight aerodynamic wedge.
*"TWO... ONE..."*
May you like
The horn sounded.
***
