20. Marcus
Chapter twenty
Marcus
I nterstate 90 unspooled east through Washington's evergreen forests, four and a half hours of asphalt between us and whatever Raines had planned. We'd left Seattle before dawn, watching the city's towers fade into morning mist through the rearview. Now, the Cascade Mountains were hours behind us, replaced by the rolling hills and scattered pines of eastern Washington.
James sat beside me, his profile, like a masterfully carved statue, dark against the passenger window. He'd barely spoken since North Bend, but his presence filled my truck cab with an electric quiet. One empty coffee cup sat in the console, from that brief stop in Ellensburg where the morning wind had cut sharp enough to make us both hunch our shoulders.
Michael's headlights stayed fixed in my rearview mirror, far enough back to give space but close enough to react. My brother was playing tactical support, just like he'd done countless times on SWAT operations. The familiarity should have been comforting. Instead, anger boiled just beneath the surface. I could handle myself.
The Spokane River appeared and vanished between breaks in the hills, shining silver in the late morning sun. Another hour, maybe less, and we'd hit Coeur d'Alene. The lake would stretch out between pine-covered hills, where tomorrow, two thousand athletes would cut through water that right now probably lay mirror-smooth.
I adjusted my grip on the wheel, fingers finding the worn spots in the leather. The protein shake in my cup holder had gone warm, untouched. Food carried no interest for me. It belonged to people who weren't driving toward their own carefully orchestrated trial by fire.
James's phone cast a blue glow across his hands as he scrolled through something—probably case files or chemical analyses. He was always searching for patterns, even now. Finally, he set it down, and the screen went dark.
"You've been quiet," he observed.
I glanced over. "What's there to say?"
"Maybe that you're not invincible." The words weren't judgmental. It was a precise observation.
"Never claimed to be."
He turned with those analytical eyes, finding mine for a heartbeat before I focused back on the road. "Could've fooled me."
The steering wheel creaked under my grip. Words about fear and facing whatever fate had in store at the end of the drive threatened to spill out, but speaking them would make them real in a way I couldn't handle. Not yet.
So I drove, watching mile markers tick past while scattered clouds cast moving shadows across the highway. Behind us, Michael's headlights burned steady. Coeur d'Alene waited—a lakeside Idaho town of fifty thousand souls who had no idea they were about to host the final act of a madman's twisted vision.
Our destination materialized around us just past noon, a collection of brick storefronts and coffee shops. Sherman Avenue cut through downtown, lined with restaurants already setting up their sidewalk seating. Race banners fluttered between lampposts—"IRONMAN 70.3 COEUR D'ALENE" in stark black letters.
I pulled into the parking lot of the Resort City Inn, a two-story sprawl of beige stucco and dark green trim. It was nothing flashy, but it sat two blocks from the transition area and had a clear view of the street—tactical considerations that had factored into the choice more than the thread count of the sheets.
Michael parked three spaces down, positioning his car for a quick exit. I noted his clenched jaw as he climbed out, rolling his tense shoulders. He scanned the lot with practiced efficiency, registering vehicles and sight lines.
"Place looks quiet," he said, but his hand kept straying toward where his sidearm would usually rest.
The lobby smelled of industrial cleaner and fresh coffee. A rack of tourist brochures advertised lake cruises and hiking trails, while a hand-drawn sign announced "WELCOME ATHLETES!" in enthusiastic red marker. The desk clerk barely glanced up from her computer as she handed over our keys. We were early for check-in, but that was probably true of dozens of other triathletes.
"Room 214. Stairs near the parking lot are your best route. Checkout's at eleven."
Our footsteps echoed off the concrete as we climbed an outside staircase to the second floor. James followed close at my shoulder, his messenger bag stuffed with case files bumping against his hip.
The room was what I expected—two queens with faded bedspreads, a dresser that had seen better decades, and windows that overlooked the parking lot. A few specific details caught my eye: the fire escape accessible through the bathroom window, clear sight lines to both the street and the back entrance, and how the door's hinges had been recently oiled.
"Someone's been here," James said quietly, running his fingers along the windowsill. They came away with a fine gray powder—the kind left behind by certain accelerants.
Michael checked the bathroom, his movements smooth and practiced. "Clear, but the window's been tampered with. Lock's new."
I set my race bag on the bed furthest from the door, feeling the weight of everything it contained—gear, nutrition I would likely ignore, and timing chips. It held my costume for Raines's final performance.
James spoke in his analytical tone. "I'm certain he knew which room we'd be in. He's been planning this piece for weeks, maybe months."
"Let him plan." I curled my hands into fists at my side. "We've got plans too."
Michael crossed the room, pulling out his phone and laying it on the nightstand before speaking. "Here's the deal—we're not walking into this blind.
I've got Brenner's team stationed around the race perimeter. Two units are covering the transition area, and another is near the swim start. They're plainclothes, blending in with the crowd, but armed and ready.
He gestured toward the window overlooking the street. "Chokepoints here and here—narrow alleys where he could set an ambush if he wants to control your movement. We'll have eyes on both. The parking garage near the finish line is another risk—a perfect vantage point for surveillance or a sniper if he escalates. I've got Sharpe and Daniels covering that, snipers in place just in case."
James raised an eyebrow. "Are you expecting him to go that far?"
"With Raines? Expect the worst; hope for less," Michael replied flatly. "Also, there's a secondary team rotating near the medical tents. If he wants to hit you when you're vulnerable, post-race would be the time."
His gaze met mine. "And you'll have me shadowing you. Wherever you are, I won't be more than thirty feet away. Got it?"
I nodded slowly, absorbing the details. This wasn't a race anymore. It was a battlefield.
Through the window, I watched athletes arrive with bikes and transition bags, their faces bright with pre-race excitement. They had no idea they were walking onto a stage set long before they signed up for tomorrow's show.
The lake stretched beyond the buildings, its surface ruffled by an afternoon breeze. Somewhere out there, officials were marking a course with buoys and timing mats. Somewhere in this town, Raines was watching, waiting, and preparing for his masterpiece.
Let him watch. Let him plan.
Tomorrow would end one way or another, and I'd finished playing by his rules.
***
We found a small restaurant a few blocks from the hotel—the kind of place with wood-paneled walls, neon beer signs, and a faint smell of grease that clung to the air like it was part of the decor. It was the kind of joint that looked the same in every town: cracked vinyl booths, laminated menus sticky at the corners, and a server who'd probably seen more fights than the local cops.
James slid into the booth across from me like it was second nature, his shoulder brushing against the wall. Michael took the seat on the end, the one with a clear line of sight to the door. Typical. Always ready to react, even when there was nothing to react to.
James ordered burgers, fries, and iced teas for both of us without asking. I didn't bother correcting him. It was easier that way, like following a script we'd written together in some past life. Michael didn't order. He only sat there, flicking at the peeling label on a bottle of ketchup, his knee bouncing under the table.
The food came fast. Too fast. Like they were trying to get us in and out before we brought the property value down. I didn't eat. James said the burger was dry, and the fries looked limp.
For a while, he ate in silence. Then, he decided that silence was overrated.
"You know," he said, holding up a fry like it was about to deliver a sermon, "this place reminds me of that diner in Nebraska. You remember the story I told you? The one where the waitress tried to sell me her cat."
"What?"
Michael didn't even look up. "Was it at least a good cat?"
"Terrible cat." James grinned. "Looked like it had been through three lives already and was determined to make the fourth one hell for whoever owned it. She'd named it Satan."
A laugh snuck out of me before I could stop it. Short, rough around the edges, but real. "You considered it, didn't you?"
"For a minute," he admitted, popping the fry into his mouth. "I mean, who wouldn't want to own Satan? Think of the bragging rights."
Michael finally glanced up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I think you already do. He's only missing the fur."
"Oh, look at you with the zingers." James tossed a crumpled napkin across the table.
The banter settled over us like a warm blanket, frayed at the edges but comforting all the same. For a few minutes, we weren't running from shadows or staring down threats we couldn't control. We were three guys in a crappy diner, laughing over bad food and worse memories.
Then it happened.
A flash of orange light streaked past the window, bright and jarring, followed by the faint crackle of fire. My heart stuttered, a split second of confusion before I realized what was happening.
James froze mid-laugh, his fork suspended in the air. Michael was already moving, sliding out of the booth with the kind of fluid precision that comes from practice—the kind you hope you never have to use.
I followed, my body slower than my brain, the warmth from moments ago evaporating like it had never been there at all.
We all knew what was happening. Act 1.
The heat hit me before I even cleared the doorway. It wasn't the kind of wild, raging fire you see in movies—no towering infernos or explosions. This was different. Controlled. Precise. My truck was the only thing burning, with flames licking at the tires, curling around the edges of the windows like fingers making a point. It was so carefully planned that it missed the explosive potential of the gas tank.
I stood there, rooted to the spot, my brain lagging behind the reality in front of me. The fire wasn't about the truck. It was about me.
I'd been stripped bare in front of it, like the fire could see through me, down to every crack I'd spent years hiding. The heat wasn't only external; it seeped into my chest, fanning embers I'd long convinced myself had gone cold.
Michael barked something sharp and urgent, but it barely registered. The flames drew my gaze, with how they danced like they had a purpose. I almost heard Elliot's voice in the crackle, mocking and smug.
The local fire department showed up fast. Sirens blared like they were waiting for the call. They moved efficiently, dousing the flames easily. They'd likely rehearsed vehicle fires dozens of times. When the smoke cleared, my truck was still standing, charred but intact—damaged just enough to make the message clear.
Michael grabbed my arm as I stepped forward. "Don't touch anything."
I shook him off. I had to see it. When I leaned into the driver's side window, the warped glass distorted my reflection, twisting my face into something unrecognizable.
For a fleeting second, I saw my father's eyes staring back at me. The same set jaw. The same stubbornness.
Then the message came into focus, etched in soot like a final judgment:
"A man is purified by fire. Tomorrow, we finish."
Bald fury made my throat tight.
James stepped up beside me, his voice low and steady. "He's close."
Michael didn't bother hiding his frustration anymore. "That's it. You're pulling out of the race."
He didn't get it. Our presence in Coeur d'Alene wasn't about the race anymore. I'm not sure it ever was.
It was about what the fire meant.
Back at the hotel, the walls were too close, and the fluorescent lights were too bright. Michael paced like a caged animal.
His anger was like wildfire. It burned hot, fast, and without regard for nuance. We'd all three packed back into the cramped hotel room. I sat on one of the beds and bunched the cheap bedspread in my fists as I leaned forward, grounding myself.
I still smelled it. The ghost of the fire lingered in my nostrils, thick and oppressive, like it had stitched itself into the lining of my lungs. I swallowed against the phantom taste of ash.
My truck wasn't merely metal and paint. It had been mine, full of the quiet comfort of routines—coffee cups wedged in holders, old receipts stuffed in the glove box, and maps tucked in the side panels. Now, it was a husk with a threatening message carved in soot.
"You need to pull out," Michael snapped. "This isn't any other race, Marcus. It's baited. You're walking into it like an idiot."
I didn't look at him. The truth sat too heavy in my chest—James's discovery about Raines and our father pounded at the back of my neck.
How could I tell Michael about that? How do you tell your brother that Dad wasn't only a man who died in a fire? No, his death was part of something monstrous, a twisted blueprint.
It was easier to argue that Dad died because of mistakes made. It was cleaner. Less suffocating.
"I'm not pulling out." My voice was sharp and brittle. "I'm not giving Raines the satisfaction."
Michael stepped closer, his jaw clenched so tight I saw the muscles twitch. "This isn't about pride. It's about staying alive."
"No, it's about finishing something that's been chasing me for years. This ends tomorrow."
Michael's eyes darkened. "You're not Dad."
The words hit harder than I expected. "No. I'm not. He died because he made a mistake. I won't."
That was the lie I could live with. The truth was too tangled and raw.
Michael's face twisted into a mask of rage. "You think that's what this is? Some kind of redemption? He was a firefighter, Marcus, not some tragic hero. He died doing his job."
The words hung in the air, refusing to rest.
James stood silently near the window, his gaze distant but sharp, absorbing everything. He didn't interrupt and didn't try to soften the blow. Maybe he knew there was no point.
Michael raked his fingers through his hair, pacing like the room was too small to contain his frustration. "You're going to get yourself killed."
"Better than hiding."
Silence fell, thick and suffocating. James finally spoke, his voice low but steady. "This isn't about your father. This is about you. You're not him, Marcus. You're the one who decides how this ends."
We both turned to him.
"Elliot wants Marcus to run. To be afraid. That's part of the game. The only way this ends is if we confront him."
Michael shook his head, his frustration boiling over. "Or you both end up dead."
I took a step closer to him, closing the distance. "If I die, it won't be because I was running away."
The words hung in the air. It was a truth neither of them could argue with.
The room was too quiet after the shouting stopped. The cheap hotel lamp cast a dull, yellow glow, barely cutting through the shadows that gathered as the afternoon wore on.
I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows digging into my knees, staring at the floor like it might offer answers. I wasn't scared of dying. I feared becoming a tool used by Raines to act out a sick fantasy.
I also worried that somewhere along the way, I'd stopped running toward something and started running from myself. The fire had always been there, an invisible thread woven through every choice I'd made. I told myself it was about control and facing danger head-on, but maybe it had always been about trying to outrun a legacy I couldn't escape.
I thought about the truck again—how the flames had looked almost beautiful in their precision. How controlled destruction could be mistaken for art if you squinted just right.
James was there. He didn't hover or try to fix anything. He sat beside me, close enough to be an anchor in my storm.
After a long stretch of silence, I finally found my voice, though it sounded thin and brittle. "You don't have to be here."
His answer was soft but unshakeable. "I know."
I turned to look at him, really looked. I concentrated on the faint lines around his eyes and the stubborn tilt of his chin. "But you're staying anyway."
He nodded. "Yeah. I am."
No grand declarations. No promises he couldn't keep—just that simple truth, solid and sure.