Burn Patterns (First in Line #1)

23. James

Chapter twenty-three

James

T he transition zone churned with bodies in motion—athletes, volunteers, and spectators swirling together in a frantic jumble of technical gear and race numbers. My attention focused on a familiar figure jogging into view, and my brain worked hard to process what I saw.

Marcus was on foot—running in from the bike course.

No bike. No carbon fiber frame. Only Marcus, limping slightly and covered in road grime, pushing through the crowd with the kind of focus that meant he was barely holding himself together.

"What the hell?" Michael's voice at my shoulder matched my internal confusion.

Something was deeply wrong. Athletes didn't abandon $10,000 bikes mid-race without cause. They didn't appear on foot during the cycling leg unless—

My mind spun through the possibilities, each worse than the last. Mechanical failure. A crash. Sabotage.

Elliot.

"His right side." Michael's tactical assessment cut through my spiraling thoughts. "He's favoring it."

He was right. Marcus's usual fluid athleticism had shattered. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he pushed through clusters of concerned volunteers. Their offers of water and medical support bounced off him like rain on curtains of steel.

In my head, I recorded every detail with desperate precision. Marcus's gaze remained fixed forward as if looking anywhere else might break his fragile composure.

"James." Michael's voice sharpened. "What are you seeing?"

"Impact trauma. The gait compensation suggests he hit the ground hard, but he walked—no, ran—away from whatever happened out there."

The unspoken truth hung between us: Marcus shouldn't have been able to walk away. That was never part of Elliot's script.

Which meant this was only the beginning.

Marcus reached his transition rack, his movements mechanical as he checked his run gear. A volunteer approached with a clipboard, probably to log his bike's absence, but Michael intercepted them with a sharp gesture. The tension in Marcus's shoulders told me he was aware of our presence but couldn't—or wouldn't—acknowledge us yet.

A flicker of movement caught my attention. Someone cut through the crowd, weaving between athletes and gear racks like water, finding the path of least resistance. The hair on my neck prickled.

Everyone else moved with either the frantic energy of racing or the organized chaos of race support. This person moved with purpose and intent.

"There." I grabbed Michael's arm, my fingers digging into his bicep. "Gray jacket. Moving toward Marcus's rack."

Elliot.

"Marcus!" The commotion of race announcements and crowd noise buried my shout. I was already jogging, shouldering past a cluster of spectators.

The crowd became a maze of obstacles—discarded water bottles, gear bags, and volunteers with outstretched arms offering hydration. Each barrier slowed me enough that Elliot maintained his lead. He glanced back once, long enough for me to catch the curl of his lips. Not quite a smile. More like satisfaction.

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."

A faint metallic tinkling drifted through the chaos—too deliberate and too rhythmic to be falling debris. It wasn't random. The sound slid under my skin, raising every hair on my arms.

Michael's head snapped toward it, weapon ready, but there was nothing to target, only smoke and shadows dancing to Elliot's choreography.

The chime-like sound grew louder, sharp and mechanical, threading through the thickening smoke like a warning bell. It had a rhythm—deliberate, mocking. Michael tensed, his eyes narrowing as he swept the area with sharp, calculated movements.

Then, it stopped. Abruptly.

A beat of silence.

And then Marcus stiffened beside me, his entire body going rigid. His eyes widened, not with fear—but recognition.

"James," he rasped, his voice brittle. "My timing chip. It's not mine."

My heart lurched. Before I could process his words, a shrill beeping pierced the noise—rapid, escalating.

I looked down.

Strapped to Marcus's ankle, beneath layers of sweat and grime, the small black device blinked red. It wasn't the steady, reassuring pulse of a race tracker.

A countdown.

"MOVE!" Michael roared, his hand shoving us with a force born from pure survival instinct.

We hit the ground hard, the breath punched from my lungs as I scrambled to rip the device from Marcus's ankle. The clasp wouldn't budge. My fingers slipped, slick with sweat and ash.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

Marcus gritted his teeth, grabbing my hands. "James, stop."

"No," I gasped, fighting tears and panic. "I'm not—"

Eight.

Seven.

Michael was beside us, his gun forgotten as he yanked a knife from his belt. One brutal slice through the strap.

Six.

He snatched the device, hurling it with all his strength into the flaming wreckage of the gear racks.

Five.

The world paused—one breath, suspended between panicked heartbeats.

Four.

Michael's knife clattered to the ground, his hand still outstretched from the throw. His chest heaved once, sharp and uneven like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

Then his hand shot out, gripping my shoulder—hard, fingers digging in like he wasn't sure whether he was anchoring me or himself.

"Can't lose you," he muttered, so low I almost didn't hear it over the roar building around us.

A blinding flash erupted from the wreckage, white-hot and searing, followed by a concussive blast that rolled over us like a physical wave. My ears screamed with the force of it, the ground shuddering beneath me.

Silence. For one terrifying moment, absolute silence.

Then, frenzied sound rushed back—sirens, shouting, and the crackle of persistent flames.

I turned my head, my vision blurred. Marcus lay beside me, motionless, eyes half-lidded. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple.

"Marcus," I whispered, reaching for him, my fingers trembling.

His lips moved, a breath of sound lost in the chaos.

And then…

A shadow stepped through the smoke.

Not running. Not hiding.

Elliot.

Standing less than ten feet away, calm and composed, as if he were simply observing his masterpiece.

His eyes locked with mine while a slow, deliberate smile spread across his face.

Then, he raised his hand.

And pointed directly at me.

The world tilted, my breath catching, as realization dawned.

I wasn't merely a witness.

I was next.