89
The roar of a motorbike brings me to a sudden stop.
I’ve been jogging up and down small sand dunes for the past twenty minutes towards the lights on the horizon, just hoping that where I’m headed is the city I’m supposed to be competing in.
It’s dark tonight, no full moon to light my way, and each time I run down a dune I lose sight of the town and become worried until I reach the top of the next and see the lights once more.
Although it’s a difficult climb up some of the bigger slopes, I’m keeping up a constant pace.
I’m already at a distinct disadvantage and don’t have time to waste, but the new sound immediately stops me in my tracks.
The bike could be carrying one of my father’s men in some new attempt to regain me. I’m not taking any chances.
Lying flat against a high sand drift, I wait for the noise to sound like it’s almost atop me before I rise to a crouch. As the rider comes down the drift I stand and hurl the tangle of ropes and my backpack into his face.
He crashes to the side into the soft sand, the motor still running, and as he struggles to rise I hurl myself onto the side of the bike, effectively pinning him beneath it.
“Who are you?” I shout above the noise of the engine.
He’s not wearing a helmet, and when he meets my eyes I immediately see I’ve made a mistake. His are full of fear. No one my father sent for me would look at me that way — not yet.
Scanning the man’s face and clothing, I recognise he’s one of the crew.
“Sorry!”
Switching off the bike I jump up and pull it off him, allowing him to rise to his feet. He brushes the sand off his clothes and shakes his head, giving me a wry grin.
“Thought you were going to kill me then,” he chuckles.
“No,” I smile back, “well, maybe, but I hadn’t worked through all the details.”
“Probably against the rules to slaughter a camera guy, though,” he grins.
“Probably.”
We laugh together as he shrugs off his pack and opens it, drawing out a new body camera.
“The boss wants me to strap this onto you,” he says, handing it to me, “but I think you can handle that.”
“Thanks.”
I’m surprised and relieved that he knows not to touch me. Over the past few weeks several crew members had learned the hard way that when I say, ‘hands off,’ I mean it.
Slipping out of the smashed camera’s straps, I quickly don the new one, waiting for him to confirm it’s working before collecting my ropes and shrugging on my backpack.
“OK then,” he says, turning to pick the bike up.
“Ah, not quite,” I shake my head. “You see, the only rule is that there are no rules.”