Children of the Knight (82 page)

A
RTHUR
frowned. It was an odd request. And the man’s voice sounded different somehow. He heard pain in that voice. He’d been around more than enough battle injuries to know the sound of a battle wound when he heard it. Had Lance or Jack somehow hurt this man? If so, were they even, in fact, still alive?

He gazed a moment at the mayor and police chief. The chief had a radio to his mouth, presumably calling in reinforcements. Then Arthur turned to the sea of faces awaiting his next move. Reyna flashed him a “what’s going on” look, but he didn’t respond.

Lay down Excalibur. A simple request. It would make him vulnerable to attack, he knew. But if there was a chance to save Lance….

“Very well,” he said into the phone.

He bent to lay Excalibur onto the pavement.

L
ANCE
kicked and pounded and swerved and barreled down Temple Street, lungs burning, not daring to look up, but
feeling
the sniper high above taking his aim.

Lance understood the stakes. This moment would define his life. This would be his greatest event ever, greater and far more important than any at the X Games.

This moment of truth loomed larger than any he would ever face.

His real gold medal, the
only
gold medal that mattered, would not be for him alone, but for all of his fellow knights, for all of his family—for he had to save Arthur at any cost!

The needs of the whole company demanded it.

Hair trailing behind like the mane of a colt galloping in the wind, Lance’s eyes caught sight of a ramp beside the incomplete bleachers, a ramp that rose up to the height of those bleachers, a ramp that would propel him up and over to Arthur.

Legs burning, lungs searing, sweat pouring into his eyes, Lance pumped and kicked and pounded harder than ever in his young life.

A
TOP
the old Hall of Justice, Alberto Santiago had Arthur clearly framed within his scope. Santiago had been one of the Army Rangers’ best snipers during the Gulf War, but had been summarily dismissed from military service for later taking out a particularly nasty warlord in Somalia without proper authorization. Hell, he’d seen the chance to take out the bastard, and he’d grabbed it. Probably saved thousands.

But his superiors hadn’t seen it that way, and he’d been given a dishonorable discharge. Somehow Ramirez found out about his circumstances and hired him on the spot. All he knew about this Arthur guy was what he’d seen on the news. Seemed okay to him, but Ramirez paid the bills, and if Ramirez wanted him smoked, well, that was his job.

His cue, Ramirez had told him, was when Arthur laid his sword onto the ground. Then, when the man stood up, he would take his shot. Armor-piercing bullets, too, since the king would likely be sporting some kind of armor.

He observed through his scope as the king bent down with his sword and began laying it out on the ground. His trigger finger twitched. Almost there.

P
ANTING
heavily, terrified of failure, sending a silent prayer skyward for worthiness, a sweaty, adrenaline-powered Lance pounded forward and bolted up the rickety wooden ramp toward the heavens.