Table Of ContentNovels by L.J. Sellers
Detective Jackson Series
Secrets to Die For
Thrilled to Death
Passions of the Dead
Dying for Justice
Liars, Cheaters & Thieves
Standalone Thrillers
The Sex Club
The Baby Thief
The Arranger
The Suicide Effect
Nonfiction
Write First, Clean Later:
Blogs, Essays, & Writing Advice
THE ARRANGER: A Futuristic Thriller
Copyright © 2011 by L.J. Sellers
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.
All rights reserved. Except for text references by reviewers, the reproduction of this work in any form is
forbidden without permission from the author.
Cover art by Gwen Thomsen Rhoads http://www.gwenrhoads.com
Copyedit by Jodie Renner
ISBN (mobi): 978-0-9832138-6-4
ISBN (epub): 978-0-9832138-7-1
ISBN (print): 978-0-9832138-5-7
Published in the USA by Spellbinder Press
ePub edition by booknook.biz and eBooks by Barb
Contents
Novels by L.J. Sellers
Copyright
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
About the Author
Chapter 1
Sat., May 6, 2023, 11:37 a.m.
Lara Evans attached the LifePac and hit the man with two hundred joules of
electrical current. His eyes popped open, his pulse stabilized, and piss flooded
his sweatpants. Terrific. He would live long enough to regret cutting off two
fingers in an attempt to collect disability funds. She cauterized his bloody
stumps and watched him breathe for a few minutes. Gangrene or sepsis might
kill him eventually, but she’d done all she could. Lara stepped back from the
sweat-soaked couch and packed up her equipment.
“You’re taking him to the hospital, aren’t you?” The man’s wife grabbed
Lara’s arm, her bony fingers pulsing with misery.
“You said he didn’t have a med card.”
“If you leave him in the twenty-foot zone, they have to treat him.”
“I’m sorry, but I could lose my license if I do.” Lara shoved the portable defib
into its pouch and strapped the pack around her waist. She had to carry it in
public at all times, the privilege of having a freelance paramedic license. With
the growing doctor shortage, anyone with medical skills was fully utilized.
“He has heart disease and needs an artery vac. This was our chance for
treatment.”
“Oh crap.” Lara hated this aspect of her job. “Do you have a car?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll help you get him into the vehicle, but you have to drive him.”
Lara hurried to her med van and hauled out the wheeled gurney she rarely
used. She and the gaunt wife struggled to get the now-conscious but heavyset
man onto the gurney, then into their small car.
“When you get to the hospital, pull him out, honk the horn and drive away.”
Lara gave her a grim smile. “Good luck.” Walking away from the noncs, as non-
covered citizens were called, never got easier, but she dwelled on it less now.
She’d once been a homicide detective, a job that had toughened her for the new
world.
She started toward her van and her iCom beeped. Another 909 emergency.
The location appeared on her screen in map form, a secluded home only a half
mile away. Lara acknowledged the assignment with a push of her thumb and ran
to her vehicle. Her body hummed with adrenaline as she raced up City View.
What would it be this time? The neighborhood was probably too upscale for
something like a gunshot wound or a domestic dispute with knife injuries. Lara
scowled. She hoped it wasn’t another VEx accident with a chubby middle-aged
woman trying to improve her health with virtual exercise. Someone had called
for a freelance paramed instead of an ambulance, so it could be anything.
Lara loved these moments—rushing to a scene, not knowing what chaos she
would encounter. In some ways, it was better than being a police officer because
she kept on the move and did a lot less paperwork. She missed the authority of
the badge though. She’d liked having people pay attention and feel nervous
when she approached. It beat the hell out of her current personal life: a forty-
two-year-old woman with no partner, no children, no power.
Lara turned on Ridgemont, located the street number, and drove through the
open gate. The house sat at the end of a long drive, behind a tall screen of
Sequoias. A black compact car soaked up sun in the driveway. The summer heat
settled in earlier every year. She parked next to the empty vehicle and glanced at
her Taser on the passenger’s seat. The weapon was bulky to carry, but some
neighborhoods and situations required it. Lara determined this wasn’t one of
them. She touched the 9-millimeter in her shoulder holster as she climbed out.
The gun went everywhere she did, but for most volatile situations, she preferred
the Taser. Less blood, noise, and risk.
As Lara moved toward the house, the front doors burst open and a man
barreled out. Behind him, a giant black dog noisily gave chase. Lara
backpedaled toward the med van to get out of their way.
The running man raised his arm and aimed a gun at her. Lara dropped to the
asphalt as he fired. She rolled and pulled her weapon, but his footsteps kept
going and a second shot didn’t come. A car door opened, the engine cranked
over, and he raced down the driveway. Still facedown, Lara let out her breath. As
she stood, the dog turned back and charged into the house.
What now? The person who’d made the emergency call had likely been shot
and still needed medical attention. Heart thumping, Lara glanced down the
driveway and watched the black sedan turn left on the road. Her muscles
unclenched and she decided to enter the home and check out the situation. She
grabbed her Taser and tucked it into her waistband in case the dog turned on her.
As she hurried up the walkway, she made a mental note of what she’d seen of
the assailant: five-ten, lean, dirty blond, thirty-something, and a squarish face.
Lara slowed and moved cautiously through the open front door, weapon ready.
The big house was quiet and she crept through, taking in details. High ceilings,
open floor plan, and two additional exits that she could see. One leading to the
garage from the kitchen, the other into a lush side yard. No people, no black dog.
She made her way down the hall to a room near the end. Weapon raised, she
entered a bedroom. A large man, wearing only black leather chaps, lay on the
floor on his back. Blood had soaked into the pale-blue rug under him and
sprayed the white satin sheets on the bed. A familiar salty smell mingled with the
wet metallic of the blood. As she stepped toward the victim, Lara recognized the
scent: a mix of sweat and semen.
She slipped off her medpack and knelt down. She heard shallow breathing and
saw that he’d been shot in the shoulder. The black dog lay nearby, whimpering
and watching her. “Good dog. You stay.”
The man opened his eyes. “Thank god.” The dog started to get up, but victim
snapped his fingers and it lay back down.
Lara began to pull out supplies. “You need the ER. Why didn’t you call for a
regular ambulance?”
“It’s personal. I don’t want to report this.”
Lara groaned, not caring that he heard. She should have left after the jackass
shot at her. It was too late now. She couldn’t walk away from a bleeder. Lara
lifted his shoulder to see if the bullet had gone through. He moaned and
squeezed her wrist. The exit hole was twice the size of the entry wound and
bleeding heavily, but at least she wouldn’t have to dig out the bullet. She laid his
shoulder back to the floor. “What’s your name?”
“Thaddeus Morton.”
Lara froze. “The federal employment commissioner?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be Washington D.C.? Overseeing the Gauntlet?”
“I’m flying out tomorrow morning—if I don’t bleed to death.”
“Is this your house? I thought you moved to the capital.”
“I kept my home here and a friend house-sits for me. I come back whenever I
can.” He grimaced as he talked.
Lara bit back another question and focused on her task. She grabbed a packet
of gunshot gauze, a new product designed to fill such a wound and slowly
dissolve as the tissue around it healed. A Chicago ER doctor had invented the
gauze soon after the dark shift, as she called it. The Supreme Court had struck
down a series of gun control laws and now weapons were everywhere. So were
gunshot wounds. An entire industry had sprung up to treat them.
“We need to roll you over so I can bandage the exit wound.” Lara gave him
her best smile, which wasn’t much. “This will hurt.”
“Do you have pain meds?”
“I’m not licensed for them. You know how the DEA is.”
Lara cauterized the major bleeders with a C-laser, sprayed the wound with
antibacterial, then packed it with gauze. The white material soaked with blood
before she could get the skin-sealing bandage in place. The sealer, as medics
called it, had biologic properties that bonded with tissue.
She taped a padded exterior bandage in place and asked, “Who shot you, and
why don’t you want to report it?”
“My lover.” He paused. “Going public was a political career killer even before
the new Congress made homosexual acts illegal. Not that I’m gay. I’m bisexual.”
Lara didn’t give a rip about his sexual practices, but she watched his face for
signs of lying, a habit from her detective days. She saw none. “What makes you
think I’ll consider not reporting this? I could lose my license.”
“Because I’m the employment commissioner and you’re a contestant in the
Gauntlet. I can help you if you help me.”
Lara’s pulse quickened. What was he saying? “Did you ask for me when you
called the Paramed Service?”
“I didn’t have time. But I hoped it would be you.” Morton spoke softly, then
waited.
Lara’s mind raced. The employment commissioner oversaw the contest, now
in its third year, and he would rule on any situations that required a judgment
call. He could disqualify any competitor too, including her.
Lara was torn. Her desire to win the Gauntlet was like a tumor growing inside
her. Oregon desperately needed the grant money and the jobs that would be
awarded to the winner’s state—and she needed a reason to keep getting up every
day. Yet having the contest handed to her was not what she had in mind. “I don’t
want to win except on my own merit.” She almost regretted the words as soon as
they left her mouth.
“Be more specific.” He sat up and she noticed that he was attractive in a
pretty-boy way with dark wavy hair and high cheekbones. She’d only seen the
commissioner a few times on the news, and the camera had not flattered him.
Still, he was almost fifty and the black leather gear he was sporting made her a
little sad for him.
“I don’t want your help. I want to win clean.”
“Could I interest you in some cash?”
Lara laughed. “Taking a bribe for not reporting this incident would be worse
than simply not logging the GSW.” She began to pack her medical supplies.
“Tell me what you want. I can’t let this incident reach the police or the
media.”
“Your boyfriend is a menace. He shot at me on his way out and should
probably be locked up.”
Morton’s eyes widened. “Oh shit. I’m so sorry.” He scooted to the bed and
leaned against it. “He’s having a bad reaction to some medication. He’s not
usually like this.” The commissioner’s gaze slid away and Lara sensed he’d just
lied to her.
“Does he have a criminal record?”
“No. He’s never hurt anyone before. He discovered I cheated on him and
freaked out. Shooting at you was just a leftover emotional reaction. He’ll calm
down and be fine.”
“I want his name. For my own protection.”
Morton hesitated. “Richard Bremmer, but please don’t report this. I’ll lose my
federal position.” He locked into her eyes. “And everything that goes with it.”
Lara wanted to get the hell out. After a quick look at the dog, which hadn’t
moved since Morton snapped his fingers, she slipped her gun back into its
holster and stood to leave.
“Are you going to report this?”
“I don’t know yet.”
In the van, she accessed her call log on her iCom and stared at the cursor,
which was waiting for her to speak or type something. Crap. She was required to
report the GSW, so that was the safest thing to do. If she lost her paramedic
license, she’d be scrambling to find work like millions of others. She couldn’t go
through that nightmare again. After leaving the police department, she’d been
unemployed for years. Then the gun laws loosened and health insurance got
scarce, so paramedics were suddenly in demand.
Yet, if she reported the incident, Thaddeus Morton would be investigated and
likely removed from overseeing the Gauntlet. His last act as commissioner might
be to disqualify her. If she kept his secret and he stayed on as a judge, he would
owe her, and it couldn’t hurt to have someone in her corner while she competed.
If she brought home a grant, co-funded by AmGo and the federal government,
Oregon would have money to spend on jobs and social programs. AmGo would
build a facility in Eugene that employed thousands. Teachers and police officers
would go back to work. Not her, of course. She had burned that bridge
thoroughly. Still, she was a cop at heart and she hated the way law enforcement
had been crippled by the never-ending recession. Most departments now only
investigated violent crimes, and detectives had a couple of days to track leads.
After that, the case went into the cold file and they moved on. It was shameful.
So many victims with no one held accountable.
Lara slammed out of the van and ran back into the house. Morton had changed
into jeans and opened a suitcase on the bed. He jumped like a startled cat when
she burst into the room.
“How is the first section of the contest structured this year?” The Gauntlet had
five phases that changed annually, and the details were kept secret until the
program went live.
“It’s an elevated maze.”
Lara made a quick mental assessment. “I’d like to be paired against someone
tall and female.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Beyond that, I intend to kick ass on my own.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“I hope your accidental shoulder wound heals quickly.” Lara bolted from the
room before he could say anything else. No promises had been exchanged, but
she felt a little dirty anyway.
