As Peaches, or whatever his name was, drove Drake and Fred to the Hotel del Coronado where the runners were going to spend the night, Drake reflected that he looked like a classic hood instead of a businessman. His conservative suit didn’t hide his bulging shoulders, and Drake was certain he had a gun concealed beneath his jacket. His only expression was a perpetual scowl. Drake decided that he needed to be as wary of Peaches as Fred, but for a different reason.

The most impressive thing about the Hotel del Coronado wasn’t the gleaming white expanse of the building located on the beach, or the contrasting red roofs, but that it had been in business since the nineteenth century and had played host to “presidents and princes,” as the brochure Drake read stated. If this was typical of how the runners were going to live during the race, he wouldn’t fight it.

His room didn’t have an ocean view. That was a concession to economy. It cost more to see the sea. The room was in the Victorian Building, the oldest part of the hotel, and was labeled quaint, meaning that it wasn’t large and the furniture was old. It had the odor of quaint.

Drake still wasn’t convinced he wanted to be in the race, especially if it were going to get him killed. He hadn’t figured out why anybody wanted to kill him for running the California coast, but somebody must not like him.

He had an out. The person who had recruited him by phone, whose name he had forgotten, had told him that his teammate had already been picked. The recruiter couldn’t tell him who his teammate was, for reasons Drake didn’t understand. Both members of a team had to cross the finish line before both members of each of the other teams, in order to claim the million dollar first prize. He had reserved the right not to participate if he didn’t like his teammate.