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Eventually, all ten Santa Wannabes make it to the other side of the rink and back, which means I’m up next in the Green group. I step onto the ice a little too quickly and am immediately humbled by skidding and nearly falling. It’s slipperier than I imagined. Less controlled.

“You good, Lambros?” Scarlett asks.

“Fantastic.” I tighten my helmet and try to figure out the strategy I want to take. For some reason, I come up blank. How am I supposed to move this ornament in an efficient way? I could pull it behind me, but my boots have zero tread. I won’t be able to dig into the ice properly. I could squat and roll, maybe. Training exercises I’m cut out for, but this is not that—

“Lambros? Hey,” Scarlett cuts in. “Get across the ice, get back. They’re going off time, not pizzazz.” She lets that sink in for a beat. “You’re doing something new. Don’t be a hero. I know you got this.”

“That’s what you told me at Quantico,” I recall. “Week three.” Just as it did then, it emboldens me now.

“Aw, you remember the exact moment I say things, Lambros?”

“When they’re useful, yeah,” I deadpan. “It’s not a long list.”

She laughs. In a lower, more serious tone, she adds, “Just be faster than twenty-five people.”

When the horn blows, I stiff-arm the ornament, which is heavier than it looks. I shuffle forward steadily until I realize I can move a lot faster without the giant ball. I give it a firm push, rolling it about six feet forward. Now I can focus on anyone acting suspicious on or off the rink and on my balance—the key is small steps with the entire soles of my boots touching the ice. It’s a game of inches. What it’ll come down to is how quickly we can repeat the movements that work.

Push, scoot, push scoot. I make good progress. I’m not cold, not overheated. I feel comfortable in my disguise. Scarlett was right—the breathable suit makes a difference.

My competitors drag, push, and use the squat-and-roll method as cameramen circle us, capturing every angle. One woman uses a curling technique by pushing the ornament, getting in front of it, and then sweeping the ice with her gloves. She’s impressively agile on her feet.

“That’s Marlene Glass,” Scarlett says. “Professional curler from Blaine, Minnesota. Doesn’t have so much as a traffic ticket. Fingerprints are clean. I think the only thing we have to worry about with Marlene is her getting a better time than you.”

Not gonna happen. Her method is too involved.

“Did you already memorize all the Santas?” I ask.

“Thirty-five so far,” she says. “But that was probably pointless since half will be going home in, like, an hour. I did create a cheat sheet for myself.”

“Color-coded?”

“Of course! I also got these cute little Santa stickers for the ones whose background reports and fingerprint results came back suspicious. There are no evil-looking Santa stickers, if you can believe it.”

“Shocking,” I mumble as I near the opposite side of the rink. I scoot past my ornament and start heading back toward the crowds, passing my competition along the way. They’re all focused on their own efforts.

Except one person. Freddie Lee, I recall from the roster, glares at me. He aggressively pushes the ornament as he slides forward.

“Freddie was a no-show at the Snow Ball,” Scarlett informs me. “We definitely need his signature. He resisted the fingerprint project.”

“For a reason?” I ask quietly under my beard as Freddie passes me. I can feel the heat of his stare.

“Maybe nervous about what we’d find. He was in our system,” Scarlett shares. “Arson. He was fired—I know, sorry—from his job as a pyrotechnician fifteen years ago. He was seriously anti-consumerist and tried to set off explosives in a department store. It ended up burning down. He claims it was an accident, but the timing was suspicious. No fatalities, a few injuries, and the damage was pretty bad. Got the sentence down to ten years.”

“Dear Rudolph,” I mutter.

“He wasn’t too happy with law enforcement after the incident. Led a few protests, got into some verbal arguments with the police.”

“And what better event to target than one that centers around someone who’s practically a mascot for consumerism.” I glance over my shoulder at Freddie. “I’m not convinced Sadistic Santa would risk playing, though. Too easy to be eliminated if they’re trying to get to the finale to make a point.”

She goes quiet for a few seconds as I hit the center of the rink. Nearly there. The cheering of the crowd roars above “Holly Jolly Christmas” playing on the speakers.

“Santa Wannabes can still hang around after being cut,” she says. “I think this person is in the games.”

“Is that a gut feeling?” I ask, because I already know that’s what she’s basing this on. “Risky.”

“Not just a gut feeling. The invite explicitly said ‘I know a game that we can play.’ Not me. We. Both of us.”

And now it’s not even her. It’s me.