I try to wipe the blood from my mouth, but my arm’s limp at my side. I stare through the windshield at the page, unsure how long he’s been yelling. Around me, everything goes silent. All I hear is my own broken panting – a wet wheeze crawling on its knees through my throat. I try to tell myself that as long as I’m breathing, I’ll be okay, right? But like my dad told me on our first camping trip, every animal knows when it’s about to die.

Through the windshield, the page throws the car into reverse. The Toyota shifts below my chest. My long fingers scratch wildly for the windshield wipers… the grate on the hood… anything to grab on to. I don’t have a chance. He floors it, and the car flies backwards, sending me sliding off the hood. As my back crashes against the Dumpster, the car’s wheels spin, kicking a tornado of rocks and dust in my eyes and mouth. I try to stand but can’t feel anything. My legs collapse beneath me and my whole body crumples in the dirt.

Straight ahead, the car bucks to a stop. But he doesn’t leave. I don’t understand. With my one good eye, I stare through the windshield as the page shakes his head angrily. There’s a soft mechanical clunk. He shifts it back into drive. Oh, God. He punches the gas, and the engine howls. Tires gnaw through the gravel. And the rusted grille of the black Toyota comes galloping straight at me. I beg for him to stop, but nothing comes out. My body shakes, convulsing against the base of the Dumpster. The car thunders forward. S-Sorry I got you into this, Harris… Mouthing a silent prayer, I shut my eyes tight and try to picture the Merced River in Yosemite.

“WHATTYA MEAN, DEAD? How can he be dead?”

“That’s what happens when you stop breathing.”

“I know what it means, asshole!”

“Then don’t ask a stupid question.”

Sinking down in his seat, the smartly dressed man felt a sharp contraction around his lungs. “You said no one would get hurt,” he stuttered, anxiously unbending a paperclip as he cradled the phone to his chin. “Those were your words…”

“Don’t blame me,” Martin Janos insisted on the other line. “He followed our guy outside the Capitol. At that point, the kid panicked.”

“That didn’t mean he had to kill him!”

“Really?” Janos asked. “So you’d rather Matthew made his way to your office?”

Twisting the paperclip around his finger, the man didn’t answer.

“Exactly,” Janos said.

“Does Harris know?” the man asked.

“I just got the call myself – I’m on my way down there right now.”

“What about the bet?”

“Matthew already slipped it in the bill – last smart thing the guy ever did.”

“Don’t make fun of him, Janos.”

“Oh, now you’re having regrets?”

Once again the man was silent. But deep within his chest, he knew he’d be regretting this one for the rest of his life.

STANDING IN THE gravel driveway, Janos stared down at Matthew Mercer’s broken body, which sagged lifelessly against the Dumpster. More than anything else, Janos couldn’t help but notice the awkward bend in Matthew’s thighs. And the way his right hand was still stretching upward, reaching for something it would never grasp. Janos shook his head at the mess. So stupid and violent. There were better ways than this.

As the afternoon sun beat down on the bald spot in his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, Janos stuffed his hands in the pockets of his blue and yellow FBI windbreaker. A few years back, the Justice Department announced that nearly 450 of the FBI’s own pistols, revolvers, and assault rifles were officially missing. Whoever stole the guns clearly thought they were valuable, Janos thought. But in his mind, not nearly as valuable as a single windbreaker, nabbed as the crowd celebrated a homerun during an Orioles game. Even the Capitol Police won’t stop a friendly neighborhood FBI agent.

“Where you been?” a voice shouted behind him.

Slowly glancing over his shoulder, Janos had no problem spotting the rusty black Toyota. With the incredibly dented grille. As the car pulled up to the curb, Janos crossed around to the driver’s side and leaned into the window, which was missing its side mirror. Flicking his tongue against his top teeth, he didn’t say a word.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the young black man said, shifting awkwardly in his seat. The confidence he’d worn as a page was gone.

“Let me ask you a question, Toolie – do you consider yourself a smart person?”

Travonn “Toolie” Williams nodded hesitantly. “Y-Yeah… I guess so.”

“That’s why we hired you, isn’t it? To be smart? To look the part?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, why else hire a nineteen-year-old?”

Toolie shrugged his shoulders, unsure how to answer. He didn’t like Janos. Especially when he had that look.

Janos stared through the inside of the car and out the passenger-side window at Matthew. Then he looked back at Toolie.

“Y-You didn’t tell me he’d follow…” Toolie began. “I didn’t know what the hell to-!”

“Did you get the money?” Janos interrupted.

Toolie quickly reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed the envelope with the two cashier’s checks. His arm was shaking as he handed it over.

“It’s all there, just like you wanted. I even avoided the office in case someone followed.”

“That sure worked out great,” Janos said. “Now where’s your jacket?”

Toolie reached into the backseat and handed over the navy suit jacket. Janos noticed it was soaked with blood, but decided not to ask. The damage was done.

“Anything else I should know about?” Janos asked.

Toolie shook his head.

Janos nodded slightly, then patted Toolie on the shoulder. Things were looking up. Reading the positive reaction, Toolie sat up in his seat and finally took a breath. Janos reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small black box that looked like a thick calculator. “Ever seen one of these?” Janos asked.

“Naw, whut is it?”

On the side of the box, Janos flipped a switch, and a slight electrical hum punctured the air, like a radio being turned on. Next to the switch, he turned a dial, and two half-inch needles clicked into place on the base of the device. They looked like tiny antennas. Just enough to pierce through clothing, Janos thought.

Gripping the black box like a walkie-talkie, Janos cocked his arm backward – and in one sharp movement, pounded the device against the center of Toolie’s chest.

“Ow!” Toolie yelled as the tips of the two needles bit into his skin. With a hard shove, he pushed Janos and the device away from his chest. “What the hell’re you doin’, asshole?”

Janos looked down at the black box and turned the On switch to Off. “You’ll see…”

To his own surprise, Toolie let out a loud, involuntary grunt.

Seeing the smile on Janos’s face, Toolie looked down at his own chest. Ignoring the buttons, he ripped his shirt open, then stretched the collar of his undershirt down until he could see his own bare chest. There were no marks. Not even a pinprick.

That’s why Janos liked it. Completely untraceable.

Outside the car, Janos glanced down at his watch. Thirteen seconds was the minimum. But fifteen was average.

“What’s going on?!” Toolie screamed.

“Your heart’s trying to beat 3,600 times a minute,” Janos explained.

As Toolie grabbed at the left side of his chest, Janos cocked his head sideways. They always grabbed the left side, even though the heart’s not there. Everyone gets that wrong, he thought. That’s just where we feel it beating. Indeed, as Janos knew all too well, the heart was actually in the direct center.

“I’ll kill you!” Toolie exploded. “I’ll kill you, muthaf-”

Toolie’s mouth drooped open, and his entire body rag-dolled against the steering wheel like a puppet when you remove the hand.