I jog backward up the alley, my gaze locked on Bullfeathers’s back door. Dead silent. Even he’s not good enough t-

The door swings open, and the man bounds outside.

We both freeze. Shaking his head at my predictability, he readjusts his windbreaker. Listening carefully, I notice the jingling of keys on my left. Diagonally behind me, a twenty-year-old kid with a pair of headphones is opening the back door to his apartment building.

Hangdog leaps toward me. I leap toward Headphones.

“’Scuse me, kid – sorry,” I say, cutting in front of him. As I slide into the building, I grab his keys from the lock and take them inside with me.

“Jackass!” the kid calls out.

Nodding another apology, I slam the thick metal door shut. He’s outside with Hangdog. I’m alone in the building. I already hear him pounding his shoulder against the door. Like before, this isn’t gonna last.

Behind me, the gray industrial stairwell can take me up or down. From the view at the banister, up leads to the main lobby and the rest of the building. Down goes down one flight and dead-ends at a bike rack. Logic says to go up. It’s the clear way out. More important, every instinct in my gut tells me to go up. Which is exactly why I go down. Screw logic. Whoever this psychopath is, he’s been in my head long enough.

Descending toward the dead end, I find two empty mop buckets and seven bikes, one with training wheels and rainbow streamers on the handlebars. I’m not MacGyver. Nothing I can use as a weapon. Hopping over the metal grating of the bike rack, I curl down into a tight ball and glance up toward the banister. From this angle, I’m as hidden as I get.

Up above, the door crashes into the concrete wall, and he enters the stairwell.

He’s at the foot of the stairs, making his decision. No time to check both – for both of us, every second counts.

I hold my breath and shut my eyes. His suede shoes tickle the concrete as he takes a slight step forward. There’s a swish from his windbreaker. His fingernail taps quietly against the banister. He’s peering over the edge.

Two seconds later, he races for the stairs… but with each step, the sound gets fainter. In the distance, another metal door slams into a wall. Then silence. He’s gone.

But as I finally raise my head and take a breath, I quickly realize my problems are just beginning.

I try to stand up, but vertigo hits fast. I can barely keep my balance – adrenaline has long since disappeared. As I sink back into the corner, my arms sag like rubber bands at my side. Like Pasternak. And Matthew.

God…

Again I shut my eyes. Again they both stare back at me. They’re all I see. Matthew’s soft smile and gawky stride… the way Pasternak always cracked his middle knuckle…

Curled into a ball, I can’t even look up. I’m right where I deserve to be. Matthew always put me up on a pedestal. So did Pasternak. But I was never that different. Or any less afraid. I was just more skilled at hiding it.

I turn away toward the training-wheel bike, but all it does is remind me of Pasternak’s two-year-old son… his wife, Carol… Matthew’s parents… his brothers… their lives… all ruined…

I lick my upper lip, and the taste of salt stings my tongue. It’s the first time I notice the tears running down my face.

It was a game. Just a stupid game. But like any other game, all it took was a single dumb move to stop play and remind everyone how easy it is for people to get hurt. Whatever Matthew saw… whatever he did… the man chasing me is clearly trying to keep it quiet. At any cost. He’s not a novice, either. I think back to how he left Matthew. And Pasternak… That’s why he scooped up the pieces of the black box. When they find his body, there’s no reason for anyone to cock an eyebrow. People die at their desks every day.

I shake my head at my new reality. That creepy nut… the way he set it all up… and that black box, whatever the hell it was. He may not be FBI, but the guy’s clearly a professional. And while I’m not sure if he’s shutting down the entire game or just our branch, it doesn’t take a genius to spot the trend. Pasternak brought me in, and I brought in Matthew. Two down, one to go. And I’m wearing the bull’s-eye in the middle.

I curl my knees to my chest and pray it’s all a dream. It’s not. My friends are dead. And I’m next.

How the hell did this happen? I look around and catch my reflection in the chrome handlebars of the kid’s bicycle. It’s like staring into a spoon. The whole world’s warped. I can’t get out of this myself – not without some help.

Racing up the stairs and out the back door, I run five blocks without stopping. Still not sure it’s far enough, I flip open my phone and dial the number for information.

“What city?” the female recorded voice asks.

“Washington, D.C.”

“What listing?”

“The U.S. Department of Justice.”

I press the phone to my ear as they give me the number. Seven digits later, I have to go through three secretaries before I get through.

They pulled their big gun. Time for me to pull mine.

As always, he picks up on the first ring. “I’m here,” he answers.

“It’s Harris,” I tell him. “I need some help.”

“Just tell me where and when. I’m already on my way…”

“YOU LOST HIM?”

“Just for the moment,” Janos said into his cell phone as he rounded the block outside Bullfeathers. “But he won’t-”

“That’s not what I asked. What I asked was: Did. You. Lose. Harris?”

Janos stopped midstep, standing in the middle of the street. A man in a maroon Oldsmobile punched his horn, screaming for him to move. Janos didn’t budge. Turning his back toward the Oldsmobile, he gripped the phone and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said into his cell. “Yes, Mr. Sauls. I lost him.”

Sauls let the silence sink in.

Asshole, Janos thought to himself. He’d seen this last time he worked with Sauls. Big people always felt the need to make big points.

“Are we done?” Janos asked.

“Yes. We’re done for now,” Sauls replied.

“Good – then stop worrying. I had a long talk with your inside man. I know where Harris lives.”

“You really think he’s dumb enough to go home?”

“I’m not talking about his house,” Janos said into the phone. “I’ve studied him for six months. I know where he lives.”

As Janos finally stepped toward the sidewalk, the man in the Oldsmobile let go of his horn and slammed the gas. The car lurched forward, then skidded to a stop right next to Janos. The man inside lowered the passenger-side window about halfway. “Learn some manners, dickface!” he yelled from inside.

Craning down toward the car, Janos calmly leaned his arm against the half-open window, which gave slightly from the pressure. His jacket slid open just enough for the man to see Janos’s leather shoulder holster and, more important, the nine-millimeter Sig pistol held within it. Janos raised the right corner of his mouth. The man in the Oldsmobile hit the gas as fast as he could. As the wheels spun and the car took off, Janos kept his arm pressed tightly in place, letting his ring scrape against the Oldsmobile as it zipped away.