Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [36]
“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