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to squeeze past me in the doorway. I step in front of him, cutting him off.
    “Can I help y—?”
    He slams into me at full speed, ramming my shoulder with his own. He’s gotta be fifty years old. Stronger than he looks. Stumbling slightly back, I grab the doorjamb and try to stay in front of him. “You nuts?” I ask.
    “Sorry . . . this was . . . I-I’m in the wrong place,” he insists, keeping his head down and stepping back for another pass. The way he stutters and keeps shuffling in place, I start thinking he’s got more problems than just being in the wrong room.
    “This is a private room,” I tell him. “Where’d you—?”
    “The bathroom,” he insists. “Looking for the bathroom.”
    It’s a quick excuse, but not a good one. He was in here way too long. “Listen, I need to call the Secret Ser—”
    Springing forward, he barrels at me without a word. I lean forward to brace myself. That’s exactly what he’s counting on.
    I expect him to ram into me. Instead, he turns his foot sideways, pounds his heel down on the tips of my left toes, and grabs me by my wrist. I’m already falling forward. He tugs my wrist even harder, ducking down and letting momentum take care of the rest. Like a freshly spun top, I whip backward into the room, completely off balance. Behind me . . . the table . . .
    The backs of my calves hit the metal edge, and gravity sends me plunging back toward the wide glass top. I paddle my arms forward to stop the fall. It doesn’t help.
    As my back hits the glass, I grit my teeth and brace for the worst. The glass crackles like the first few kernels of popcorn . . . then shatters like a thunderstorm of raining glass. The coffee table’s smaller than a bathtub, and as I tumble in backward, my head hits the outer metal edge. A jolt of pain runs down my spine, but my eyes are still on the door. I crane my neck up for a better look. The stranger’s already gone . . . and then . . . as I stare at the empty doorway . . . he sticks his head back in. Almost as if he’s checking on me.
    That’s when our eyes lock. Contact.
    Oh, God.
My stomach sinks down to my kneecaps. Th-That’s . . .
    His face is different . . . his nose rounded . . . his cheeks more chiseled. I grew up in Miami. I know plastic surgery when I see it. But there’s no mistaking those eyes—brown with a splash of light blue . . . He . . . he died eight years ago . . .
    That was Boyle.

 
    3
    W ait!”
    He takes off in an eyeblink, darting to the left down the hallway—away from the doorway where Jay is. Boyl—whoever he is, he’s smart.
    I grab the edges of the coffee table and try to boost myself out. My hip and knees grind against the shards of glass as I twist into place. Stumbling to my feet, I rush forward, completely hunched over. I’m so off balance, I practically fall through the doorway, back into the hall, which is completely empty.
    He barely had a five-second head start. It’s more than enough.
    Up ahead, the far end of the hallway bends around to the left. In the distance, a metal door slams shut. Damn. I run as fast as I can, gritting my teeth just to keep myself from hyperventilating. But I already know what’s coming. Turning the corner, the hallway dead-ends at two more soundproof metal doors. The one on the right leads to an emergency set of stairs. The one straight ahead leads outside. If we were in the White House, we’d have two Secret Service guys standing guard. As a Former, we’ve barely got enough to cover the entrances that lead to the stage.
    I shove open the door on my right. As it crashes into the wall, a low thud echoes up the concrete stairwell. I hold my breath and listen for footsteps . . . movement . . . anything. All I get is silence.
    Spinning back, I slam into the metal bar of the remaining door, which whips open and flings me out into the sweet, steamy Malaysian air. The only light in the alley comes from the headlights of a black Chevy Suburban, a metal Cheshire cat with a