“Here to tell me how it is again?” His friend raised him, then slammed him down against the table again. “Big boss man?”

Mitch brought his pint glass up in a whistling arc against Alex’s head. It shattered, and he felt a burning in his fingers. Alex gasped, let go of him, his hands at his head. Mitch pulled himself off the table. A chair was on the floor at his feet, and he grabbed it as he stepped away.

Alex had regained his footing and braced himself like a boxer, one hand in front of his face, the other by his ear. He was breathing hard, and blood ran down the side of his face. The two of them faced each other. Frozen. Part of Mitch screamed to move now, to step forward and swing the chair and try to knock Alex down, to hit him again while he fell, and then take what he wanted and go. To leave his onetime friend bleeding on the bar floor.

Instead, he straightened. “I’m not going to fight you. I came here to talk.”

“We don’t have anything to say.”

“You’re wrong.” He kept the chair cocked back. “Ian figured out what’s in those bottles. It’s not drugs, man. It’s poison. Nerve gas. Those things have the chemicals that make sarin gas.”

Alex snorted, shook his head. “You’ll say anything, won’t you?”

“I swear to God-”

“You’ve been wanting this for a long time. You think I don’t know? I know how you feel about Jenn. About me. All that time you were the quiet one, the smart one, too shy to live, you think I didn’t see the way you looked at me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think it’s time we dropped the bullshit, don’t you?” Alex circled sideways, rocking gracefully from foot to foot, and Mitch moved in response. “We don’t really like each other much. Haven’t for a long time, have we?”

“That’s not true.” But even as he said the words, he thought back to Alex’s regular condescension, the way he had spoken the night they’d met Johnny. Or his own quickly suppressed joy at the big man’s humiliation and helplessness. The thought of him and Jenn in bed together, muscular, tattooed Alex, the golden boy who always had it easy.

“Bullshit. We’ve been coming to this for a long time. Years. So let’s do it.” He nodded at the chair. “If you’ve got the balls.”

Juvenile, maybe, but the barb hit. Mitch narrowed his eyes. Why not? What did he owe this guy? The supposed friend who had betrayed him over and over. Mitch wasn’t the shy weakling Alex thought. This was the new Mitch, the man who decided who he wanted to be and just did it. Who moved through life with force and purpose.

Who hit the woman he loved.

Who killed a man and tried to hide from it.

He took a deep breath and a step back. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. But that’s not what I’m here for. Whether you want to believe it or not, those bottles have the stuff to make chemical weapons. That’s why I’m here.” Slowly, he lowered the chair. Set it down and stepped away. “So you want to hit me, man? Go ahead.”

Without even a pause, Alex stepped forward and slammed a right hook into his side. There was a crack and an explosion of pain and Mitch collapsed, legs folding beneath him. Hit the floor hard, the impact ringing through his whole body. He tried to get up, found he could barely move. It was all he could do to curl himself into a fetal ball and wait for the kicks to start.

Nothing happened.

After a long moment, he opened his eyes. The floor was inches away, old tile with grime beaten into every crack and crevice. He turned his head, saw Alex standing above him. For a moment they just looked at each other.

Then Mitch managed to croak, “Feel better?”

“Yeah.” Alex lowered a hand. Mitch took it. Standing up sent razors spinning through his chest. He paused a moment, drew a shallow breath. “I can’t believe you hit me, you fucker.”

Alex snorted, then rubbed at his face with one hand. “Let me get you another drink.”

Mitch let his friend help him to a stool, sat down stiffly. Took the glass Alex offered, three fingers of Jameson, neat. The burn felt good.

Alex said, “Chemical weapons?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yeah.” He straightened, finished the rest of the glass. Set it down. It was stained with blood, and he looked at his hand. Looking at it was enough to make it start throbbing.

It didn’t matter. “Ian and Jenn are talking to the police.”

“So why did you come here?”

“In case they couldn’t make it in time. Victor is on his way?”

Alex nodded.

“We have to get out of here. We’ll be safe with the police.” He started to stand up.

“No.”

“Did you hear me? We can’t let-”

“I called him, Mitch. I called him and I told him that you guys had lied, that I had the stuff, and that I would meet him here with it.”

“Yeah, but we can still-”

“Where do you think his first stop will be when he shows up and I’m not here?”

“We can go there right now. Get Cassie, take her with us.”

“What if he’s already got someone there? What if they’re watching? If it was just me, that’d be one thing. But it’s not. It’s my daughter.”

“Alex, do you understand what I’m saying? This is the main ingredient in sarin gas. A gallon of it. All someone needs to do is mix it with alcohol and it could kill hundreds, thousands of people.”

Abruptly, the big man chuckled.

Mitch stared. “I’m not kidding.”

“No, I just… Alcohol.” Alex shook his head. “No wonder you freaked when you saw me drinking.”

Despite himself, Mitch felt his lip twitching upward. The two of them looked at each other across the bar, and then they both started laughing. It didn’t last long-the motion sent shivers of pain through his chest-but for just a second, Mitch felt like he was home.

“Come on. We have to go.”

He could see his friend wrestling with it, doing the same thing they had done earlier. Trying to decide whether he could live with either set of consequences. Struggling to find a way out. And for a moment, Mitch wondered what would happen if Alex refused.

Then he heard a voice behind him.

“What’s the hurry? We just got here.”

THE SECONDS HURT.

Jenn had never realized it could work that way, that time could have physical weight and sharp edges. That each slow tick of the clock could cut. While she and Ian sat on the couch, helpless, Mitch would be pitting himself against Victor. And she’d seen the light of too much self-sacrificial joy in Mitch’s eyes. He had finally torn down the walls he’d erected to hide from the things he had done, and it was killing him. He wouldn’t act cautiously, wouldn’t hang back. No, he’d go forward in typical male fashion.

Which meant they were his only chance. And every second they sat here, prisoners in her living room, was one closer to too late.

The scissors had gone warm in her hands, the metal slick. Though they were a lousy weapon, they were what she had, and some comfort.

The man pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed, said, “I’ve got them.” A pause. “Yes.” His eyes were cold and steady as some deep-sea creature. “OK.”

Beside her, Ian whispered, “Are you all right?”

“I think so.” She saw the man watching them, didn’t bother to hide her words. “You?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“Hold on. You have to hold on.”

“You remember the game I told you about?”

“Jesus Christ, are you kidding?”

“Prisoner’s Dilemma. Remember it?”

She sighed. “Yeah.”

“Remember what I said? It’s about iteration. The point is that you play over and over.” For a moment, she thought she saw the faintest crinkle of skin around his eyes, like he was trying to tell her something. “But if you know you’re only going to play once-”

“I know, I know. Then you betray.”

“Right.” He coughed long and hard. When he could breathe again, he said, “Especially if it’s the last game. Or if there’s something truly important at stake. Something larger. Then you betray. You make sure you get out.” His gaze locked on her.