“I’m five minutes away.” Linda’s voice in my earbud. “Any sign?”

“No sign,” says one of the guys, probably the one inside the house, where it’s safest to speak.

“You want me to keep coming?”

“Keep coming,” Joel whispers, his voice steely. We’re all feeling that way, the butterflies, our senses heightened now. We all figured that “James” would arrive early for the ambush, not being certain down to the minute of Linda’s arrival. Linda’s actually a little later than usual, by design, wanting to give “James” all the time he needs.

The air is thick and moist. The street is quiet, calm, only a handful of cars passing, a residential street filled with blue-collar workers, midweek. Up the street, a gaggle of children, probably middle-school age, are shooting a basketball against a backboard over the garage door, but already parents are calling their children inside. The street lighting is minimal, casting only a very pale yellow interrupting the darkness that hovers like a fog over the house. Linda’s house, in particular, lacks any lighting. The light over her garage and the front-porch light are both off, again by design, making the target more inviting.

My skin is starting its familiar itch, my stomach swimming. I’m overdue on my happy pills, but I need to keep my wits about me. I can feel it, I’d say if I were in a movie. But that sums it up. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to be tonight. And if it’s going to be tonight, it’s going to be now.

“Two blocks away,” Linda says into my ear. “Anybody see anything?”

Nobody answers. I wiggle my toes, clench and release my calves, my thighs.

“Do you pull into the left side or the right side of the garage?” asks one of the guys, presumably the one in the garage.

“Left side,” she says.

“Well, pull into the right tonight. I’m in the left corner.”

“Roger that. Don’t accidentally shoot me, Halston. I’m removing my headset.”

Linda’s Grand Cherokee pulls up to her house, turns, and bounces onto the driveway as the garage door opens. Our guy Halston, in the left corner, is exposed, but only because I know to look for him. If someone’s about to charge into the garage, Halston will see him before he sees Halston.

Linda gets out of the car as if nothing is unusual, doesn’t rush but doesn’t dawdle, either, fishing for something in her purse. My eyes dart left-right, left-right, looking for any movement, any signs of something wrong. Linda walks the long way around the car, toward the driveway, exposing herself as much as she possibly can, walking slowly but not breaking stride, not being obvious about it.

Left-right, left-right, something, anything.

And then she curls around the car and walks up to the interior door and disappears inside.

The garage door grinds back down. Only then, I assume, will the guy hiding in the back of her SUV get out, and the guy in the corner of the garage move.

“And here I was hoping this would be my last night sleeping on Linda’s couch,” one of them says—the guy inside the house.

“Stay in role,” Lightner whispers harshly. He’s right. This may not be over. If he’s watching, he can’t see a bunch of silhouettes in the house along with Linda.

Everything goes quiet again.

My mind races. Have we missed something? Didn’t we think of everything? Has he outsmarted me again? I find myself ascribing superhero traits to our killer: He’s on the roof, rappelling down into her bedroom. He’s hiding in the dirt and will pop out of the soil like Rambo. He managed to evade Linda’s alarm and is hiding inside, beneath her bed.

Five minutes. Ten minutes.

We were wrong, I think to myself. He’s not here.

Then a red beater Toyota turns down the street, the car slowing, and pulls to a stop across from Linda’s house. Kills the headlights. Kills the engine.

A boxy sign atop the car. Can’t make out the name, but it’s a pizza place.

The car’s rear hatch pops open. The driver emerges, wearing a baseball cap. I can’t make him out from my position. Decent-sized man, dark hair I think, best I can do.

“Heads up, heads up,” I whisper, later than I should have. “Car stopped by me.”

“This our guy?” someone asks, breathless.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Did anyone order a pizza?”

The man pulls something out of the hatch. A pizza, it’s gotta be, carried in one of those thick warming covers.

“After we shoot this fucker, can we keep the pizza?”

The man crosses the street, quick-stepping it toward Linda’s driveway. His back to me, I rise and try for a better view. He looks big enough, I guess. I can’t tell. It’s dark, and I don’t have his face.

“Joel, I’m coming around the south side.” Sounds like Halston’s voice.

“I’ve got the north, then,” Joel says. “Nobody answers the door.”

The man waltzes up the driveway and turns for Linda’s walk. He steps up on the porch and rings the doorbell. Halston, his gun drawn, shuffles along the south side of the house, approaching the front. The gate on the north side opens, Lightner with his gun facing upward.

“Count of three,” Joel says. “One . . . two . . . THREE!”

At once, the front-porch light goes on and both Joel and Halston are within a few yards of the front door, guns poised on the man as they shout at him and into my ear, their words—“Show me your hands!” “Get the fuck down!”—echoing through my head in stereo.

The man, instantly shaken, drops the pizza and has a moment of What the fuck? before he drops to his knees, palms outward, head swiveling between the two armed men.

No, I instantly recognize.

My head shoots left-right, left-right, and then I stand, and then it happens, in my peripheral vision, movement to my right, we have startled each other simultaneously, just a quick flash of movement several houses down to my right, buried in the shadows.

A man turning and running?

I bolt from my position around the house and race to the fence leading to the backyard. I jump and climb it with some effort and don’t stop running until I hit the fence to the alley. I climb it and land hard in the alley, looking north.

The alley is motionless, quiet save for my heavy breaths.

Then a figure crosses my line of vision, from a house through the alley in a flash and then out of sight.

I run with everything I have. It was always what I did best, even more than my hands, that speed, fastest white guy I ever saw, my teammates at State said, and I forget my knee and I motor like I never have before.

“The alley . . . across the street,” I shout into my headphone, far too late for anyone to assist me, the sounds of the ruckus in front of Linda’s house still playing in my earpiece, as these guys finally begin to realize that they’ve been baited every bit as much as we tried to bait “James.”

I reach the fork in the alley system where he crossed, eastbound, and start running again. I didn’t bring my gun. Why didn’t I bring my gun? I splash through a puddle, turning my ankle in a pothole, and then I hear a car’s ignition, somewhere forward and to my right. I run to the next alley, running north-south, and see the car speeding away down the alley, headlights showing the way. I run toward it, losing ground badly, hoping for a partial license plate or a make and model, a smaller car, something like an Accord or Camry—

It passes under an alley light, and I—I can’t make out a plate, the color is something light, white or silver, yes, it’s an Accord—

And then it bounces into a left turn, tires squealing, and it’s gone.

“Where are you, Jason?” Lightner calls out.

“He’s . . . gone,” I say, my hands on my knees, panting. “He’s gone.”