Next one’s going to do the job. He’s going to grab a fistful of your shirt and drag you down.

Far ahead, in the lit-up yard, the man in the undershirt was still crouching, swaying forward and back on his haunches.

Sam heard an expulsion of breath behind himself. He pictured the pursuer making a forward lunge, throwing his hand out for that final grab.

Sam sucked in a deep breath and screamed, loud and sharp and sustained.

The result was everything he needed it to be.

Up in the yard, the afflicted man jerked and whipped his head toward the noise.

Two feet behind Sam, the pursuer gasped: “Fucking hell…”

The words were laced with anger—but also fear. Sam knew the reason:

You guys know all there is about Rigel, don’t you? Sure you do.

Sam felt the hand brush his back again, an instant later, but once more it barely grazed his shirt—the man behind him was already slowing. Sam heard him curse again, then heard the guy’s feet sliding in the grass, coming to a full stop.

Sam kept running.

Up ahead—fifty yards away now—the crouching man held dead still, staring out on the darkness of the slope.

Sam pictured himself and Dani back in the cornfield, staking out the barn near Echo House. When the men had first emerged from it, he’d counted on their eyes being bright-adapted, unable to see the two of them close by in the dark.

He needed the same to hold true here: needed the afflicted man, with his eyes adapted to the bright lights of the suburb, to see only darkness out here in the weeds.

So far, so good: the man stayed hunched in place, looking around but holding his position.

Still running, Sam looked over his shoulder and saw both pursuers standing there in the tall grass, twenty yards back.

He took another half dozen running strides, then skidded to a halt himself.

He stood exactly centered between the two threats: the men from the chopper behind him, the crouching man in the yard ahead. Sam was a hundred feet from each of them.

The pursuers stared at him, but made no move to come any closer. In the faint light, Sam could see them keeping an eye on the afflicted man, too. Their fear was evident in their body language.

The moment stretched out, wire-tight and surreal, a standoff from out of a fever dream.

And then it fell apart: the man in the yard made a low chuffing sound, like an animal, then turned and loped away into the smoky light of the subdivision.

Sam turned to face the men from the chopper, tensing himself to sprint again.

But they only stood there, watching him—half watching him, actually. The other half of their attention remained on the subdivision.

They still didn’t want to come any nearer.