As the man in the raincoat pulled the trigger, a bullet tore into the back of his head.

Addis heard something slam into the back of the elevator. Then he realized a rush of air had passed by his left ear. He watched the man in the raincoat fall.

The Secret Service officers pushed Margaret Hanover to the ground and drew their weapons.

Anjean Jameson stood in the lobby, his arm held high, his gun dangling on his finger. He saw the officers aiming their weapons at him. People were running. He heard shouts. He raised his other hand over his head.

Twayne Starrell, on his hands and knees, scurried over to Jameson. “You play it right,” Starrell said in a low voice. “Say you’re just here looking for a bud, and you get to be a god-damn hero.”

Starrell jumped to his feet and bolted toward the front door, the backpack slapping against him. Too many people were trying to move through the opening. He shoved aside two elderly women carrying large shopping bags. They fell to the ground. Others tripped over them. Someone was yelling at him from behind, ordering him to stop. He sprinted through the door and turned right on Connecticut Avenue.

Too much running, he told himself. Yesterday, today, too fuckin’ much. He cut right on M Street. He stretched each pace. Why was he running? He knew—just knew—that the White House geek didn’t want to be explaining everything in the middle of a god-damn hotel lobby. And with all the shit pulled, he was not going to hand over the bag with this kryptonite—Dunne’s gold—to just any G-man. At the intersection of 17th Street, he ran straight into the road, dodged a delivery van, and kept going. Two blocks later he slowed and glanced behind. No one was there.

Addis stood over the man in the raincoat. The lower half of his face—his bony face—was gone. His eyes were open. A Secret Service agent had pulled back a flap of his coat. Addis could see that his headphones were attached to a radio receiver. He bent closer. Through the speakers of the headphones he could hear Secret Service communications.

Julia. Julia.

Her hair had looked alive. Dancing.

He thought about kicking the corpse. In the face—what remained of it—and sending pieces of gristle and blood flying through the lobby of the Mayflower.

One of the Secret Service detail asked Addis to step back. Other officers were standing tightly around Margaret. Another group had pulled a young black man to the side. He was handcuffed and they were questioning him. Police officers were filling up the lobby.

The Secret Service man asked if Addis needed any medical attention. Addis shook his head. The officer was young. The skin on his cheeks was red and irritated.