The music was louder here. The force was concussive; Shaw stumbled as it beat against him, knocking him against the rows of seats, and he had to brace himself on the backs of the chairs as he ran.

He hadn’t killed the lights completely, although it had seemed like it at first. A faint, greenish-blue glow filtered in from overhead, and as Shaw’s eyes adjusted, he could make out the stage, make out Tony staggering like a man who’d been hit upside the head, his hands over his ears, his mouth open in an outraged shriek that was swallowed up by the music of Queen.

Three feet from the stage, Shaw jumped and rolled onto the stage. He came up easily on his feet—yoga, thank God for yoga—and grabbed the can of pepper spray from the waistband of his cycling shorts. Tony spotted him and picked up a wooden baseball bat lying next to North. He rushed at Shaw, still screaming under the pounding music.

Shaw breathed in. He breathed out. For the first time in seven years, he was centered, and the past faded away. Everything in Shaw was finally, perfectly centered. Only it wasn’t centered on himself. It was centered on North McKinney.

Pointing the pepper spray at Tony, Shaw pulled the trigger.

Bright pink plastic foam sprayed from the can, hitting Tony in the face. He sputtered, and his surprise was obvious, but he just kept coming.

Shaw had just enough time for a moment of horror: he had grabbed the wrong can.

Tony brought the bat around in a long arc. Shaw threw himself sideways; the bat clipped his arm, but instead of breaking bone it just ran through him like a long, electric shock, leaving Shaw’s arm numb and limp as he hit the ground and rolled. Tony came after him, bringing the bat up in both hands and coming down with it like a mallet. Shaw scrambled back, and the bat cracked against the stage, throwing up a hail of splinters.

Over the pounding music, Tony was screaming something. Shaw continued to scurry backward, barely fast enough to avoid the bat a third time, and then he felt himself hit something heavy, felt vibrations running through metal, and he couldn’t go any farther. Tony advanced, raising the bat overhead again, a grin pulling his features into an expression that made it easy to see Regina Rex in his face.

Shaw held up the flash drive. Shock rippled through Tony’s face. The bat in his hands sagged. Shaw made a pitching motion, like he was tossing the drive to one side, and Tony’s head followed it. It was instinct. It was a classic misdirect. Shaw drove his heel into the side of Tony’s knee, and he felt the pop of bone and muscle in Tony’s leg, saw pain implode Tony’s face.

But somehow Tony didn’t fall. He was screaming—pain this time, but rage too—but he didn’t fall. He staggered. And then he brought the bat up, and Shaw tried to move back, but he clanged up against the same metal barrier that had stopped him last time. The bat blurred as it swept down toward Shaw.