Shafer flicked his hand at a wall switch, and the hall lights flashed on.

“Death has come for you! It’s your time. Look at me! Look at Death!” he screamed.

Whitehead kept moving, and Shafer calmly shot him in the buttocks. The wound was large, gaping, and Whitehead screamed like a stuck pig. He whirled and fell halfway down the stairs. His face slammed against the metal railing as he fell.

He finally lay writhing at the foot of the stairs, where Shafer shot him again, this time between the legs. War screamed again. Then he began to moan and to sob.

Shafer stood over him, triumphant, his heart bursting. “You think sanctions are a game? Is this still a game to you?” he asked in the softest voice. “I believe it’s great fun, but do you?”

Whitehead was sobbing as he tried to speak. “No, Geoffrey. It’s not a game. Please stop. That’s enough.”

Shafer began to smile. He showed his enormous teeth. “Oh, you’re so wrong. It’s lovely! It is the most amazing mind game you could imagine. You should feel what I feel right now, the power over life and death.”

He had a thought, and it changed everything, changed the game for him and Whitehead. This switch was so much better than what he’d originally planned.

“I’ve decided to let you live — not very well, but you will live.”

He fired the semiautomatic again, this time into the base of Whitehead’s spine.

“You will never forget me, and the game will continue for the rest of your life. Play well. I know I shall.”

Chapter 118

THE MOMENT WE HEARD the gunshots, we ran toward the main house. I raced ahead of the others. I had to get to Shafer before they did. I had to take him myself. I had to talk to him, to know the truth once and for all.

I saw Shafer slip out a side door of the house. Whitehead must be dead. Shafer had won the game.

He was running toward the sea, moving fast and purposefully. He disappeared behind a small sand dune shaped like a turtle. Where was he going? What was next for him?

Then I saw him again. He was kicking off his shoes and getting out of his trousers. What was he doing?

I heard Sampson come running up behind me. “Don’t kill him, John! Not unless we have to,” I yelled.

“I know! I know!” he called.

I plunged ahead.

Shafer turned and fired off a shot at me. The distance was too great for any real accuracy with a handgun, but still, he was a good shot, and he came pretty close. He knew how to use a gun, and not just from a few feet away.

I glanced over and saw that Sampson was kicking off his sneakers, pulling away his pants. I did the same with my sweats and T-shirt.