‘That’s it, son, you’re done.’ Dr. Meth and his two assistants help him to his feet.

Coaches and players watch in accusing silence as Sam limps off to the locker room.

7:16 p.m.

Three hours, a shower, and seven interviews later, Samuel Agler emerges from the air-conditioned training facility into the cool dusk November air.

He motions for the guard to open the gate, then pushes through the usual postpractice crowd. He signs a dozen portopads, then sees the black government-issue limousine parked along the sidewalk.

Fubish … of all days.

The driver’s door opens, releasing a powerful African-American man.

Sam crosses the street, the crowd still enveloping him, shoving porto-pads in his face.

Ryan Beck approaches. ‘Back off!’

The crowd scurries.

‘Hey, Pep. Still have that gift of gab, I see. How you doin’?’

‘Just doin’. You look like shit.’ Beck opens the rear door.

‘Yeah, nice to see you, too.’ Sam climbs in back. The door closes behind him as he takes his place opposite his mother.

Dominique Gabriel removes her dark, wraparound sunglasses. Although she is forty-nine, most would place her age closer to thirty. The ebony hair is still long and parted in the middle, with a touch of gray sprinkled here and there. The breasts are firm, her figure still flawless, thanks to a strict diet and daily regimen of weight training and cardiovascular exercise. The only signs of aging are the crow’s-feet that litter the corners of her chocolate-brown eyes.

Sam looks her over. ‘You look good for an old broad.’

‘Is that how you greet your mother?’

He leans over and dutifully plants a kiss on her cheek. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. You know I don’t like surprises.’

‘You look tired, Manny.’

‘Sam! Call me Sam.’

‘To me, you’ll always be my Manny.’

‘Can we cut to the chase?’

‘Your brother wants to see you.’

‘Forget it. We had an agreement.’

‘Yes we did. You wanted total anonymity, we gave it to you. A new name, a new identity, surrogate parents … you got the works. But what you’re doing now is extremely dangerous. Instead of living out of the public eye, you’ve dashed back into the spotlight. Your face is on every website and public broadcast in North America. How long do you think it’ll be before some hotshot reporter sees through the tinkered files and false birth certificate and figures out who you really are?’

‘Immanuel Gabriel is dead, mother. He drowned six years ago. No one will put two and two together.’

‘Jacob thinks otherwise, and that’s why he needs to see you.’

‘Jacob’s a freak.’

The slap in the face stuns him, sending shock waves through his already bruised brain. ‘That freak, as you call him, gave you a new life. If it wasn’t for your brother, you’d still be living in the compound … or worse.’