THE GRENADE HADN’T EXPLODED, which turned out to be a mixed blessing. Instead, it was rolling across an imported Oriental carpet spewing a bluish gas that Smith couldn’t identify. He held his breath and squinted in an effort to protect his eyes as Randi launched herself around and over furniture with customary athleticism. He had no idea where she was going, but she seemed to have a plan, so he followed with lungs already starting to burn. If it was a nerve agent, one breath was all it would take.

They made it to the hallway at the back of the house and Smith ducked when a sighting laser came through the window and diffused in the haze. Randi bounced off the doorjamb leading to the room she’d claimed when they arrived and immediately dropped, sliding across the polished floorboards until she slammed against the wall between the two east-facing windows. Smith hit the ground, too, staying out of the reddish beam probing above him while Randi pulled the shades. With the windows safely covered, she got to her feet again and ran for a small walk-in closet, grabbing his collar as she passed and dragging him along with her.

Despite the cramped fit—and the fact that even children considered closets too obvious a place to hide—she slammed the door behind them. Smith dropped to his knees in the darkness, ripping clothes from the wall and stuffing them in the crack beneath the door. If the gas was just some kind of an irritant or anesthetic, it might help. If not, there was probably already enough in the closet to kill them. And worse, now they’d cornered themselves. Had she taken a breath? Was her judgment compromised?

There was a muffled crack of wood and suddenly the closet was bathed in the dim glow of a keypad similar to the one next to the front door. Randi’s eyes were bulging a bit from lack of oxygen as she punched a code into it.

Was it a panic button that signaled the alarm company? Had she sucked in enough gas to think a bunch of rent-a-cops were going to come riding to their rescue?