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On his way out of Horgan’s house, he noticed a D.C. police car parked on the street near the end of the driveway.

For a moment he had no idea what to do.

Why a D.C. car? he wondered at first. He was in Virginia, not in the District of Columbia. He looked again and saw that there was only one policeman in the car, not the usual two. Why?

The cop was very likely there to arrest him. Perhaps working with Geraldine Dempsey and her team, he thought. Then he reconsidered. If the joint CIA-FBI team had truly tracked him here, or deduced that he would come here, there would be a lot of law enforcement officers. Not one person.

Something was off.

Paul descended the brick steps of the porch and limped to his rented Jeep, parked in Horgan’s driveway. At that moment, the cop opened the driver’s-side door of the patrol cruiser and got out. He was a muscular young man with a shiny bald head.

Paul thought of Berzin and the man with him who’d killed Alec Wood. The man accompanying Berzin had been bald and bullnecked, in his twenties.

This was the same person.

As Paul jumped into the Jeep, the side-view mirror next to his head exploded. The phony cop—because that was what he had to be—must have fired a silenced pistol; Paul had heard a loud snap, followed immediately by the hollow pop of the mirror shattering.

He switched on the ignition and slammed the car into Reverse. Backing up, he was moving closer to the fake cop, but he had no choice, he had to get off the driveway and into the street. The bald man jumped out of the way of the Jeep—his pistol, with a long silencer attached, momentarily at his side—but as soon as he recovered, he aimed with both hands and fired another shot. There was a loud snap again and the sound of metal against metal, a screech like a bullet creasing the roof of the Jeep.

Paul braked, shifted into Drive, and in that instant, he heard another shot and experienced what felt like a bee sting in his left shoulder. His shoulder and arm went numb, and for a moment, he felt nothing—as if a piece of glass had lodged itself in his arm and, for some reason, his pain sensors hadn’t been triggered.

Another bullet shattered the Jeep’s rear window. Adrenaline surged in Paul’s body. His heart raced.

He thought for an instant about running back to Horgan’s house, trying to get shelter, but then thought better of it. He didn’t have time. And if he got out of the Jeep, he would be even more exposed.

Instead, he floored it. The Jeep lurched ahead, and he aimed it, a four-thousand-pound steel-and-aluminum weapon, at the false cop—who leaped to one side as he saw the vehicle coming straight at him. But the Jeep was faster, and an instant later, Paul felt a thud as it struck the man.

The bald man lay sprawled on the pavement, his limbs a tangle. Was he dead? Just badly injured? Paul didn’t stop to check. He spun the steering wheel and accelerated down the street. Houses passed by in a blur. He made a right turn onto a wide avenue.

Then, abruptly, he felt an excruciating, burning sensation, like someone had pulled an iron poker out of a fire and plunged it into his shoulder, as the bald man’s bullet had been deflected off the Jeep’s tempered glass and penetrated his left shoulder. The hot pain radiated down his arm, down his biceps. His shirt was soaked with blood.

He didn’t know where to go, but he had to decide quickly, because his attacker might have recovered, might be following him.

He couldn’t go to a hospital. There was a law, he was sure, that required all hospitals to report any gunshot wound to the police. That would draw the immediate attention of the FBI. What the hell could he do? The pain was, if anything, growing in strength, a fireball inside his left shoulder, an unbearable starburst. Somehow, he had to get the bullet out, and he didn’t think he could do it himself. He could hardly perform surgery on himself, one-handed. He would need a doctor.

But the most pressing thing was to get the hell out of there.