Zero Game by Brad Meltzer Page B

batteries along the carpet. The man doesn’t go down as easy. Patting his eye with his fingertips, he looks up at me with an admiring grin, almost like he’s enjoying himself. You don’t get a face like that without taking a few punches, and he’s clearly taken better ones than mine. He licks the corner of his mouth and sends me the message. If I plan on doing any damage, I have to do better than that.
    “Who taught you how to punch?” his voice creaks as he scoops up the pieces of the black box and slides them in his pocket. “Your dad or your uncle?”
    He’s trying to show off some knowledge . . . get me emotional. He doesn’t have a chance. I’ve spent over a dozen years on Capitol Hill. When it comes to mental boxing, I’ve taken on a Congressful of Muhammad Alis. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna risk it all in a fistfight.
    He climbs to his feet, and I look around for help. “Buddy!” I call out to Pasternak. He doesn’t move. Back by the conference table . . . he’s leaning back in his chair. One arm dangles over the armrest. His eyes are wide open. The world blurs as the tears swell in my eyes. I race toward him, then quickly stop short, raising my hands in the air. Don’t touch the body.
    “Always thinking, aren’t you?” Hangdog calls out.
    Behind me, I hear the hiss of his blue and yellow windbreaker as he slowly moves toward me. FBI, my ass. I turn to face him, and he tosses out another cocky grin, convinced he’s blocking my only way out. I spin back toward the bay window and the patio behind it. The patio. And the door that leads to it.
    I dart like a jackrabbit for the glass door at the back of the room. Like before, there’s a numeric keypad. Now Hangdog’s moving. My hands are shaking as they tap out Barry’s code.
“C’mon . . .”
I beg, waiting for the magnetic click. The man races around the conference table, ten steps behind me. The lock pops. I shove the door open, then spin around, trying to slam it shut. If I lock him in—
    He jams his hand into the doorway just as it’s about to close. There’s a sharp crunch. He grits his teeth at the pain but doesn’t let go. I slam the door tighter. He glares at me through the glass, his green eyes darker than ever. He still doesn’t let go. His knuckles turn purple, he’s squeezing the doorframe so tight. He wedges his shoe in the door and starts to push it open. This isn’t a stalemate I can win.
    I search over my shoulder at the rest of the patio, which is filled with teak Adirondack chairs and matching footrests. During the spring, the patio’s used mainly for high-end congressional fund-raisers. Why rent out a room when you can keep it in-house? On my right and left, wood lattices overrun with ivy create false walls for the rooftop. Straight ahead is a stunning view of the Capitol dome—and more important, the other four-story building that sits directly next door. The only thing between the buildings is the seven-foot alley that separates them.
    The man winds up for a final burst. As his shoulder pounds into the door, I step away and let it swing wide. He falls to the floor, and I run straight for the edge of the roof.
    “You’ll never make it!” he calls out.
    Again with the mental game. I don’t listen. I don’t think. I just run. Straight for the edge. I tell myself not to look at the gap, but as I barrel toward it, I don’t see anything else. Four stories up. Seven feet wide . . . maybe six if I’m lucky . . . Please let it be six.
    Staring dead ahead and sprinting across the terra-cotta pavers, I clench my teeth, step up on the concrete parapet, and launch myself into the air. When I first met Matthew in college, he told me he was tall enough to hurdle the hood of a Volkswagen Beetle. Let’s hope the same is true for me.
    As I clear the six-foot canyon, I hit the roof of the adjacent building on the heels of my feet and skid forward until I fall back on my ass-bone. A hot lightning bolt of electricity shoots