trickland runs. He loathes it. Running in an office is the ultimate proof he’s lost control. But there’s no choice. He hurtles through the lobby, thumping people to the floor, and scrambles up the utility stairs and through the lobby, exploding out the front door and stopping to get his bearings. Two MPs are right behind Strickland, and Fleming behind them. Outside, morning has fully arrived. Scientists are treading up the walk for work, yawning. Secretaries pause to adjust their lipstick in compact mirrors. Everything is normal.

That sound, though. A vehicle, too close to be going that fast. Strickland springs to the right, across the lawn, rounding the corner of the building. There it is, like a giant snowball plowing down Everest, a white laundry van careening toward him.

“Shoot it!” Strickland cries, but the MPs are still catching up, and there’s nothing a man with a cattle prod can do to a speeding behemoth. The checkpoint guard scrambles out of the way. Still the van swerves, an unexpected clue to the driver’s unwillingness to cause casualties. There is only one vehicle in that part of the lot, and the van swipes it. The car’s rear end crumples. It is a long, gorgeous teal Cadillac Coupe de Ville.

“No.” Strickland’s chest hurts like he’s the object being struck. He hears his voice spiral upward, girl-pitched. “No, no, no!”