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and stuffed them into his suit pocket. He directed me out the door. Instead of going downstairs, we went up. No one was around, not the fire department, not housekeeping—nobody.
    â€œWho are you?” I asked as we walked, me in front, him telling me where to go.
    â€œI work for the American government. Security for the Olympians. They sent me over to find you.”
    â€œShouldn’t you be protecting the Olympians, then?”
    â€œJust walk.”
    â€œIf you know about the Players,” I said, “you have to understand why we’re doing this.”
    â€œAll I understand is that too many people are dying today. Are you a part of this? Are you killing Israelis too? Are you Black September?”
    â€œI have no idea about that. You probably know more about them than I do.”
    He opened the door to a hotel room and pushed me inside.
    He sat me in a chair at a small circular table, handcuffing one of my hands to the armrest, then sat on the bed to use the phone, his eyes still on me. He was on for a long time—maybe an hour, maybe more. I tried to catch parts of his conversation, but it was hard to follow only one side of it, and the person on the other end was doing more talking than he was. He was listening or waiting on hold or something.
    At long last he hung up and walked over to the window.
    â€œI know you killed a sheriff in Redding, California. I know that you’ve been part of a militant terrorist group called Zero line. I know that you’ve spent the summer practicing to kill twelve kids—like that girl back there.”
    â€œShe’s a trained killer.”
    â€œShe was. So are you.”
    â€œListen,” I said. “You seem to know a lot about this. You have to know the danger we’re in if we don’t get to all the Players.”
    â€œIf you don’t kill all the Players, you mean.”
    â€œNo, I don’t. You have to understand: we’re trying to talk to them. Our goal is not to kill a bunch of people. We’re trying to get them to stop. To stop Playing.”
    He smirked. “Because that’s how to stop the aliens, right?”
    â€œYes,” I said angrily. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”
    â€œProve it.”
    My mind raced. I had no idea how to talk my way out of this. He had that gun trained on my chest.
    â€œWe faked a Calling,” I said. “Do you know what a Calling is?”
    â€œIt’s when they all get together—the twelve Players.”
    â€œYes, but it’s when Endgame starts. When they all try to kill each other, to fight for survival. The fact that they’re here, that they’re prepared to kill, that should be plenty of proof that this is real.”
    â€œNice try,” he said. “So maybe they’re as delusional as you are. Two sides of the same cult. What I want to know, Michael—”
    â€œMy name’s Frank Finn.”
    â€œThat will come as a surprise to your parents in Pasadena. Come now, you don’t think I haven’t done my homework? We’ve talked to your parents. They know about the cult. They know about killing the sheriff. Now just talk to me. Tell me about him.”
    â€œThe sheriff? He wasn’t supposed to be there.”
    â€œSo that was your first murder?”
    â€œNo. It was my first kill,” I responded, pissed off. “It wasn’t planned. I’m not a murderer. I killed him, but I’m not . . . it’s not what you think.”
    The American sat down across from me at the table in the corner by the hotel window. My left wrist was handcuffed to the armrest, but it was an old wooden chair, and when I leaned back, the arm came out of joint. I thought that I could get the handcuffs loose if he looked away. I had to be ready to move when I did that. I only had one shot at escape.
    â€œHow is that not murder?” he asked, his face a mask. “Tell me what I’m