Zero Game by Brad Meltzer

you stop breathing.”
    “I know what it means, asshole!”
    “Then don’t ask a stupid question.”
    Sinking down in his seat, the smartly dressed man felt a sharp contraction around his lungs. “You said no one would get hurt,” he stuttered, anxiously unbending a paperclip as he cradled the phone to his chin. “Those were your words . . .”
    “Don’t blame me,” Martin Janos insisted on the other line. “He followed our guy outside the Capitol. At that point, the kid panicked.”
    “That didn’t mean he had to kill him!”
    “Really?” Janos asked. “So you’d rather Matthew made his way to
your
office?”
    Twisting the paperclip around his finger, the man didn’t answer.
    “Exactly,” Janos said.
    “Does Harris know?” the man asked.
    “I just got the call myself—I’m on my way down there right now.”
    “What about the bet?”
    “Matthew already slipped it in the bill—last smart thing the guy ever did.”
    “Don’t make fun of him, Janos.”
    “Oh, now you’re having regrets?”
    Once again the man was silent. But deep within his chest, he knew he’d be regretting this one for the rest of his life.

8
    S TANDING IN THE gravel driveway, Janos stared down at Matthew Mercer’s broken body, which sagged lifelessly against the Dumpster. More than anything else, Janos couldn’t help but notice the awkward bend in Matthew’s thighs. And the way his right hand was still stretching upward, reaching for something it would never grasp. Janos shook his head at the mess. So stupid and violent. There were better ways than this.
    As the afternoon sun beat down on the bald spot in his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, Janos stuffed his hands in the pockets of his blue and yellow FBI windbreaker. A few years back, the Justice Department announced that nearly 450 of the FBI’s own pistols, revolvers, and assault rifles were officially missing. Whoever stole the guns clearly thought they were valuable, Janos thought. But in his mind, not nearly as valuable as a single windbreaker, nabbed as the crowd celebrated a homerun during an Orioles game. Even the Capitol Police won’t stop a friendly neighborhood FBI agent.
    “Where you been?” a voice shouted behind him.
    Slowly glancing over his shoulder, Janos had no problem spotting the rusty black Toyota. With the incredibly dented grille. As the car pulled up to the curb, Janos crossed around to the driver’s side and leaned into the window, which was missing its side mirror. Flicking his tongue against his top teeth, he didn’t say a word.
    “Don’t look at me like that,” the young black man said, shifting awkwardly in his seat. The confidence he’d worn as a page was gone.
    “Let me ask you a question, Toolie—do you consider yourself a smart person?”
    Travonn “Toolie” Williams nodded hesitantly. “Y-Yeah . . . I guess so.”
    “That’s why we hired you, isn’t it? To be smart? To look the part?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “I mean, why else hire a nineteen-year-old?”
    Toolie shrugged his shoulders, unsure how to answer. He didn’t like Janos. Especially when he had that look.
    Janos stared through the inside of the car and out the passenger-side window at Matthew. Then he looked back at Toolie.
    “Y-You didn’t tell me he’d follow . . .” Toolie began. “I didn’t know what the hell to—!”
    “Did you get the money?” Janos interrupted.
    Toolie quickly reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed the envelope with the two cashier’s checks. His arm was shaking as he handed it over.
    “It’s all there, just like you wanted. I even avoided the office in case someone followed.”
    “That sure worked out great,” Janos said. “Now where’s your jacket?”
    Toolie reached into the backseat and handed over the navy suit jacket. Janos noticed it was soaked with blood, but decided not to ask. The damage was done.
    “Anything else I should know about?” Janos asked.
    Toolie shook his head.
    Janos nodded slightly, then