Carl’s breath beat hot in his chest, his heart a tight glowing coal, his lungs burning as fresh moonlight air rushed past his face. He scrambled gracelessly across the untended field, lurching awkwardly as obstacles seemed to leap into his path. Muststayalertcan’tmissanything.  A discarded piece of wood could easily mean a sprained ankle, a unluckily-placed rabbit hole a broken leg.
The unfamiliarity of the field and the nighttime stillness deranged Carl’s senses beyond any reasonable frame of mind. Carl would think he was safe--that no one was chasing him, that the only sounds besides the rushing wind were his own footsteps and breathing--then within the same second he was just as certain that someone was directly behind him, their hand inches from his shoulder, shotgun muzzle aimed directly at his back. Had he been running for seconds, minutes, hours? It was impossible to know.
Finally, Carl dared to slow--if only minutely--to shoot a quick glance over his shoulder. 
No one.
He decided to risk a more exhaustive look, braked to a slow trot, then dove behind a fallen tree trunk about twenty yards shy of the treeline.  All was quiet. Off in the distance, the chittering static buzz of locusts filled the air in a swell. As it died down, Carl could faintly distinguish an 18‑wheeler passing on the highway.
Damn, he thought. Probably could have flagged that one down. During the twenty years Carl had been in law enforcement, Americans had gotten a lot more skittish about picking up hitchhikers, and not having his badge to wave as reassurance would make it that much harder. Then again, who the hell trusts cops anymore? 
Carl couldn’t help but smirk bitterly to himself—a mistake, he realized, as it pulled his freshly-split lip. He winced as the coppery taste of blood splashed upon his tongue, but managed to keep from making a sound. He’d automatically modulated his breathing as Quantico Academy had taught him; even considering the quietude of the surroundings, it would be all but impossible for anyone to hear him. He’d also started counting seconds as soon as he hit the ground in an attempt to reassert some objective timeframe: one paranoia, two paranoia, three paranoia…
Sixty paranoia. One minute.
One-twenty paranoia. Two minutes.
Three hundred paranoia. Five minutes; still no sound.
Maybe it was all in my head? No, that’s impossible—his lip and aching jaw were proof enough of that.
Carl tentatively raised his head above the log and scrupulously surveyed his surroundings, taking special care to note anything that might indicate the glint of moonlight off of a metal gun barrel or glass scope.
Nothing.
Carl remained completely still, moving only his eyes, and waited another five minutes. He didn’t see anything but trees and grass or hear anything but wind, insects, his own measured breaths, and his pulse pounding in his ears.
Gingerly, he rose to his feet and turned back towards the road.
Suddenly, a high-powered flashlight beam blinded him and he knew the game was over.
“I was wondering how long you were going to lie there in the dirt, guy. I was just about ready to shoot you in the back just to end the suspense.”
The flashlight snapped off with an audible click and as the stars cleared from his vision, Carl saw a rifle barrel pointed directly at his chest. The gun’s owner was leaning casually against a trunk at the edge of the treeline, as if simply waiting for a bus. He clipped his flashlight onto his belt, withdrew a cigarette and lighter from his shirt pocket, placed the cigarette between his lips then lit it in one fluid motion and grinned what seemed to Carl a horrible, mocking sneer. “Plus I was dying for a smoke.”
Without taking his eyes from Carl or moving the end of his rifle barrel more than a centimeter, the man reached his free hand back around the side of the tree and brought out a shovel, which he threw at Carl’s feet. It hit with a loud clang and Carl flinched instinctively.
The man inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then gestured downwards at the shovel with the gun barrel.
“Pick it up.”
Carl remained motionless.
The man smiled. “Go on, pick it up. Don’t go getting any ideas about whacking me with it though—trust me, you’d regret it.”
Carl believed him. He still didn’t move.
The man sighed. “Look, this is getting tiresome. No matter what, this is going to end the same way, and I’d much prefer it be earlier than later. I’m a busy guy, I have better things to do than stand around in a field playing hide & seek with you.”
Pausing, he took a drag from his cigarette, then:
“So here’s the deal, Carl—and yes, I know your name is Carl Bailey. You and I both know who sent me after you. You and I both know he’s not going to let you leave knowing what you know. We’re both clear on those facts, yes?”
Carl nodded.
“Okay. Here’s something else that I know and you don’t know that I know: Carl F. Bailey lives at 1300 Ironwood Drive, Morgantown, West Virginia, with his wife Kristen and his two daughters Margaux, 10, and Natalie, 8. It’s a modest two-bedroom house in a decent part of town with several years left on the mortgage, but all in all a nice place for a couple of cute little blond girls to grow up.”
Carl’s posture stiffened, his neck tense. The man took another drag, and for the first time since Kristen first told him she was pregnant, Carl wished he had a cigarette as well.
“So, yeah, I’ll admit there is a remote possibility that you could somehow crack me one with that shovel, disarm me, get to the road, flag down a ride, find a pay phone…jeez, this is sounding like a stretch, isn’t it? Anyway, the point is you could theoretically get away from me, though it’s fairly fucking unlikely. You’d have to have, like, super ninja skills or some other comic-book bullshit going for you, but it could happen.”
Another drag from the cigarette.
“But here’s the kicker: if you don’t do exactly as I say, if I think you’re even thinking about trying any of that hero cop bullshit on me, I don’t make a certain phone call in one hour. And if I don’t make that phone call, those two cute little blond girls and their mom don’t get any older than they are today.”
Another drag.
“You know I have the resources to make this happen. You know perfectly well it’s not a bluff. Hell, even if it was a bluff right now, you know the guy who sent me after you could make this happen without even having to make a phone call.”
Another drag.
“So please, Carl, give me some credit. I assume you’ve been able to learn enough during the course of your investigation to know what I’m saying is true. I also hope you’ve figured out by now that I am not the type of man who likes to fuck around and waste his time.”
Another drag.
“So pick up the goddamned shovel.”
Carl’s shoulders were slumped in resignation. He thought of beautiful Kristen, of sweet Margaux, of little Natalie, and for some reason, of the downstairs fireplace he was supposed to have cleaned out last time he was at home. Kristen hated doing the job and Carl had promised to do it as soon as he had a chance, but he hadn’t gotten around to it before being sent back out on assignment.
Carl picked up the shovel.
The man nodded. “Good.”
He dropped his cigarette butt on the ground next to his boot, methodically ground it out, and lit another with the same practiced, fluid motion he had used five minutes ago.
“Now dig.”

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