Where was Yangshim? Lu Han wondered as he eased the louvered closet door closed, lifting as best as he could with fingertips in the slats, to muffle the sound as its rollers slid in their tracks. There was hardly any sound to muffle. Good home maintenance paid off, he realised with a moment of black humour. He had vacuumed and sprinkled silicone lubricant in the tracks only last week. Or was that another example of Yixing’s theory of precognition.

                There was no time to ponder metaphysics. The closet was not deep enough for him to stand with the shotgun at his shoulder. Instead, he dropped to one knee and braced the against the inside of his foot, left hand aiming the barrel up toward the door, right hand upside down on the stock, right thumb on the trigger. It was hardly the classic shooting position, but it would have to do.

                It also had the advantage of making him a smaller target if the killer did fire through the door. He hoped he would make the mistake of firing at chest level, on the mistaken assumption he was standing. If so, the bullet would pass well over his head. The birdshot, by contrast, would take a nasty chunk out of his midsection.

                But only if he was near the door. He could not depress the barrel far enough to hit him if he was more than a few feet back. If he stood across the room and peppered the door with rounds, sooner or later one would hit him. And there wouldn’t be a damn thing he could do about it.

                For that entirely sane reason, he dismissed the thought as soon as it entered his mind. There was nothing to be gained by enumerating the hopeless possibilities. He had to focus on what he could do and let the rest take care of itself.

                He heard the bedroom door open and eased the safety switch off. Come on in, you bastard. Come on in.

                Yixing almost tripped over the two bodies on the lawn. They must be, he realised, Kai’s friends from Chuncheon. He squatted for a moment and pressed his fingertips to their throats. To his surprise, both were alive, despite the bloody mess at the center of their faces. They hadn’t been shot, he realised. Instead, the killer had crushed their noses with punches, kicks or the end of a pistol. The taller one let out a low moan, and Yixing put a fingertip to his lips.

                Yixing lowered his face to his ear and more breathed than whispered, “I’m Zhang Yixing. Lu Han’s friend. He’s in the house, isn’t he?”

                The man nodded. “S-sorry.”

                “Don’t be,” Yixing whispered. “I need your gun.”

                He nodded again, though his hand seemed to wander vaguely over a belt holster that wasn’t there. He was too disoriented to help, Yixing realised. And as an undercover he’d have been wearing a shoulder rig.

                “I’m sorry,” he said as he reached inside his jacket, fumbling across his chest for the pistol.

                “Ssss’ okay,” he murmured. “S-snap.”

                His fingertips found the retaining snap as the man said the word, and he flicked it open and slid the pistol out. It was heavier than he expected. And he’d never fired a gun in his life.

                “Thumb s-safety,” he stammered weakly, looking at him. “Point. S-squeeze. T-two sh-shots. C-center mass.”

                It wasn’t much of a gun-safety course, but it was all he was going to get. He nodded and rose, entering the house, moving toward Lu Han’s bedroom as lightly as he could.

                It wasn’t light at all. And he knew it.

Yixing! Lu Han recognised him from his very first step. Part of his heart leaped at the realisation that he was here. And part of his heart cringed. If he could hear him, so could the killer.

                The killer who was, even at that moment, standing near the end of his bed. His empty bed. The wheels would be turning, he realised. Had he gone out for the night? Had he made some mistake, and he had slipped out of the house? Did he have the wrong address?