Shift - Hardcover

I nodded, looked the guy over. "Chain busted on the way back from the square," I said, wondering why this guy had decided I looked like I was in a mood for conversation.

"Too bad," he said.

I shrugged, causing the bike to slip again, the back wheel banging into the mailboxes. The whole cycling around campus thing hadn't turned out to be as cool as I'd imagined. People in the way. Speed bumps. Crowded sidewalks. Stairs.

I missed the road.

"Nice talking to you," I said, taking a step toward the hallway.

"You're Christopher Collins." No hint of a question in his voice.

I answered anyway, taking another look at him as I did so. He must have been at least six feet tall, because I could look him straight in the eyes without slouching, but he had me by forty pounds easy. Not that that was surprising. I'd been the skinny kid since second grade.

"Yeah?"

"Must have a lot of miles on that thing," he said, pointing toward the chain dangling from the front crank. "They don't wear out fast, do they?"

My legs began to itch from the inside out. For as long as I can remember, the itching has been an early warning indicator. Anytime I have that feeling, I know something big is on the horizon. The sensation is as reliable as the smell of rain before a storm. "Who are you?"

"Abe Ward," he said reaching into his breast pocket. The gesture allowed the flap of his jacket to fall open, revealing a slick looking pistol holstered just above his belt. "I'm with the FBI, based here in Atlanta. Mind if I ask you a few questions?" He pulled his hand out of his pocket and flipped open an ID badge with a practiced motion. His voice was even, measured, his forehead dry even in the oppressive heat.

Anytime somebody wants to ask me a few questions, my natural suspicions come into play. But when that person has a gun and flashes an official-looking piece of government ID, I can only say one thing.

"Shoot." I dropped the bike to the floor and leaned it against the wall.