"Bruce?" Harvey cried.

"What is it? What's going on?"

Bruce's heart began to race. His eyes never left the door.

"Tomorrow," he whispered. "I'll explain everything then."

"But- " He gently replaced the receiver, cutting Harvey off.

I'm not up for this. Oh, please, God, let my mind be playing tricks on me, I'm not up for this, I'm really not up for any of this... There was no other sound, and for a brief moment Bruce wondered if his overactive brain cells had indeed imagined the whole thing. Maybe there had been no sound at all. And if there had been a noise, what was so strange about that? He was staying in a New York hotel, for chrissake, not a soundproof studio.

Maybe it was just a maid. Maybe it was just a bellhop.

Maybe it was just a big guy with slicked-back hair and a custom made silk Armani suit.

Bruce crept toward the door. The right leg slid forward, then the left tagged along. He had never been much of an athlete, had never been the most coordinated guy in the world. Right now, it looked like he was doing some kind of spastic fox trot.

Click.

His heart slammed into his throat. His legs went weak. There was no mistaking where the sound had come from this time.

His door.

He stood frozen. His breathing reverberated in his ears so damn loudly that he was sure everyone on the floor could hear it.

Click.

A short, quick click. Not a fumbling sound, but a very precise click.

Run, Bruce. Run and hide.

But where? He was in a small room on the eleventh floor of a hotel.

Where the hell was he supposed to run and hide? He took another step toward the door.

7 can open it quickly, scream my brains out, and run down the hall like an escaped psych patient. I could The knock came so suddenly that Bruce nearly screamed.

"Who is it?" he practically shouted.

"Towels," a man's voice said.

Bruce moved closer to the door. Towels, my ass.