by April Henry
“That’s got to be the entrance wound,” Cole says. He spreads a clean sweater next to Javier’s legs and then has him roll onto his belly. On the back, the wound is about the size of a nickel, with ragged edges. Even after Cole wipes it clean, blood wells up steadily. Both Amina and Grace look once, grimace, and then look away.
“You’re super lucky it missed bone.” Cole’s words are cheerful, but his expression, which Javier can’t see, is grim. “And that it went straight through.” He looks at Amina. “Does the store sell anything clean and small I could pack the wound with to try to stop the bleeding?”
Amina scans the shelves. “Maybe we could cut up a scarf?”
Javier props himself on his elbows. “Do you have that thing for girls?”
Miranda and Amina exchange a puzzled glance.
“El tampón?” he ventures.
“He’s right.” Cole’s low voice sparks with excitement. “If we had one, we could use it to plug the bullet wound. It would probably stop the bleeding.”
When neither of the other girls speaks, Miranda says, “Um, I’ve got one.” She opens her purse and gets it out. Not meeting anyone’s eyes, she starts to hand it to Cole.
He shakes his head. “We don’t need another pair of hands touching it. Wash up first, and then, when you open it, only touch the applicator.”
Oh no no no. “Can’t you put it in?” Miranda says.
“We need to minimize the chance of contamination.”
After a long pause, Miranda goes to wash her hands. For a few seconds, Javier’s blood turns the water pink as it runs off her fingers. After it runs clear, she washes the ridiculous-looking makeup, now tear-streaked and smeared, from her face. She turns the water to cold and drinks it from her cupped hands.
In the mirror, her eyes look back at her from someone else’s head. Who is this girl with dark circles under her eyes and blood smeared on her clothes?
Breaking her own gaze, Miranda turns the water to hot and scrubs her hands with soap. She waves her hand to get a paper towel, then carefully dries. Back out in the main part of the storeroom, she gets down on her knees and opens the wrapper.
“Just put it in slowly,” Cole advises. To Javier he says, “Try to take deep breaths.”
It’s easier than she thought it would be to slide the plastic applicator into the exit hole. When it’s about halfway in, Javier groans softly, and Miranda freezes. But Cole nods at her to keep going. Swallowing back nausea, she does, until only the string is showing, then pulls back the applicator.
Using the scissors, Cole cuts a flannel shirt into squares. Miranda and Amina help hold them in place while he binds them with Miranda’s Ace bandage, which has a built-in Velcro edge. Grace does nothing more than watch, but at least she’s no longer keening and muttering.
Javier rolls onto his back. “Thank you,” he says softly. “Thank you, Cole and Miranda, Amina and Grace.” He nods at each of them in turn.
Miranda has to look away. Will the things they did really matter? Or will Javier and everyone else end up just as dead as if they hadn’t done anything?
THE ONE WHO DECIDES
4:18 P.M.
Parker takes one more step back into the Shoe Mill and out of sight of the killers. He lets his body make the decision. It’s what makes him a good wrestler. If you wait until you’ve analyzed everything, you’ll just end up getting pinned.
Besides, it’s better to stay in his body, not his head. If he considered this logically, Parker would start screaming. He’s just watched people die.
But he won’t think about that. Instead, he focuses on finding Moxie. Finding his sister and saving her. He hasn’t quite worked out the how. Maybe they can find someplace to hide, or maybe he’ll discover an exit that the killers have overlooked. Or maybe he’ll get really lucky and it will turn out that Moxie isn’t locked in here at all but has somehow made it outside.
The killers might not be able to see him anymore, but some of the other hostages can. The people who aren’t lined up against the doors sag along walls, or sit on benches or the floor. They’ve left a wide space around the dead man. People have begun to whisper to each other, and when that isn’t met with shouts or gunfire, the talking becomes a low murmur. The college girls stand weeping with their arms around one another. Next to them, the mother of the little boy who was crying earlier is rocking him, her bound hands looped over his narrow back. Thankfully, he now looks half-asleep.
Parker’s all the way inside the store now. The meaty scent of leather fills his nostrils. Still no sign of Moxie. But in the back, there’s a curtain made of hanging vertical three-inch-wide gray rubber strips, the kind that separate when you walk through them. If Moxie’s here, he thinks that’s where he’ll find her.
How long will it be until Lips ends up close enough to see inside the store? Parker’s afraid to turn away from the entrance, so instead he shuffles backward. His heart stutters when one of those little benches the salespeople sit on catches him in the calves. He stumbles, but manages to keep his balance.
Finally, the rubber strips that dangle all the way to the floor brush his shoulder blades. He takes one more step back, the strips parting. Then he’s on the other side.
Something cold presses against his temple. His blood turns to ice.
“Don’t make a sound,” a man whispers in his ear, his breath sour. Parker moves only his eyes. Standing between the shelves of shoe boxes is the guy with the shaved head, the one he first saw behind the pillar.
Parker raises his zip-tied hands and then risks a whisper. “I just want to find my sister. She’s seven and wearing a red coat.”
The other man shrugs one shoulder. His expressionless face gleams with sweat. “Haven’t seen her.” He gestures with his chin. “What’s going on out there?”
“We’re all trapped between the doors and that security gate they pulled across. One of them is inside the gate, and two are outside. All of them have automatic rifles. They made some people press up against the doors, facing out. It’s supposed to make the police think twice about coming in.” Parker looks at the guy’s shaved head and the jacket straining against his biceps. “Are you a cop?”
“No.” He doesn’t offer any other explanation.
“What’re you going to do? You have to stop them before they kill anyone else.”
The other man answers through gritted teeth. “Be realistic. If I go out there, I’ll just get mowed down. I might get one—or maybe, if I’m really lucky, two—but there’s at least three of them.” He shakes his head. “I’m going to stay put. This way, I control the space, not them. And if anyone comes in, I’ll be the one who decides who lives or dies.” He nudges the back of Parker’s head with the side of the gun. “So go on, get out of here. And good luck finding your sister. If I were you, once you do, I would try and find your own space to hide. Out there, you’re just one of the herd. And they’re looking for animals to cull.”
4:24 p.m.
SKINNER: Oh Jesus God, he’s making all the male hostages lie down on the floor on their bellies in a line.
DISPATCH: How many hostages?
SKINNER: About a dozen. I think he’s going to kill them. Like an execution!
DISPATCH: 68, RP says one gunman is making male hostages lie down. He thinks they’re planning to execute them.
UNIT 68: We need the Crisis Negotiation Team stat.
DISPATCH: Copy.
WHAT YOU NEED TO DO
4:24 P.M.
When Miranda’s phone buzzes, she jerks. It’s her dad. In her chest, a bubble of hope expands. If anyone can fix this mess, it’s him. He travels all over the world. He buys failing businesses and turns them around. He’s even had dinner alone with the president. Twice.
She forgets to whisper. “Daddy?”
“Shh!” Amina puts her finger against her lips. Javier holds up a cautioning hand. Cole frowns. Only Grace seems unconcerned.
“Honey! Where are you? Are you all right? Did you get out?”
>
She has been holding it together until now. But at the sound of his voice, her head fills with water. Her heart feels squeezed by a fist.
For a moment, she can’t speak at all. Finally, she manages a strangled whisper. “No. I’m still in Culpeppers. I mean, we are. There’s five of us, including me.”
“Let me talk for a second to whoever’s in charge.”
Her dad still doesn’t get it. No one’s in charge, there’re no adults, and you have to figure out how to survive using just what you have.
“Everyone here is about my age,” Miranda says as she looks around the room. Javier’s biting his lip. Grace is trembling. Amina’s fingering the edge of her scarf, her mouth turned down at the corners. Cole’s face looks like it’s chiseled out of stone. “We tried to leave through the service corridor, but there was shooting back there, too. We pulled down the metal shutter at the front of the store, but I guess that won’t really stop bullets, so we’re hiding in the storeroom.”
“That’s a good idea,” he says. “A very good idea.” For a second, the compliment makes Miranda forget where she is. Between his business trips and the new baby twins, it’s been at least a month since she’s talked to him. “You need to keep as much space as you can between you and the bad guys.” His voice is muffled as he speaks to someone else, but then he comes back to her. “Culpeppers. What stores is that next to? They’re still working on getting blueprints.”
She tries to remember. “I think we’re between LA Nails and a Gymboree. On the other side of the food court from Nordstrom.”
“Do you know how many shooters there are? The guy I’ve been talking with is trying to verify that information.”
“They were firing down into the food court.” She has to swallow before she can keep talking. “Maybe four or five?”
“Okay. I’ll pass that along. They’re holding at least two dozen hostages. They’ve locked the exits, and they’ve got hostages lined up against the glass doors.”
Is that where Parker is? “When I saw the bike locks on the doors, I got out of there right away.”
“That’s my girl. You thought on your feet. In your text, you said someone was bleeding?”
“Yeah. One guy here was shot in the leg.” She exchanges a look with Javier. “But I think we got it stopped.”
“Okay.” His voice thickens. “Miranda, I am so proud of you. Keep doing what you need to do to survive, okay?” His voice fades to a whisper. “And put yourself first. You take care of Miranda, and let the others watch after themselves.”
Glad she hadn’t risked putting him on speakerphone, Miranda says only, “Okay.”
“There’s something you need to know. I’m hearing they’re going to send in a SWAT team soon to take out the shooters. Do you know what a flash bang is?”
“Some kind of grenade?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t actually blow anything up. It just makes a loud noise and a bright light. It stuns people. So if you hear an explosion, don’t worry. It will be giving the SWAT team the cover they need to end this.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll make sure they know exactly where you are, but you have to stay put until they have taken care of these animals. Wait until you hear the police saying it’s safe to come out. You don’t want to get caught in any cross fire.”
She takes a shuddery breath, then repeats, “Okay.”
“And I’ll stay right here—just outside waiting for you.”
It kills Miranda to think her dad is so near. She wants nothing more than to be wrapped in his arms, to cry on his chest, to feel like a little kid again.
“I love you so much, Daddy.” She doesn’t want to say good-bye. It’s too final. Instead she chokes out, “See you soon.”
As soon as she disconnects, the tears come flooding out. Everyone is looking at her contorted face, listening to her weird, strangled noises. Miranda tries to wipe her nose on her sleeve, but it’s no use. She’s an ugly mess.
A slender arm encircles her shoulder. It’s Grace, her face as sad as Miranda feels. And then Amina is on the other side, offering one of the store’s scarves. Even Javier is patting her foot.
“What did he say?” Cole asks.
“A SWAT team’s going to set off some flash bangs to surprise the killers, and then they’re going to take them out. We need to stay put so we don’t get caught in the cross fire.”
“Why is SWAT going to do that? In the middle of negotiating?” Cole looks angry.
“They’re gonna kill them.” Javier snorts. “And they deserve it.”
Cole swipes his hand over his face. “And when is this supposed to happen?”
“Soon,” Miranda says.
Amina’s full lips stretch into something like a smile.
Grace raises a clenched fist. “They deserve to die for what they did to my mom.” A reddish-purple bruise circles her wrist like a bracelet.
Wincing, Javier points. “Ouch—did I do that?”
Miranda remembers yanking at Grace’s wrist to keep her from leaving. The bruise is probably her fault.
Grace covers her wrist with her other hand and pulls it to her chest. “I bruise easy.” Her blouse hangs so loose, it’s like it’s on a hanger instead of a body. She can’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds. A lot of girls at Miranda’s school say you can never be too skinny or too rich. Grace, in her five-hundred-dollar size-zero jeans, looks like she’s taken it too far. She probably lives on baby carrots and iceberg lettuce.
Amina must be thinking about food too, because her stomach lets out a loud gurgle. The unexpected sound breaks the tension. Miranda starts to giggle. Javier joins in, and then Grace, although her laugh has an edge of hysteria. The more they try to keep quiet, the harder it is not to make noise. Even Cole wears a half smile.
Amina looks mortified. She whispers, “I was about to have my lunch. Then everything happened.”
“That sounds nice,” Grace says wistfully. “Something normal.”
“It’s still here.” Amina gets to her feet. “Do you guys want to split it? It’s stew and bread.”
With no Oxy left in her system, Miranda feels more like throwing up than eating, but everyone else either shrugs or nods.
Amina comes back from her locker with a wide-mouthed thermos and a small brown paper bag. After opening the bag, she tears off pieces of flatbread pocked with black scorch marks and passes them around.
Years ago, back when Miranda’s family was still a family, they used to go to church. The first Sunday of the month, they took communion: a tiny glass of grape juice and a pale papery wafer plucked from a passed plate. Like then, this bread seems as if it could be magical. Like a sign they will make it. Despite her queasiness, Miranda takes a half-dollar-size piece and lets it rest on her tongue. It tastes of flour and corn meal and char. Miraculously, her stomach doesn’t rebel. Eventually she chews and swallows.
Meanwhile, Amina hands the thermos to Cole. He peers down, looking dubious. “I thought you said it was stew.”
“It is. It’s a Somali stew.” Amina raises her chin. “Sahan ful. Fava beans with tomato sauce.”
He lifts the white plastic spoon to his lips, but at the first taste his expression smooths out. “This is really good.”
After two bites, he hands the thermos to Miranda. The smell of ginger, cloves, and chiles overwhelms her temporary truce with her stomach. After hastily handing the thermos to Grace, she leans closer to Amina and whispers, “I’m sorry, my stomach’s just upset.” She swallows and adds, “And I’m sorry I suggested it was Muslims who are doing this.”
“It’s not the first time someone’s implied I’m a terrorist just because I wear a hijab.” Amina raises her dark eyes to Miranda’s. “I was born here. I’m just as much an American as you are.”
Before Miranda can come up with an answer, Grace says, “Excuse me, but do you know if these beans are organically grown?”
Amina and Miranda share an amused/annoyed glance, and the tension between
them breaks. “I have no idea,” Amina says with a shrug.
Grace hesitates, then digs in the spoon. Her eyebrows go up. “Yum. That’s spicy, but in a good way.”
Javier offers Grace his water and she takes a couple of sips. As she hands it back, he says, “You guys, when this is over and the police come, I might try to take off.”
“Why?” Grace asks.
“I don’t need to be answering too many questions.”
Miranda still doesn’t understand. Then Cole says, “He means he’s in this country illegally. Am I right, buddy?” There’s a new edge to his voice.
Javier doesn’t flinch. “I’ve been here since I was a baby, but you’re right, I’m not legal.”
“I thought,” Amina says hesitantly, “you could stay if you were under sixteen when your parents brought you.”
“That’s only true if you’ve stayed in the States for the whole time.” Javier sighs. “But last year I lived for nine months with my abuela in Mexico. My grandmother. She was dying, and I took care of her. But that means I don’t qualify. If Immigration finds out, I’ll get deported.”
Cole’s lips twist. “Maybe that’s for the best. People like you are taking Americans’ jobs.”
Javier’s face hardens. “People like me are taking jobs no Americans want. All day, I clean up people’s garbage. Sometimes dirty diapers and vomit. If Americans want my job so much, how come no one’s applying for the openings we have?”
Cole just grunts and looks away. The good mood begun by Miranda’s dad’s phone call and Amina’s food evaporates. No one is looking at each other.
All that’s left is to wait for the cops to save them. To wait for it to be over.
ONE LAST TIME
4:25 P.M.
At the entrance to the Shoe Mill, Parker peeps out. Lips is talking through the gate to Mole and Wolf. Seeing them, he rages silently against the guy with the gun. How hard would it be to kill them all right now? He could probably take them out before they could react.
