by April Henry
All this takes only a second. “You guys,” he says, “have to come with me. Or she dies.” Even though he’s holding the rifle with just one hand, it’s clear he could comfortably fire it.
Miranda hears footsteps pound away behind her.
Still holding her coin-filled sock, Miranda freezes. She can’t just leave Amina. What if he shoots her? Is there some way Miranda can attack him, save Amina, and not get killed herself?
Over the stranglehold of the security guard’s forearm, Amina’s panicked eyes meet Miranda’s. Her hands claw at his muscled arm but don’t find purchase.
He points the rifle at Miranda.
She rips her gaze away. Already starting to cry, she turns and runs while Amina croaks her name.
Miranda sprints flat out. And waits for the bullet in her back.
THE LAST THING THEY’D EXPECT
5:43 P.M.
Miranda races around the bend in the corridor. Leaving Amina behind. Hot tears run down her face. Will the security guard—who must also be one of the killers—shoot Amina now?
With every step, the coin-filled sock thumps against her lower leg, hard enough to bruise. Her heart is beating so loudly in her ears that it takes her a second to realize the only footsteps she hears are in front of her, not behind.
Ahead of her, Javier is desperately hobbling forward. He can walk, but he can’t run. He’s only able to take short strides on his bad leg. Grace and Cole have disappeared. They must be around the second bend, maybe already back in Culpeppers.
It’s everyone for himself, like her dad said. Or is it? She catches up to Javier, lifts his arm, and puts it over her shoulder. He turns his head, and one corner of his mouth lifts. With her bearing some of his weight, he’s able to go faster.
Finally they round the corner and reach Linda’s body. Miranda tries to go one way around it, Javier the other. She loses her balance, and her foot lands in Linda’s blood. They keep going, but her shoe slaps wetly. Miranda looks down. She’s leaving a trail of footprints. Her stomach twists. Even if they make it back to Culpeppers, the security guard will know exactly where she is. Where all of them are.
“Wait!” she whispers to Javier. She toes off her shoes, making sure not to get blood on her socks.
Each door is marked with a stenciled store name. Still, Miranda is so panicked that she almost misses the door marked CULPEPPERS.
She wrenches on the handle. But the door refuses to open.
No! Grace or Cole must have pulled out the wad of paper keeping the lock from catching.
Javier taps on the door lightly with the knuckle of his index finger. Will they even hear? And if they do, why should they risk opening the door?
Then it moves a couple of inches, revealing one of Cole’s gray eyes. The door swings wider. He leans out, grabs Javier, and drags him inside. Miranda darts in after them. Grace quickly closes the door.
Once she’s in the store, Miranda drops her coin-filled sock and puts her hands over her wet face. Her shoulders heave as she cries silently. She can’t stop thinking about how the killer took Amina. How Amina clawed at his arm. How her eyes met Miranda’s. And how Miranda turned and ran away. How all of them ran away.
Finally her tears slow. She wipes her nose on her sleeve.
Javier is leaning against the wall, shaking his head, his mouth tight and turned down at the corners. He’s still clutching his useless gun. Grace is trembling so hard, she looks like she might fly apart. Cole paces between two of the shelving units, up and back, up and back.
Parker’s probably dead. Amina’s been taken. Now there are only four of them. Is this how it will end? Each of them picked off one by one? Which is worse? Miranda wonders. To die first or to be forced to face death by yourself?
She breaks the silence. “You guys left us out there. You left us all alone.”
Cole passes a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. All I could think of was to run.”
“And we all left Amina.” Grace’s voice breaks.
“He’s gonna kill her,” Javier whispers. “Maybe he already has.”
Miranda can’t take this. Every change is for the worse.
“But we haven’t heard any shots. I think they must have pretended they were shooting hostages so they could lure those cops into an ambush. I don’t think he’s going to kill Amina,” Cole says authoritatively. “I’m betting he put her with the rest of the hostages.”
Miranda is still trying to figure things out. “That guy who took her—he’s a real security guard. For the mall, not one of the stores.” She’s walked past him a dozen times, always acutely aware of whatever shoplifted items she had hidden on her person. And all those other times, he’s seen her, too, although he’s never looked at her with suspicion. But today, when his gaze met hers over the top of Amina’s head, his eyes were … dead.
Javier nods. “I know him too. His name’s Skinner. Ron Skinner. He doesn’t like me too much. He doesn’t like anyone with brown skin.”
They absorb this—and what it might mean for dark-skinned Amina—in silence.
“He must be one of them,” Grace finally whispers. “One of the killers. He probably knows this place better than anyone. He probably has keys to all the doors.” They all look at the door and then back at each other.
Cole closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose before opening them again. “So what now? Should we go out into the mall and try to find another exit? Or should we stay put?”
“But what about Amina?” Miranda protests. She keeps replaying the moment in her head when Amina looked at her and she turned and ran.
“You’re right.” Cole points at her, nodding in agreement. “That guy knew her. They’ll figure out where we are. We have to leave.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Miranda can’t change how she just turned tail, but maybe it’s not too late to do something. “Amina saved all our lives by letting us into her store. She even fed us. We can’t just leave her with them.”
“Miranda’s right.” Grace straightens her hunched shoulders. “We have to help her.”
Javier nods. “I agree.”
“And just how are we supposed to do that?” Cole gestures toward the front of the store. “Maybe you don’t remember, but a bunch of cops just got blown up trying to get in here. And they had guns and everything. We’ve got nothing but a pair of scissors and a sock filled with quarters.”
“But it’s like you said about Amina.” Grace stabs a finger at him. A few minutes ago, she was sobbing in his arms. Now she looks like she wants to punch him. “The killers can’t risk shooting at us, or the cops will force their way in.”
“You really want to risk all our lives on my guess?” Cole shakes his head.
“But unlike the cops, we don’t need to get inside the mall,” Miranda points out. “We’re already here. And since we ran from that guy who took Amina, they probably think we’ll just keep on running. But coming back to get her? It’d be the last thing they’d expect.”
“Only a crazy person would go back,” Cole says.
“Exactly.” Javier smiles and hefts his gun. “They don’t need to know my gun’s fake.”
“That won’t matter once they shoot you and you can’t shoot back,” Cole says. “Besides, what can we do that the cops can’t?”
“Right now, they aren’t doing anything,” Miranda says. “So that means it’s up to us.” All this talk of cops makes her pull her phone from her pocket.
“What are you doing?” Cole asks as she starts typing.
“Telling my dad about the security guard. If the cops do try to come back in here, they need to know at least one of them is involved.”
Cole looks from one face to another. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea to try to go up against them.”
Grace’s laugh is bitter. “Do you really think we’re going to make it out of here alive? All the exits are locked and they know where we are.”
Miranda’s skin itches with the need to move, and
it’s not just because of missing Oxy. “I don’t know about you guys, but I can’t hide anymore, waiting for it to end. We have to try. Try to get Amina and then try to get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving anyone behind,” Javier says. “Five of us were here in this room, and five of us are getting out of here.”
And at that even Cole nods.
5:43 p.m.
BRUCE MCGILL, INTELLIGENCE OFFICER, PORTLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT’S CRISIS NEGOTIATION TEAM: Have you watched their so-called manifesto?
CASEY HIXON, HOSTAGE NEGOTIATOR, CRISIS NEGOTIATION TEAM: I just did. A lot of echoes there of other far-right groups. Posse Comitatus. The sovereign citizens movement. Timothy McVeigh. The only thing they trust the government to do is lie to them.
MCGILL: And they think they’ll inspire a revolt against the government with that ridiculous piece of garbage.
HIXON: See if you can talk one of the local TV stations into broadcasting it. I’d like to use that as a bargaining chip.
MCGILL: What? We can’t do that. We don’t do that.
HIXON: There’s kids in there. And that means I would read Mein Kampf from cover to cover on live TV if they’ll just send out one child—one child.
MCGILL: Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do. And I’ve just learned that if our RP really is Ron Skinner, last year he was investigated by the FBI for ties to an alt-right domestic terrorist group.
HIXON: Then why in the hell is he still working as a security guard?
MCGILL: He was investigated but not charged. And we’re talking about an unarmed position, in a mall, that pays a dollar above minimum wage. They can’t afford to be too picky. They probably liked that he’s a vet. He was honorably discharged four years ago. Plus, it’s not like Skinner’s got an arrest record. Just one DUI that’s thirteen years old. He’s single and lives in an apartment about three miles from the mall. We’re getting a search warrant.
HIXON: Given that history, Skinner has to be more than just a security guard. He’s gotta be part of this. He knew exactly what he was doing. He created the exigency by claiming hostages were being killed. And he’s the one who told Portland PD to go in through Nordstrom. He led them straight into a trap.
MCGILL: The question is—were any of the hostages really being killed? None of the officers on scene have reported hearing gunshots since they arrived.
HIXON: Skinner knows too much about how we work. This is going to be tricky. And we don’t even know how many gunmen there are.
MCGILL: The sniper reports that he’s in position but he can’t see anything past the hostages they’ve got lined up against the glass doors. And we’re still waiting on the blueprints.
HIXON: Our best bet is still to contain and negotiate. If we try another tactical incursion, we could lose more of our people to bombs. Plus, I don’t want to force these guys’ hands. They’ve already adjusted to thinking of themselves as killers. If we panic them, more civilians could die.
MCGILL: Roger that.
THEY CAN’T SHOOT ALL OF US
5:43 P.M.
The kick jerks Parker’s head back on the white tile floor, now smeared with his blood. Tears of pain fill his eyes.
“Parker!” Moxie screams. Stanford has her arms wrapped around his sister’s shoulders. It’s all she can do to keep Moxie from breaking free.
With both hands, Heels shoves Businessman, the guy who just kicked Parker’s chin, in the chest. He staggers back, while she easily keeps her balance, despite her sky-high shoes. Her black bangs are cut in a perfect straight line right above her eyes.
“Stop it!” she hisses, looking from face to face in the circle around Parker. “We can’t just keep going along with them. We’re not sheep.” Her eyes are the color of gas flames. “You know what happens to sheep? They all get slaughtered.”
“Parker!” Moxie shrieks again. Her face is wet and red.
The dozen people clustered around him look from his sister to Heels and then back down at Parker again.
Their faces aren’t particularly friendly.
Have things gone so far that they can’t be stopped? Parker doesn’t know. He just knows he doesn’t want to die on this floor, curled up like a shrimp. He rolls to his knees and starts to push himself up. He flinches when one of Velcro’s hands moves toward him. But instead of hitting him, the older man grabs one of his wrists and helps him to his feet.
Hocking a mouthful of blood onto the floor, Parker fists his hands and takes a fighting stance. At least his wrists aren’t bound like the others’. If he can just manage to stay on his feet, he might survive.
But now no one’s even looking at him. He follows their gazes.
A security guard steps out of the entrance to Eternity Day Spa. Parker blinks.
A mall security guard. Is he coming to save them?
Only he’s carrying an automatic rifle in his right hand. And his left grips the shoulder of a girl about Parker’s age. Her turquoise headscarf marks her as Muslim. A trickle of blood runs from one of her nostrils. Her face is expressionless, but her huge dark eyes betray her terror.
So this security guard is no one’s savior.
Parker tries to put the pieces together. Has the Muslim girl been hiding inside the spa the whole time? And what about the guard? If he’s a bad guy, does that mean all the security guards are part of this?
“Ron,” Wolf yells from the other side of the gate, “where’d you get that one?”
Ron tows the girl to the gate, with Lips following close behind. “I found some kids in the service corridor. They were trying to get out through the emergency exit. When I grabbed this one, the other four ran off.”
The other four? Could one of them be Miranda? Hadn’t she told Parker she was hiding with four other people?
“This is America,” Lips shouts, and yanks the scarf off the girl’s head.
Her hands clap on either side of her head, fingers spread wide, trying to cover her hair the way someone just out of the shower would cover their body if their towel was snatched away.
Heels whispers to the group around Parker, “You guys, we need to make a plan while they’re distracted. We have to turn the tables.” Her back is to the security gate. Parker is standing across from her, meaning he can see both her and the killers.
“Plan what?” Van Duyn whispers, drawing out the word as if she’s not quite agreeing.
“If we work together, we have a chance.” Heels’s whisper is urgent. “They can’t shoot all of us.”
“Yes they can.” Businessman shakes his head. “Those are semiautomatics. They could kill all of us in twenty seconds.”
* * *
At the gate, Lips balls up the scarf and tosses it to Ron. The security guard lets it drop to the floor and then kicks it. The scarf doesn’t go very far, but it’s on the other side of the gate, out of reach.
Rather than crying or begging for it back, the girl drops her hands and lifts her chin. Still, tears shine silver on her dark skin.
Wolf focuses on Ron. “Did you find November?”
“No sign of him.” He shrugs. “I’m starting to think he turned tail.”
Mole says, “No way, dude. He was right there with us. He even took the first shot.”
Ron shakes his head. “So what? The rest of us have seen combat. Like most civilians, he can talk a good game. But when the rubber meets the road, they’re all candy asses.”
“Watch your mouth.” Wolf’s tone is a whip. “Our brother’s no coward.”
* * *
Our brother? Parker looks from Lips to Mole to Wolf. Lips is short and scrawny. But he can see a resemblance between Mole and Wolf even with their features obscured by ski masks. Both of them with pale eyes and tall, rangy builds. So the missing man—November—must be their brother.
Moxie is still crying and flailing. Stanford finally lets her go, and she runs to Parker. She presses her hot, wet face against his belly. He just hopes he’s strong enough to push her away if the hostages attack him again
.
“Do you seriously think they’re going to let us go?” Heels whispers to their group. “If anyone else tries to save us, they’ll just kill them, like those poor cops. But there’s only four of them and a couple dozen of us.”
“With our hands zip tied,” the guy in the Blazers gear points out. Blazers adds, “And there could be more that we don’t know about. Like that security guard who just popped out of nowhere.”
* * *
At the gate, Lips says, “The last time I saw November was upstairs.”
“Maybe somebody up there jumped him,” Mole says. “We need to go look for him.”
“I already checked the cams, and I didn’t see him on any of them,” Ron says. “Not upstairs. Not down. And he’s not in the service corridors. I think he took off.” When a snippet of music begins to play, he pulls his phone from his pocket with his free hand. He looks down. “From the caller ID, it looks like they might have figured out who I really am.”
“Take it,” Wolf says. “You know what to say.”
Ron pushes a button and lifts the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” Keeping his voice low, he moves farther away.
* * *
As he rubs Moxie’s shoulders, Parker toggles his attention back and forth between Heels and the killers.
Heels hisses, “Having your hands zip tied didn’t stop anyone from beating up this kid. We need to get one of them by himself.” She takes a deep breath. “And then we need to get his gun.”
Gauges is the first to nod. “She’s right.” Most of the others follow, but it’s clear that a few, like Dreads, are still reserving judgment.
Heels looks around the ring of faces. “Does anyone have a lighter?”
Parker’s lips barely move. “I do.”
5:48 p.m.
HIXON: This is Sergeant Hixon of the Portland Police Department’s Crisis Unit. Is this Ron Skinner? What would you like me to call you?
SKINNER: Nothing. Because I’m not talking to you.
