by April Henry
“I’ll take Van Duyn. But someone has to watch my sister. Has to keep her safe.”
* * *
Wolf speaks into the mic on his shoulder. “Kilo, have they given you an ETA for the prisoner release?”
He waits, but there’s no answer.
“Come in, Kilo, come in.” Wolf makes his voice louder with each repetition, as if the mic will work better if he projects more. “Kilo, do you copy?”
Ron slices his hand through the air. “First your brother, now Kilo. I don’t like this!”
* * *
“No one’s safe,” Stanford whispers. “But I’ll try.” She holds out her arms. “Come here, honey.”
“No!” Moxie throws her arms around Parker’s waist.
“Shh!” Parker tucks one hand under her chin and raises her face so that her swollen eyes look into his. Greedily, he inhales the sweet scent of her shampoo. “Stay with her, Moxie. I need to help stop the bad guys.”
“But they’re the bad guys,” she insists. “They’re the ones who hurt you.” At least she’s still keeping her voice down.
“They only did that because those men made them. Those masked men are the real bad guys, and we have to stop them. Don’t you want to get out of here, Moxie?” His whisper falters and breaks. “Don’t you want to see Mom and Dad again?” Parker’s real life—his parents, his wrestling team, his friends, his school—seems like a dream. In reality, he has always been here, the tastes of coppery blood and bitter fear coating his tongue, his sister desperately clinging to him.
“Yes.” Her soft voice nearly kills him.
“Then let me do this, Mox. So we can go home.”
Her arms finally loosen.
EVERY RATTLE AND CLICK
5:56 P.M.
Miranda imagines the toy car, with a phone inside, zipping down the corridor far enough to film the hostages, and then coming back. With one of the killers in hot pursuit.
“But what if Amina’s not there?” she says. “We won’t know until we watch the video.” An idea bubbles up. “Does anyone have FaceTime or Skype on their phone? Because if we connected two phones, then we could use one phone to see what the other one sees. That way, it would be like we were actually in the car. And we won’t have to actually be able to see the car to drive it.”
It turns out everyone but Javier has one of the apps. And that when it comes down to it, no one really wants to be the one to risk losing their phone.
Eventually Grace volunteers her phone for the driver’s seat. “But what if they just shoot it?”
“It’s the same thing I said before,” Cole says. “If they start shooting, the cops are going to think everyone must be dying. And then they’ll storm in no matter what. That’s why they didn’t shoot Amina or Miranda’s friend. Right now it’s a hostage situation. They have demands and they want them met. They won’t want to screw that up just to shoot a toy car.”
“But what if my phone falls out?” She clutches it to her chest.
“We’ll put it in lengthwise so it’s more stable,” Cole reassures her. “And that way it’s less likely to hit the bottom of the gate if I have to go under it to make sure Amina’s really there.”
“If you have to go under it?” Javier echoes. “The remote-control car is my idea. I should drive it. I’ve played Grand Theft Auto a million times.”
Cole holds up a cautioning finger. “Before anyone does anything, someone has to get the car. And that means running across that open space as fast as possible and then coming back. And whoever risks doing that should get to drive the car.”
Javier looks down at his bandaged leg, then presses his lips together and nods. Miranda and Grace don’t argue with Cole’s plan.
Before he tries to retrieve the car, Miranda again lies belly down on the floor and slips out her phone, tilting it until she can see the two men with guns. They’re both still facing toward the hostages. One of them appears to be talking.
At her nod, Cole darts across. It’s less than twenty feet, but it feels like miles. Miranda swallows back bile as she watches the killers and listens for Cole. She can’t see behind the kiosk, but every rattle and click makes her wince. Still, the killers don’t turn. It feels like forever until her peripheral vision catches Cole peeping around the corner of the cart, but it’s probably under a minute. She nods again to let him know that it’s okay. Just after he darts back across, one of the men glances up the hall, but his body language shows no sign of alarm.
Miranda pulls her phone in and then exhales shakily.
Cole is carrying a controller and a ten-inch-long white Jeep with an open top. Grace tries to put her phone sideways on the seat. It’s tight, but it fits.
Grace takes it back out and connects with Cole on FaceTime. Now his screen shows what her phone can see, with just a small inset square displaying what his phone is viewing. And hers is the same, only in reverse. When Grace fits her phone back in the car, Cole’s phone shows her thumb as well as the front of the Jeep’s hood.
They have created a mobile surveillance camera.
It’s time. Cole sets his phone on top of a display case showing a map of the mall. After tugging on the brim of his ball cap, he picks up the controller.
INFINITESIMAL
6:01 P.M.
Miranda uses her phone one more time to check the hall. The gunmen are still facing the hostages. She nods at Grace, who reaches out one hand just long enough to set the toy Jeep on the floor, tight against the wall. Then she and Miranda join Javier and Cole, all of them staring down at the tiny image on the phone.
From out in the hall, the Jeep makes a high-pitched whine as Cole begins to pilot it, zooming past shopping bags and potted plants, benches, and a freestanding display ad for Hickory Farms.
Seeing things from the Jeep’s nearly ground-level point of view makes Miranda feel queasy. Their plan suddenly seems ridiculous. The chances that in a few minutes she will be tying up one of the killers with the scarves stuffed in her pockets are infinitesimal.
To distract herself, she focuses on Cole’s intent face. He reminds Miranda of every guy she’s ever seen play a video game. It’s clear that what he sees on the screen is as real to him as looking down the hall would be.
The Jeep reaches the junction of the corridor and the food court. Cole moves the controller, and the Jeep turns. The gate is ahead of it, with several dozen people penned behind it. Miranda squints and leans closer to the display.
Yes! There’s Amina. But her turquoise headscarf is gone.
Standing near her is a guy. His face is bloodied and swollen, almost unrecognizable. But she knows who it is. Parker.
He’s still alive. Miranda holds tight to that thought.
Suddenly a man dressed all in black appears to the right of the Jeep. One of the killers. He transfers his rifle to his left hand and with his right reaches behind him and pulls out a gun. A handgun, but it looks weird. Like a pistol, only the barrel is way too long.
NO SAFE PLACE
6:01 P.M.
Heels turns to Blazers. “The brother’s got the candy store. What store are you taking?”
The guy from AT&T whispers, “There’s lots of forms behind our counter. They should burn pretty good.”
“Want to take my lighter?” Blazers asks. “I’m not that fast anymore, and you know where all that paper is.”
Parker can see the struggle on AT&T’s face. Is it better to act, or to not risk drawing any attention to yourself? Then again, whoever is in a store lighting a fire might be out of the not-so-proverbial line of fire. For a moment, Parker wonders if he should take Moxie back into the candy store with him. But Stanford’s right: There is no safe place. Not here.
“Okay,” AT&T finally whispers. Blazers starts to slide one of his zip-tied hands into his pocket, but Heels gives her head a short, sharp shake. “Give me a couple of minutes. Don’t start until I distract them.”
Parker wonders what it’s going to be. Will she feign illness or pretend to be go
ing crazy? Whatever it is, she risks being slaughtered just like the sheep she originally compared them to.
As he speaks, a high-pitched whine makes everyone turn their heads toward the food court. At first Parker can’t place the sound. It’s familiar but also terribly out of place. Then something ankle high and moving fast appears on the floor at the edge of the hall.
It’s a remote-control car. A white Jeep less than a foot long. It stops about twenty feet from the killers and executes a tight turn. As it comes closer, he can see that in the front seat of the Jeep, a phone lies sideways. Parker squints. Is he really seeing faces on it? Understanding dawns. It must be Miranda and the people she’s with.
“Go!” Heels whispers from behind Parker. “This can be our distraction! Go, go, go!”
I DIDN’T KNOW
6:03 P.M.
“What’s that?” Grace whispers.
Cole’s eyes don’t move from the phone’s screen, but his voice betrays his surprise as he turns the Jeep in a tight circle. “He’s got a silencer.”
Down the hall, the sound is muffled to a loud clap. Then the screen goes dead.
Grace’s mouth falls open as she realizes her phone has just been destroyed. “I thought you said they wouldn’t shoot.”
Cole swears. “I didn’t know he had a silencer! We have to get out of here. Go back!”
Out in the hall, one of the killers shouts, “It came from that direction.”
Footsteps pound down the hall toward them. All their practice has centered around a curious guy with a long gun and an unwillingness to shoot, not an angry guy with a silenced pistol. They have to get out of this hall before he spots them. Maybe then he might not know where the Jeep came from. Although the kiosk filled with remote-control toys is a pretty good clue.
As they dash for the alcove they just left, Miranda’s stockinged feet almost slide out from under her. It’s like running in a nightmare. The world narrows to a swath of bright colors, vague smears. Part of her wishes that it was just over. She doesn’t care how it ends. Just that it does.
When they reach the end of the hall, Cole puts his finger against his lips and then points. Not at either service door, but at the stairs going up.
Miranda sees the logic. Upstairs, where there are no direct exits, is the last place the killers will look for them. There might even be places to hide.
No matter what, they have to keep moving. Right now, they’re all too visible.
They hurry up the stairs, or at least they try to. Miranda feels as if she’s moving through quicksand. She attempts to push her fear away, to concentrate on lifting her leaden legs, but it’s like she’s underwater, weighted down and helpless. Her socks slide on each step. The others are trying to be quiet as they climb, but each footfall echoes.
Cole is in the lead. The muscles in Javier’s arms stand out as he pulls himself up with the help of the railing. Behind them, Grace is panting openmouthed, her face contorted with fear. She pumps her arms, the broomstick swinging with each step. As they round the turn in the stairwell, it slams into Miranda’s hip. She bites back her cry of pain.
Somewhere below them, footsteps echo. Miranda’s heart skips a beat.
How long until it’s not beating at all?
STRAIGHT TO THE SOURCE
6:03 P.M.
Parker darts into the candy store, his heart a drum in his chest. Once he’s behind the counter, he drops to his knees. As he crawls into the workroom, the muffled clap of a gunshot echoes out in the hall.
A startled cry is forced from his mouth. Who did the killers just shoot? Was it Blazers, for handing the lighter to AT&T? Was it AT&T, for trying to light a fire? Could it even be Stanford, the girl holding his sister—or Moxie herself?
Gritting his teeth, Parker forces himself to scuttle into the back room. He can’t afford to let terror paralyze him. Should he close the door behind him? What if one of the killers catches sight of the movement? But if he doesn’t close it, they might see him. He eases it closed.
As he gets to his feet, Parker grabs the knife off the floor. He reaches back and slips the handle under the waistband of his pants. The small of his back is slick with sweat. He centers the blade so that it’s flat against his spine, camouflaged by his polo shirt.
A glass-fronted silver box set into the wall catches his eye. It holds a fire extinguisher. The killers could use it to put out the fire.
He opens the box and then wrestles the metal canister free from its clips. He needs to hide it. Maybe in the cupboards where he put Moxie. Just the glancing thought of her makes his knees go weak. But worry won’t keep her any safer, and he can’t afford to be distracted.
He forces himself back to the here and now. Maybe he should keep the extinguisher handy. It could be a weapon. Once he gets the fire going, he could wait for one of the killers to open the door, then spray the chemicals straight in his face.
Parker lets out a strangled bark of laughter. If you had told him this morning that by the time the day was over he would be lighting fires and thinking about the best way to damage someone, he would have thought you were crazy.
After he sets down the extinguisher, he spreads his arms wide to gather the gold cardboard boxes and stacks of brown paper candy cups into a pile in the middle of the cool marble worktable. He tears pieces of white wrapping paper off the roll and crumples them. He looks at the ceiling. A metal sprinkler jet is about eight feet above one corner of the table. He scoots the pile so it’s right under it.
Out in the hall, it’s been relatively quiet. At least there haven’t been any more shots.
Parker fumbles the lighter from his pocket. The metal wheel bites into his thumb as he spins it. When the flame appears, he moves too fast. It gutters out.
Taking a deep breath, he tries again, this time cupping his other hand around the orange flicker. He slowly moves it until it starts to lick one of the crumpled balls of wrapping paper. Instead of blazing up, it nibbles delicately on the edge of the paper. The flicker of orange creates a thin curved line of black.
He moves the lighter to one of the gold boxes, holding it under a corner until it catches. Out in the hall, he hears Ron yelling. It’s a one-sided conversation, so Parker thinks he must be talking on a phone. He’s accusing the person on the other end of lying. Of spying.
The fire is slowly growing from two sides. Parker gently blows on it, and the flames fatten. The black lines turn to crumbling charcoal and silver ash.
Ron’s voice gets louder. Parker hears the words “remote-control car.”
So they think the Jeep came from the cops. Is that better—or worse—than the truth? Maybe it’s better for Miranda and her friends, but it sounds like it’s firing up the killers. If they get angry enough, will they start shooting again?
The fire’s now about three inches high. Not exactly a conflagration, but it’s making a good deal of eye-watering smoke. The gray cloud hangs a few feet above the table, spreading out tendrils that soften the outlines of the room. The smoke scratches his throat. Maybe whatever makes the boxes sparkly gold is toxic. When he coughs, he almost puts out the fire.
Most of the pile is now on fire. But the room doesn’t feel any hotter. It’s all going so slowly. Parker’s supposed to be providing a distraction, but he’s not accomplishing much of anything. At this rate the sprinklers will never go off.
He looks up at the one above the table again. Why is he messing around with lighting a fire, when he can go straight to the source?
Tucking the lighter in his pocket, Parker starts to brace his hands on the table to clamber on top. Then he realizes all the paper will be soaked once he triggers the sprinkler. What if he needs it to set another fire in a different store? He piles more boxes and paper candy cups next to the fire extinguisher. Then he climbs on the table, careful not to catch himself on fire. His bruised body protests each movement. He thumbs the wheel, hears it catch, sees the steady orange flame appear. To reach the sprinkler head, he has to stretch his arm above the f
ire. The air over it is hotter than he thought it would be. The skin on his forearm starts to feel crispy. With his arm stretched full length, he moves the flame back and forth under the sprinkler head. As he does, he braces himself for the water, thinking it will be like taking a cold shower in his clothes.
But when the sprinkler opens, it’s like someone has put a fire hose directly above him and turned it on full blast. Boom! The water is a shock, pounding so hard, it’s like a solid thing. In an instant, the fire is snuffed out.
He steps back, trying to get out of the deluge. But the table is covered with a sheet of water. His foot slips out from under him, and before he can recover, both his feet are in the air and he’s falling. When his tailbone meets the marble table, the pain rams all the way up his spine. The sensation is so intense, it’s like someone’s pressed the pause button on the rest of the world. Parker can’t think as he tumbles to the floor. He can’t even breathe. He’s frozen, trapped in the pain.
But finally, he sucks air in with a gasp. Moving hurts. A lot. But he has to. Someone is bound to investigate soon. The pain lessens a little once he’s upright and moving toward the door.
Only now does he wonder if it would have been better to let things build slowly. Now there’s really no smoke. No flames. Just water. It’s noisy, sure, but will it be enough to attract Ron or Lips? Maybe he should light another fire behind the counter.
Parker flicks his lighter. No response. He shakes water out of the well and tries again.
Nothing. There’s no way he’s going to be able to light another fire.
NOTHING BUT THE BREATHING
6:04 P.M.
As they round the corner of the stairs, Miranda’s heart feels like it will beat from her chest. In front of them is a metal door with a narrow vertical window. Stenciled on the door are the words 2ND FLOOR. PROFESSIONAL OFFICES.
