5:39 P.M.
Despair flattens Miranda as she looks at the bike lock stretched across the metal doors. The police aren’t coming and all the doors are locked. And even though she didn’t hear any shots, Parker is probably dead too. Maybe even his sister.
Muttering, “No, no, no,” Grace walks past Cole, grabs the chain, and yanks it.
The locked door, the door that is the only thing that stands between them and safety, is halfway down the corridor. Miranda looks to the other end. Just like the hall they came from, it doglegs, so she can’t see more than about thirty yards.
“I don’t think we can go that way,” Javier says from behind her. “That goes toward where the hostages are.”
“We’re just going to have to go back to where we branched off and try the other way,” Miranda says.
“Back into the mall?” Amina shakes her head hard. “If we go out that door, they’ll see us.”
“But there must be another exit someplace that isn’t locked. We have to try to find one.” Miranda won’t give up. She can’t. She focuses on that and not on how shaky she feels.
“Hold on,” Cole whispers. His fingers have been busy unwinding a paper clip, and now he holds it up. He must have taken it from the desk drawer. “I might be able to get the lock open with this.”
“You know how to pick the locks?” Javier asks.
“When you grow up on a farm, you learn how to make your own fun.” Cole puts one end of the now-straightened paper clip between his teeth and bites down, then bends it. When he takes it out, it’s bent at a ninety-degree angle. He pulls another paper clip out of his pocket and quickly unfurls it. “Spread out and keep watch.” He makes a series of tiny bends in the second piece of wire. “This is either going to work right away or it’s not going to work at all.”
Javier stays at the intersection with the corridor they came from. Amina, armed with her coin-filled sock, faces the new corridor. Miranda and Grace stand in between the two, with Miranda closer to Amina.
A few feet from Grace, Cole kneels in front of the lock. He has tucked the scissors into his waistband. He’s biting his lip. The ball cap hides most of his face, so Miranda doesn’t know if he’s worried his paper clip trick isn’t going to work or if he’s just absorbed by the puzzle.
His left hand is curled around the lock, and his left index finger holds the straightened paper clip inside the lock at about four o’clock. With his right hand, he’s plunging the bumpier wire in and out of the lock. His head is cocked as if he’s trying to hear the tumblers inside the lock falling into place.
A gasp makes her turn.
It’s Amina. Miranda can’t see what she’s staring at. But she hears footsteps.
Amina’s eyes go wide. Her face lights up as if she has just beheld a miracle. “Thank God! Ron! Please, please, Ron, help us get out of here.”
Behind her, Miranda hears Cole scramble to his feet and then it sounds like he’s running. But why?
It’s one of the security guards. A mall one, not a plainclothes one who works for the stores. Miranda’s seen him before. He’s got blond hair cut military short, and he wears a light-blue shirt and black pants, along with a black utility belt.
“Why, hello, Amina.” His right arm is crooked awkwardly behind his back. A tight smile is pasted on his face. He steps forward with his left arm outstretched, and for an absurd moment Miranda thinks he’s going to hug Amina.
Instead he loops his arm around her neck. The move turns Amina and yanks her to her tiptoes at the same time. Her sock filled with quarters clunks to the floor. He raises the thing he was hiding behind him and points it not at Amina but at the others. It’s a long gun. A black rifle with a curved clip.
It looks just like the guns the killers used.
Miranda’s muddled brain tries to make sense of this. Did he take it from one of them? Because the security guards here don’t carry guns. These guards are all wannabe cops, but the worst thing they have is pepper spray. Pepper spray, zip-tie handcuffs, plastic gloves, a walkie-talkie. But not some kind of automatic rifle meant for killing as many people as possible.
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.