5:53 P.M.
Parker’s not the only one with a lighter. Blazers also has one.
“I’m going to create a distraction,” Heels whispers. “And when I do, you guys go into different stores. In the back, pile up paper bags, boxes, receipt paper—anything that will burn—and light it on fire. One of the two on this side of the gate will have to come check it out. And then the rest of us will attack him. Throw things at him, jump him, get his gun.”
“But what about the other two guys?” Dreads asks. “They’re out of our reach, but they can still shoot us. What are we supposed to do about them?”
Heels’s expression doesn’t change, but in her voice Parker hears a shrug. “Once we get one of the guns on this side of the gate, I don’t think that’s going to matter.”
* * *
At the security gate, Ron is saying, “Have you told K-Kilo about how we can’t find November?”
“Not yet,” Wolf says. “He knows we were looking for him.”
“He won’t like that,” Ron says.
Parker figures Kilo must be their off-site leader.
Wolf throws his shoulders back. “Let me remind you that Kilo put me in charge of this operation.” He turns his attention to the Muslim girl. “You. Where were you hiding?”
She presses her lips together and doesn’t answer.
* * *
Businessman’s whisper is dismissive. “Do you even know how to shoot an assault rifle?”
“Actually, I do,” Heels says matter-of-factly. “Anybody else?”
After a pause, Dreads says, “I shot one once at a range,” and Velcro says, “I was in the army for thirty years.”
“Then the three of us will rush him. We’ll wait until he’s inside the store, so the rest can’t see what’s happening.”
* * *
Ron says, “Haven’t you seen her before? Amina works at Culpeppers.”
“Is that where your little friends are?” Wolf asks.
There’s a beat before she answers. “No. We were hiding someplace else. In a different store.”
Wolf’s laugh is more like a grunt. “If you’re going to lie, you need to do a better job than that.”
* * *
Stanford whispers, “My sister’s one of the people up against the doors. If the killers start shooting, they’ll be the first to die. They’ll be sitting ducks.”
“Not if we yell at them to start and keep moving,” Heels says. “It’s harder to hit a moving target. And the smoke should make it even harder. Yelling’s good anyway. We want as much noise and confusion as possible.”
Parker remembers something he saw on the news some months ago. “Last summer the news said if you found a baby locked in a hot car, you could break the glass if you hit the bottom corner with something hard and narrow, like a screwdriver.”
“But we don’t have a screwdriver,” Dreads whispers.
“There’s a knife on the floor of Van Duyn’s workroom.”
“The tip would probably just break,” Heels says. “But the handle end—that might work.”
* * *
Wolf says to Amina, “So they all just ran off and left you. Where did they go?”
She lifts her chin, and her voice carries. “I don’t know. Inshallah, they escaped.”
Wolf leans closer to her. “And did you see anyone else back in the service corridors?”
“Only Linda from Pottery Barn.” Amina’s voice breaks. “And she’s dead.”
* * *
“Start more than one fire if you can,” Heels whispers. “We want lots of smoke. We want sprinklers going off. Maybe a fire alarm if they’re still operating. The more confusion the better. And then when one of them checks it out, we go for him.”
In his mind’s eye, Parker pictures the roll of white wrapping paper in the Van Duyn workroom, the stacks of paper candy cups and boxes. He can start the fire right on the worktable, which will put it even closer to the sprinkler.
“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.