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.
Below them, one of the killers yells, “I think it came from over here!” How close is he?
After peeking through the window slit, Cole eases open the door.
With one last burst of speed, Miranda darts through, the others on her heels. Cole closes the door so softly that it doesn’t make a sound.
And then they wait to see if they were followed. Miranda covers her mouth with her hand, both to keep her panting breaths from giving them away and to keep herself from screaming. Her nostrils suck air in so hard that they flatten with each inhale. Her pulse is jumping, jumping.
She and Grace are on one side of the door, Javier and Cole on the other. Grace hefts her broomstick over her shoulder like a baseball bat. Javier clutches his BB gun. Cole holds the scissors next to his head like a crazed slasher.
Miranda tries to ready herself to fight. Where’s her sock full of quarters? She doesn’t remember dropping it, but she must have. She makes her hands into fists so tight, her nails bite into the flesh of her palms.
She hears nothing. Nothing but the breathing of the others.
Slowly, she starts to shift toward the glass slit in the door. A river of sweat runs down her spine. She shouldn’t look. She should stay hidden. But she has to look. She has to know.
The stairs below them are empty. Pressing her face close to the cold glass, she strains to see past the turn of the stairs. There’s no one there.
Miranda exhales in a burst. With a little shake of the head, she lets the others know the stairs are empty. Her heart still thudding, she turns the other way.
The short hallway they’re in opens up into the second floor, which is shaped like a rectangular doughnut. It’s hollow at the center, with the food court below and skylights far above. Offices line the outside edge of the doughnut. The inside edge has a black metal railing.
There are no bodies up here, at least none in sight. But Miranda can see down to the food court, and the carnage there is even worse than it was in her memory. Red smears where people tried to crawl away and bodies where they died trying. And Grace’s mom, a broken doll, her hands still stretched above her head from when Grace tried to pull her to safety.
Now it’s Grace who has to put her hand across her mouth to stifle her cries.
Somewhere below and ahead of them, one of the killers curses. “All of you stop moving around!” he shouts at the hostages. “Don’t make me shoot you!”
Miranda would give anything to be out of here, back at her house, in her bed. She tries to remember how it felt this morning, tries to conjure the feeling of the sheets cool against her legs, the pillow cradling her head, but she can’t. She puts her arm around Grace and gently turns her until she’s no longer directly facing the sight of her mother’s corpse.
Cole puts his finger against his lips, then whispers, “I think I know where we can get a real gun.”
Grace takes her hand away from her mouth. They all step closer to Cole, crowding together until their shoulders touch.
“I was up here when the shooting started. I saw this big gun hidden in a planter. I didn’t think it was real.”
“Where?” Javier’s question is as soft as a sigh.
Cole points in the direction of the railing. Spaced along it are three large concrete planters. Each holds a lush plant with foot-long green spade-shaped leaves that contrast with large hooded white flowers. Miranda thinks they’re called peace lilies.
“The second one.”
She measures the space with her eyes. “If we get down on our hands and knees and stick close to the wall, I don’t think they’ll be able to see us.”
Cole shakes his head. “Why risk everyone? I’ll get it.” Before anyone can argue, he drops to all fours and starts crawling. There’s less debris up here, but it’s still clear people left in a panic. A purse sits in the middle of the floor, not far from scattered papers. Farther on are a wheeled mail cart, a parka, and a box of doughnuts that has spilled half its contents.
When one of the killers speaks, they all freeze. It sounds like he’s ahead and below them, somewhere near the food court. “Zulu, return to base. Zulu. Over.”
Grace and Miranda exchange a look. Zulu?
“G-G-Golf, just give me another minute,” another man stutters. His voice sounds closer but behind them. “That toy car has to have come from the cops, even though Romeo said they promised to back off. I gotta find where they are and take care of them.” After a pause, he adds, “Over.”
“Negative, Zulu. They could be trying to peel us off. Return to base. Now. Over.”
Miranda thinks, What kind of names are Golf and Zulu? Then it dawns on her that something about these words is familiar.
“Roger that,” Zulu finally says, his reluctance plain.
“Any sign of November?” Golf asks. “Over.”
“Nicholas? No.” Zulu swears. “Do you think the cops got him?”
“I don’t know. Just come back. Now. Over.”
So is November the same person as Nicholas? Then Miranda gets it. “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,” she whispers to Javier and Grace. “I think they’re using their initials in the military alphabet instead of their real names.”
Cole has started moving again. He’ll have to get right up next to the railing to get the gun. What if one of the killers looks up and sees him?
Miranda hates having to sit still. To distract herself, she focuses on a black piece of cloth lying a few feet away. It’s like a beanie, but with three round holes. On-purpose holes, because they are bound with thread. She gasps when she realizes what it is.
It’s a ski mask. The same as the killers are wearing.
Only what happened to the guy who was wearing it?