3:55 P.M.
As she runs from the coffee shop, Miranda tilts her head back. The shots are coming from the second floor of the mall, which is open in the middle. There are no stores up there, just office space, the two floors linked by escalators. Three men in black ski masks are leaning over the black railing and shooting long black guns, like AKs or something.
An older man shoves his wife behind him and then catches a bullet in the chest. Miranda lets out a scream as he falls to the floor. This can’t be real.
But she knows it is. And the next person shot could easily be her. She has to get out of here. Now.
In the last few months, Miranda has come to know this mall better than most of the people who work here. In addition to knowing the location of every camera, she also knows every exit. Now she ducks underneath an escalator and runs toward the hall that leads outside.