Chapter 1
I stood by the central fountain at Tampa Mall, the cascading water failing to drown out the pounding in my chest. My fingers brushed against the cold metal of the handgun in my pocket—a last resort I never thought I'd use this way.
Around me, shoppers drifted between stores, consumed by their normal lives: teenagers posing for selfies, mothers corralling excited children, elderly couples walking arm-in-arm.
None of them noticed me—a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman with red hair streaked with silver.
Invisible. That was about to change. I'd spent twenty years hunting criminals; now I needed to become one.
The weight of the decision pressed down on me like a physical force.
Ten days on the run had taught me that playing defense would only end one way—with me in handcuffs or a body bag.
Rule Six of the Profiler's Code echoed in my mind: The hunter can become the hunted.
I needed to flip the script and create a controlled chaos that would serve my purpose.
I scanned the mall's upper level methodically, not randomly. There—the security camera blind spot near the food court entrance. And there—the service corridor leading to the back parking lot.
A young security guard strolled past, radio crackling at his hip, not even glancing my way.
Two Tampa PD officers stood by the north entrance, chatting with the mall's head of security.
They were here because of the increased patrol presence throughout the city, hunting for me. The irony wasn't lost on me.
My hand closed around the grip of my weapon. I'd never fired a gun in a public place outside of duty.
I took a deep breath and pulled the gun out in one smooth motion, raised it, and squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The shots echoed off the high ceiling, amplified by the mall's acoustics. For one frozen moment, nothing happened—as if everyone's brains needed time to process the impossible event unfolding in their safe, ordinary space.
Then the screaming started.
A wave of panic rippled outward from me like a stone dropped in water.
People dove behind planters, scrambled under tables, and pulled children to the ground.
A teenage boy knocked over a rack of sunglasses as he bolted for the exit.
A security guard reached for his radio with shaking hands, ducking behind a kiosk.
"Active shooter! Active shooter!" someone shouted, and the panic redoubled.
I remained standing, the gun still in hand.
Not moving. Not threatening. Just waiting.
The crowd parted around me like water flowing around a rock, creating an empty circle of space with me at its center.
The two police officers at the entrance drew their weapons and began pushing through the fleeing crowd, but the human current worked against them.
A middle-aged woman stumbled in her haste to escape, shopping bags spilling from her hands. As she struggled to her feet, her eyes locked with mine. I saw the moment of recognition wash across her face—the widening eyes, the slight gasp. She pointed a trembling finger at me.
"That's her!" she screamed, her voice piercing through the chaos. "That's that rogue FBI profiler from the news!"
Just as I'd expected. My face had been plastered across every news channel. The media had told the story of the dangerous former agent gone rogue, a woman with inside knowledge using it to commit the perfect crime.
I kept my expression neutral, though inside, my stomach churned. For twenty years, I'd been the one people ran toward for safety, not away from in terror.
Mall security guards converged from multiple directions, trying to coordinate through their crackling radios.
The younger ones looked terrified, while the older guards moved with more purpose, creating a loose perimeter.
None of them had firearms—mall policy—but they were trying to contain the situation until police arrived in force.
I calculated the timing in my head. From the moment the first shot was fired to full police response: approximately four minutes.
I'd already used nearly two. The initial responders would be whoever was closest—the two officers already inside—followed by patrol units, then SWAT.
They would secure the perimeter first, then begin clearing the building.
My plan relied on this predictable response. Law enforcement would follow protocol, and protocol was something I knew intimately.
I lowered my gun slowly, making sure everyone saw the deliberate motion. Several phones were pointed at me—recording, livestreaming. Perfect. The more digital footprints, the better. I needed the world to see.
The first police officer had finally pushed through the crowd, gun drawn, positioned behind a concrete planter thirty feet away. "Drop the weapon!" he shouted, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Do it now!"
I made eye contact with him and slowly placed the gun on the floor, sliding it away from me with my foot. Not surrendering—just changing tactics.
"Eva Rae Thomas!" he called out, recognition dawning on his face. "Get on the ground! Hands where I can see them!"
Instead of complying, I checked my watch. Three minutes eighteen seconds. Right on schedule. The service corridors would be my exit route, but I needed the timing to be exact. Too early, and I'd be caught. Too late, and the opportunity would vanish.
The second officer flanked from the left, moving cautiously between abandoned shopping bags and overturned chairs. Mall security had formed a loose ring around the first officer and me, keeping frightened stragglers back.
I raised my hands slowly to shoulder height—not surrender, just buying seconds. My eyes locked on the fire alarm on the wall near the food court entrance. The commotion had emptied most of the mall, but the alarm would trigger the sprinkler system, adding another layer of confusion.
As the officers inched closer, I tensed my muscles, ready to move. This was my one chance to access what I needed, and I wouldn't get another. If I failed now, I'd never clear my name.
"Now, on your knees!" the officer shouted, just fifteen feet away.
I took one last deep breath.
Four minutes.
Time to move.