Chapter 13 #2
I knew it would be him. The one who didn’t follow the bait the first time. He’s the one calling the shots—careful, strategic. He took one look at Cole’s bait run and made a calculation—that one’s a decoy, this one’s got something I want.
What can I say? I’ve got a magnetic personality.
He’s fast too. Faster than I’d like. I can hear his footsteps behind me—controlled, not sprinting. Conserving his energy.
Ahead, the food court opens up—a wide, dark cavern of empty tables and chairs stacked on counters. The skylights here are bigger, the gray dawn stronger. I can see his flashlight beam cutting arcs behind me as I weave between tables, knocking a chair sideways, buying noise and distance.
I need time. Cole needs to get his two down first, Everly needs to confirm she’s in position, and then the walkie needs to do its job. Until then, I stall.
I duck behind the counter of what used to be a sandwich place. Crouch down. Listen to the leader’s footsteps slow as he enters the food court—careful now, no longer chasing but hunting. The beam sweeps in long arcs.
“I know you’re in here,” he says. Calm. Almost conversational.
I say nothing. I count seconds. Somewhere across the mall, Cole is either pulling off the plan of his life or discovering personally what three hundred pounds of hockey equipment feels like landing on a person.
Come on, Thompson.
The leader moves closer. Table by table. His footsteps a hush on the linoleum. I try to stifle my breath—my lungs are burning. I’ve got maybe thirty seconds before he finds me, and I don’t want to find out what happens when he does.
Twenty seconds.
Fifteen.
The walkie crackles.
Cole’s voice—breathless, triumphant, exactly the voice of a man who just watched an avalanche of rental skates and helmets bury two people. “Two down. I zip-tied them myself. Heading back to Everly at the office. E, you copy?”
A beat. Then Everly’s voice, clear and professional. “Copy. I’m in the service corridor. Ready for you, C.”
The walkie is clipped to my jacket. Volume low. But in the dead silence of the food court, in the dark, with a man standing eight feet away, it’s not low enough.
He stops.
I grab the walkie, my fingers fumbling over the dial, trying to kill the volume. My heart ricochets through my chest as his flashlight arcs across the counter. There’s no time. I make a split-second decision. Run. Leap over the counter. Keep running.
His footsteps thunder behind me until he reaches the corner. Where I turn right, he goes left—toward Everly.
Just like we planned.
I head for the tunnels to cut him off.
My trip through the tunnel has me in the service corridor with a minute to spare.
“I really need to work on my cardio,” I mutter to myself as I climb once again, lungs burning, into the ceiling. It smells like concrete and old pipe insulation up here, but I’m getting used to it.
Everly’s already been here. My supplies sit waiting, ready for me. Her thin line of black hockey lace spreads almost invisibly across the hall below. Now I just need to wait.
I hear him coming. Those careful, measured steps. The flashlight pouring over the space.
He doesn’t look up.
Nobody looks up. That’s what I’ve learned tonight. The vertical axis is the blind spot. The man above you doesn’t exist until the bear spray hits your face.
This guy is no different. He passes below the open tile, and for the first time, I get a good look at him. Dark hair, close-cropped. A nice little bald spot on the top of his head. Stocky, but fit. I want to call him Al.
Actually, that is what I’m gonna call him.
“Hey, Al!”
He stops, spins. His eyes catch mine for exactly point two seconds and then: bear spray.
I let him have it.
Al screams, his palms coming up to cover his face as two million Scoville units wreak havoc on his eyes. The flashlight drops. He staggers—blind, disoriented—and his shin connects with the hockey lace.
“Down we go, Al.”
He hits the ground hard, the crash echoing through the whole building. He stumbles, trying to regain his feet, but I’m already on the ground, zip ties in hand.
He fights blind. His elbow connects with my ribs, and the back of his head gets me in the face. Pain snaps hot and quick across my nose. I feel blood. It doesn’t matter. I manage to wrestle a zip tie over his right wrist, wrench his arm up behind his back. Then the left. The plastic ratchets tight.
Cole appears at the end of the corridor—breathless and unharmed—bolt cutters raised like a flag of victory. “Is he—”
“He’s down. Help me with the ankles.”
Two more zip ties and we roll the leader onto his back.
I stand, chest heaving. Hands shaking with the post-adrenaline tremor. Ribs aching. Eyes stinging from the residual spray in the air. Covered in dust and blood. I lean back against the wall, closing my eyes.
“Did we—did we just—”
“Yeah,” I say, still catching my breath. “Everly is a certified genius.” Her name in my mouth tastes bittersweet. I look down the corridor, toward where she should be.
She should be here by now.
“Everly?” My voice echoes. The building returns it hollow.
No response.
“She’s already at the office. That was always the plan, grabbing the ev—”
“Everly!”
Nothing.
Then I smell it. Smoke. Not a lot, but unmistakable—the acrid, chemical smell of accelerant-fed flame. The smell of the contingency plan they were always going to execute. Torch it.
One of them must have started it before the chase began.
The smoke is coming from the west end. From the direction of the rink office—
I know where she is.
The leader shouts something after me, but I’m running before my brain can process what he said. Down the corridor, the haze thickens—thin, then aggressive, building in layers, each warmer and more acrid. The emergency lighting turns it gold.
I stop in the hallway leading to the offices.
Her hockey stick is on the floor. Propped against the wall—not dropped, not thrown. Placed.
She wouldn’t leave her weapon. Unless she didn’t have a choice.
From deeper in the building—past the smoke, toward the west corridors—footsteps. Not hers. Heavier. Multiple. Receding. Moving away from the fire.
Not the contained thugs. Different footsteps. New.
And the leader’s words—through the cursing, through the bear spray, the five words he shouted as I was walking away: You think it’s just us?
There are more than three of them.
I fill my lungs. Smoke and cold air and the chemical taste of a building on fire.
“Everly!”