The man was heavy, strong, and nearly as fast as Jill.

His fingers scrabbled along the carpet, found his gun.

Jack thrust his full weight down on that shooting arm, pinning it to the floor, and he hit and hit and hit, punching neck, elbowing head, landing strike after strike on a body that seemed not to feel the blows.

The man’s free hand went for Jack’s eyes and nose.

His knees went into Jack’s side.

Jack drove forehead into face.

Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed.

The man shoved, punched, forced range of movement on his shooting arm.

Jack struggled to keep the muzzle pointed away and lost by the inch.

He had been beaten by Clare, had rarely won against Jill, but not since he was thirteen had a stranger bested him.

This first time would be the time that killed him.

Acceptance settled.

The song neared its final notes.

Somewhere on the edge of awareness, the stage-right door creaked open.

He was slow to register the muzzle slipping through the crack.

The body beneath him went limp.

Delayed recognition filled in a pattern of suppressed reports arriving with a snare-drum beat, and he rolled free, gasping, shaking.

Jill hissed, “Hurry up, asshole. I’ve got places to be.”

He wanted to hug her until she couldn’t breathe. Instead, he crawled after the knife, located his gun, stumbled to his feet, and pushed through the widening crack.

Jill locked the door, shoved a chair up under the handle.

He followed her through the dark, down a corridor, around a corner, into a tunnel that ran beneath the stage, and out a side door into a restricted area.

The cart with his stuff was parked off in a corner.

She tossed him an XXL sweatshirt, overpriced, tags still attached, probably shoplifted. “Been listening to their coms,” she said.

Her fingers worked buttons and zippers.

“They’re shutting down the park.”

She pulled off the costume.

“We’re both burned, but big boy up there can hold until we’re out.”

Jack pulled his gear from the garbage bag, strapped the pack to his stomach, and pulled the sweatshirt down over the equipment belly.

Returning to the woods and following the transmission lines back was a no-go. They weren’t equipped for a protracted run from eyes in the sky, with their heat-seeking sensors. They’d be dead within the hour.

They needed people.

Lots of them.

That was why he’d chosen the park.

They had to get ahead of the crowd.

“We go front,” he said.

Jill said, “You got what you came for?”

“Need one last call.”

She handed him a Santa hat.

He shoved it on his head, then felt up his side for the tape that had secured Holden’s coms to his chest. He snagged the wire that had gone missing during the fight, pulled the earpiece back up through his collar, and tipped it back into his ear.