When her eyes focus past Parker, Miranda freezes. On the far side of the food court, one of the killers is coming down the escalator. Instead of running down the steps, he stays on his stair as it descends, as calm as a casual shopper. A casual shopper with an automatic rifle in his hands. He’s dressed all in black, including a black ski mask with holes for his eyes and mouth. He’s like a bug or a monster. Or a terrorist.

Is that what they are? Terrorists?

Over his clothes, he wears something like a short black apron with narrow, deep pockets holding red rubbery bricks with wires coming out of them. After a beat, Miranda’s brain supplies the term. It’s a suicide vest.

The escalator is otherwise empty, but at the bottom there’s a pile of three or four bodies. One of them, a woman with curly black hair, is still moving. Her legs churn weakly against the red-streaked linoleum.

Without any hurry, the man raises his rifle and fires. Her limbs jerk and then stop.

The shot breaks the spell that has held Miranda. She has to get out of here! The killer’s gaze is still focused in front of him. He isn’t looking her way. Not yet. But in a minute he’ll turn. He will turn his head and he will see her and he will kill her.

She’s just ten feet from Culpeppers. Ten feet from the metal shutter that might save her. The shutter that is already down to chest level as the busboy and the rich girl duck underneath it.

Still, Miranda turns back, ignoring the voice in her head screaming she’s a fool. She sprints toward Parker and yanks his wrist, spinning him toward her. “Come on!” she says, her voice an urgent whisper that barely competes with the shrill ringing of the fire alarm. “Before he sees us.”

He resists, but she tugs harder, her eyes on the gunman, who is stepping off the escalator.

Instead of following her, Parker gasps. Not in horror, but in something closer to joy. He’s spotted something in the hall with the locked doors that Miranda just abandoned. He tears his wrist from her grasp and races away.

Miranda turns back toward Culpeppers. The metal roll-down shutter is almost to the floor now. All she can see are knees and feet. And one head and a beckoning arm. It’s the guy who whistled, his face contorted. He’s not making any sound, but Miranda can read his lips.

He’s mouthing “Hurry!”

A foot from the rattling shutter, Miranda throws herself on her belly and rolls underneath.

Just before it closes.

4:01 p.m.

DISPATCH: All units, be advised, reports of active shooters inside Fairgate Mall. Possibly at the food court. 68 and 53, respond.

UNIT 68: 68 copy.

UNIT 53: 53 copy.