Parker is about to dart into the nearest store, the Shoe Mill, when a metallic clatter makes him turn. It’s one of the ski-masked killers. He’s pulling a seven-foot-tall folding metal security gate across the end of the corridor, right where it opens out into the food court. His AK is slung on his back. One side of the gate is bolted to the wall. It rattles along on casters, opening like an accordion. As soon as the guy reaches the other side, they will be penned in like animals. Animals at a slaughterhouse.

The crowd’s panic ratchets up even higher. The guy with the gauges starts to run toward the rapidly closing opening. But on the other side are two more guys wearing ski masks, both of them shouting, “Stay back!” and pointing their rifles at him and the people behind him.

Parker imagines bullets mowing half a dozen people down. But then the guy’s shoulders slump and he steps back.

Just before the security gate is all the way across, the killer who was pulling it steps inside. His lips are as full as a girl’s. In his head, Parker christens him Lips. Lips swings his rifle in a half circle so that they all step back.

All three killers are wearing suicide vests. One of the two men on the other side of the gate locks it with a padlock. He has a dark mole just underneath his left eyebrow. Mole points the rifle at the people they have penned in. The third killer puts a megaphone to his mouth. His eyes are the silvery blue of a wolf’s.

“Listen up, everyone,” Wolf says. “If you want to live—and I’m supposing you do—you have to be quiet and you have to do what we say.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “Because if you disobey us, you will be killed. To begin with, anyone who is still on their phone, turn it off. Now!”

Parker thinks to look for the man with the shaved head and the handgun, the one who was hiding behind a pillar, but he’s disappeared. If that guy shoots one of the killers, will that trigger the explosives?

“What do you want from us?” asks a black woman with silvered dreads.

Wolf says, “First of all, none of you should be talking. And certainly not talking back.” He points his rifle at her and she flinches. “I could shoot you to make my point. But I won’t. Not this time. But the next person who talks, I will put you down like the dogs you are.”

The only sound is the drip-drip-drip of blood hitting the floor from the wounded man’s arm.