But the only thing in sight is the woman’s lifeless body. She lies on her belly, one knee raised and one arm outstretched, as if she’s still trying to crawl forward. Without discussion, they come to a stop.

“That is Linda,” Amina whispers. “Oh my God. Linda. We walked in together today.”

Linda has red hair with gray roots. Her head is turned to one side. Her blue eyes are open, fixed and still. Her skin looks like wax. Under her hips is a puddle of blood.

As they pick their way around her, Miranda swallows back bile.

Just before the corridor branches to the right, Cole stops. Nervously, he tugs the brim of his new hat with his free hand.

Then slowly, slowly, he peeks around the corner, scissors at the ready. After a long moment, he nods that it’s okay. Miranda lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. The rest of them join him.

“If we keep going straight, it just leads to the mall,” Amina whispers. She points down the new corridor. “I’m pretty sure there’s an outside exit. But this place is like a maze. It’s been added on to a million times over the years. Things don’t fit together in any logical way. The security guards are the only people who really know the layout.”

There’s no need to discuss which way to go. They creep down the new corridor, carefully turn another corner. And in the middle of the new corridor are solid metal double doors with a red EXIT sign overhead. They are only thirty feet from freedom.

And then Miranda sees it. Another bike lock stretches across the doors, chaining them together.

There’s no way out.

Everything Is Under Control

EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL

5:23 P.M.

“It’s time,” Karl says to the man next to him, the driver of their nondescript white van.

They’ve been monitoring the police channels. Every cop within a hundred miles has converged on Portland, responding to what is clearly a major terrorist attack.

The driver presses down on the accelerator until the van hugs the bumper of the unmarked tractor-trailer. Both he and Karl are dressed in dark coveralls topped with reflective vests. Except for a half-dozen orange traffic cones, the back of their van is empty.

Karl raises the fob in his gloved hand and presses the button.

Instantly, the cab of the eighteen-wheeler ahead of them is filled with a cloud of pepper spray. For the three guards inside, the effect is instantaneous and overwhelming. It’s like being kicked in the chest by a donkey. Every inch of exposed skin is now on fire.