Behind Miranda are—he squints—two more people. One is the busboy from the food court. He’s limping, and his leg is bandaged. And behind him is a skinny girl wearing a blouse stained with blood.

“Open this gate,” Miranda demands. “Open it up or I’ll kill your brother.”

Refusing to Crack

REFUSING TO CRACK

6:20 P.M.

“Put down your guns and open this gate,” Parker hears Miranda repeat. “Right now. Or your brother dies.” Her face is pale and calm, almost mask-like, but her voice is raw with emotion.

For emphasis, she prods the guy in the ball cap, hard enough that he stumbles forward. He’s tall and rangy, with pale eyes. Just like Mole and Wolf.

“Are you okay, Nicholas?” Mole asks.

“Just do what she says, please.” His voice cracks. “She means it.”

A movement in the corner of Parker’s eye makes him turn. Ron has managed to get to his feet. Now he stumbles away, tears and snot streaming down his yellow-coated face as he coughs and gags, bent almost double. One hand on the wall to guide him, he rounds the corner into the day spa.

Parker follows. He doesn’t trust Ron, but his only weapon is out of ammo.

All around them is chaos. The air is filled with the soapy smell from the fire extinguisher, as well as smoke from the AT&T store, where the sprinklers have still not kicked on. From Van Duyn comes the pounding of falling water.

But there’s no longer a need for a distraction, not now that Lips has exploded, Parker has taken care of Ron, and Miranda is ordering around the other killers at gunpoint.

Still carrying the fire extinguisher, Parker enters the day spa. Ahead of him, Ron staggers past the receptionist’s desk to the first of a half-dozen black hair-washing sinks. He grabs the edge of the sink with his meaty fists, doubles over, and starts throwing up. Even his vomit is pale yellow. What kind of chemicals are in a fire extinguisher, anyway? Could they kill someone? Still gagging, Ron turns on the faucet and sticks his face under the stream of water.

Past him, Parker’s eyes are drawn to a set of tools laid out on a white towel. They remind him of surgical tools in one of those TV medical dramas, but because they are next to a display of colorful nail polishes, he thinks they’re probably actually for manicures. He squints. One of the tools appears to be a small purple cordless drill. He moves closer. It is a drill, complete with a bit that comes to a tiny, spade-like tip.