Once they’re gone, I relax, and toss the fiery wad of paper to the ground. It lands right in the fuel … and sizzles out, completely harmlessly.

Those idiots, I think, ecstatic my little ruse worked. They clearly grew up watching action movies. But in real life, it’s almost impossible to light gasoline like that, despite the Hollywood cliché. I picked diesel fuel, too. Even less combustible.

But my celebration doesn’t last long. I sprint over to the bathroom door and drum my hands against it. “Vanessa? It’s Caleb! Are you okay?”

Silence. I keep banging on the door. I keep calling her name. Still nothing.

My stomach starts to feel heavy with dread. Is she even in there?

Is she still alive?

After what feels like a week, I hear the lock click.

I slowly open the door.

She’s there. Cowering like a scared animal. Her cheeks are lined with rivulets of tears and mascara. She’s terrified, but looks unharmed.

I don’t say another word. Choked up, I’m not sure if I could.

I crouch down and wrap her in my arms. It’s the tightest, most protective embrace I’ve ever given anyone. I’m flooded with relief … and then with anger.

I need to catch one of those sons of bitches and make them pay—especially if they’re connected in any way whatsoever to the Mardi Gras attack!

“Get in my car, lock the doors, and call 911,” I tell her, thrusting my keys and phone at her. When she seems to hesitate, I bark, “Just do it! It’s okay to call the cops now. You’re safe now. I’ll be back, I promise.”

Before she can say anything that might change my mind, I leap to my feet again and start running, splashing through the diesel fuel and back onto the sidewalk. I look left, right. The vehicles are long gone. That skinhead has disappeared, too.

But I do get a glimpse of the trucker-hat man, the one called Angus. He’s only a couple blocks away. He’s moving pretty fast—but it looks like he has an injury: a limp.

Poor baby.

Like a lion picking out the slowest gazelle in the herd, I spring into pursuit. I race across the street, just narrowly avoiding being hit by a delivery van. Then I really start to pick up speed. I shove some pedestrians out of my way. I dodge not one, not two, but three teenagers zooming past on Razor scooters.

I’m gaining on him—who glances backward and only then realizes I’m chasing him. Suddenly afraid, he tries to run faster. His hat flies off in the process, revealing a tangled mane of blond hair, but his leg is still holding him back.

He starts to pull out his revolver again … but I’m practically on his heels.