Abby ran for the door, bow in hand. She threw it open, swung to the left, and sprinted down the hall and up the ramp. She rounded the switchback and glanced at a group of four middle-aged men in suits running toward her.

“What was that noise?”

“Were those gunshots?”

She dashed past them and made for the exit.

“Hey! You can’t take that bow out of here!”

She dropped the bow and flung open the door. She raced around the pond, back across the concrete walkway, down the esplanade, and out the front gate and threw herself into a car.

“Airport.”

“Love Field or Dallas/Fort Worth Airport?”

She couldn’t remember. But she had to start moving. “Dallas/Fort Worth Airport.”

Thirty-two minutes to takeoff. We needed to board in twelve minutes. I glanced to my left and right, taking in as many of Terminal D’s thirty-nine gates as I could see. If Abby was just arriving, we could still make it.

I cursed myself for leaving her alone. What was I thinking? We were safer together. Separated, our plan would break down. Which it had. I had sent her blind into a run for her life.

My mind replayed all the macabre scenarios that were possible at Fair Park. I pictured her shot, bleeding to death in an abandoned building. Tied up in the back of a vehicle, being taken who knows where. Bound and forced to drink brain-eating nanites.

I drove the thoughts out of my mind. Seven minutes.

I heard my name. I turned to the sound. Abby was running toward me, breathing hard. I raced to her. We threw our arms around each other and held on tightly.

“Abby! You’re safe.”

I ran a hand through her hair and felt something sticky. I pulled my hand back and looked at the blood on my fingers. “Abby!”

I pushed the blood-matted hair away from the left side of her head. The upper tip of her ear was missing. She winced but didn’t cry out. “You’ve been shot!” I glanced around, afraid that we were attracting attention, but no one was looking. I guided us to nearby seats. “Abby, you’ve been shot.”

“I know. It’ll be okay. Has it stopped bleeding?”

I pulled her hair away again. “I think so.”

“Good.” She nodded toward our gate. “Don’t we need to get on the plane?”

“Yes. But tell me what happened to the man.”

She looked sheepish. “I shot him with an arrow.”

I looked at her in disbelief.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll tell you more on the plane.”

Four hours later the door of a small private jet opened onto a set of tarmac air stairs. Lewis Pape limped up the stairs and boarded. Damien Cleary was standing in the aisle. He looked down at Pape’s bloodstained pants leg.

“How did you say you got shot?”

“With an arrow.”