Becca had been in numerous situations where the instinct was to flee. A schizophrenic grad student once held a knife to her throat. A Goth teen, high on PCP, once threw acid, narrowly missing Becca’s face. In her line of work, high-risk situations were part of everyday life. She remembered the panic attack today, and she willed herself to stay calm. This would be a very dangerous situation if she lost control.

In the distance, a small crowd formed, three uniformed LAPD patrolmen, what Becca assumed were two plainclothes detectives, and Christian in the center of the huddle, likely providing a rundown of what was happening. Becca’s stomach dropped. She wasn’t the only one in harm’s way. This man, whoever he was, was now in the LAPD’s crosshairs. They were likely making their own assessments.

Isolate the threat.

Secure the area.

Protect innocent life at all costs.

Becca bladed her body, turning it to ensure that if the y tried, the officers couldn’t get a clean shot of this man without hitting her. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to get hurt. Becca didn’t know anything about this man. All she knew was that he was terrified and was in his mind protecting himself. She was the one who had acted carelessly.

“Please put the gun down. I don’t want you getting hurt,” Becca said calmly, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.

“You dumb bitch, you’ve got me in big trouble now,” he spat out.

“Sir, I’m the one with the gun pointed at me, so I’d say we’re both in big trouble.”

The man darted nervous glances at the chaotic scene unfolding around him. Becca could see dozens and dozens of people leaning down from the balconies of the mall’s numerous restaurants and shops, watching and filming with camera phones. An image of her body lying on the ground, blood pooling from a gunshot wound flashed through Becca’s head, her murder going viral. As if he sensed her worry, Freud let out a low growl, straining against the leash.

“Calm that fucking dog down. He’s making me nervous,” the man grunted, tightening his grip on Freud’s leash.

“The dog is a rescue dog, and you’re the one who’s making him nervous. Loosen your grip on the leash,” she said gently. The man loosened his grip. Freud was still at attention. “Freud, sit,” Becca ordered. There was a fifty-fifty chance he would actually obey her command, but he must have sensed the importance of this moment because he sank down beside Becca and the man, a few whimpers still escaping.