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The car was slowing.

Definitely slowing.

It was back under control.

I was safe!

Then the airbags blew.

Saturday. Late afternoon.

I SAW A MOVIE IN SCIENCE CLASS ONCE THAT SHOWED WHAT happens when you stir up an ants’ nest.

That’s what it was like when I slammed my aching shoulder against the car door for the fifth time, finally freeing it from the twisted frame. At first all I could make out was chaos. Twenty or thirty people milling around, apparently at random. But then distinct groups started to emerge, each with its own purpose. The braver ones, coming toward me to investigate, or to see if they could help. The wiser ones, looking for cover until they were sure what was happening. Parents, gathering up their kids, anxious to shelter them. And the bewildered, wandering this way and that without a clue where to go.

I struggled out onto my feet and saw a long, low building thirty yards away beyond half a dozen rows of parking spaces. It was a supermarket. I would have plowed straight into it, if my car hadn’t hit an old-model Lincoln Continental and stopped dead. Stretching back the other way, toward the slope, I’d left a trail of mud, rubber, and foliage. It was like an arrow, pointing to the police who’d been trying to stop me. I remembered the look in the one officer’s eyes. They’d already be coming after me. But from which direction? Down the slope? Around, on the street? Or both?

THE SHOPPERS DRIFTED BACK toward the supermarket as their interest in my sudden arrival waned, so I went with them. The crush dissipated once we were inside, and smaller groups split away and started wandering between the checkouts and into the store itself. I had no idea how the place was organized, but I instinctively headed away from the entrance. The problem was, as supermarkets go, this one was tiny. There were only twelve aisles, lined up in parallel rows, and beyond them a frozen section and deli counter. I don’t know what kinds of hiding places I’d imagined I’d find, but Macy’s on 34th Street, this place wasn’t.

An uproar erupted at the front of the store. The police had arrived. Half a dozen officers were trying to instill order, and it would only be minutes—seconds, maybe—before they swept me up and figured out who I was.

I dived behind the deli counter and pressed myself into the cold tiles on the floor. After a couple of seconds I looked up, and saw how stupid I’d been. Apart from the lower eighteen inches, which housed the refrigerator mechanism, the deli counter was made of glass. I might as well have been hiding behind a few boxes of cornflakes. I glanced round, desperate for something more substantial, and my eyes settled on the base of a door. It was standing open half an inch. Just enough to get my fingers around, push it open a little wider, and wriggle through to the other side.

I’d expected to find myself in a storeroom with shelves or piles of packages to crawl behind, but I saw the place was actually an industrialscale kitchen. Which made sense, when I thought about it. It would be where they prepared the food for the deli. Long stainless-steel counters held various machines—slicers, mixers, a couple of microwaves, electric can-openers, and a few things I didn’t recognize. There were three large ovens. A separate stovetop covered with giant pans. Two massive fridges. A pantry area that was partially walled off on the left-hand side. And a fire door, which I guessed would lead out to the back of the building.

It was decision time. Run? Or hide?

If I opened the door an alarm would sound, giving away my position. And there could be more officers outside, who’d spot me even if I was wrong about the alarm. But if I stayed, anyone who looked into the room would see me. Unless I could shift a few things around? Maybe create a little nook behind one of the fridges?

It was too late. I heard footsteps coming my way. At least two sets. Moving fast, but not running. Could I barricade myself in? I’d tried to close the door but it refused to fit in its frame properly, leaving the same half-inch gap I’d spotted before I took refuge in here. If I could slide something heavy in front of it, that might buy me the time I needed to slip out through the back. I took a step toward one of the steel trolleys, but memories of my last attempt at blocking a door slowed me down. I changed course, heading for the fire escape. And then a voice stopped me in my tracks altogether. Not because of how close it was. Or what it said. But because I’d heard it before.

“In there?” Agent Peever said.

“Right,” a woman answered. “A couple of minutes ago. Slithering along the floor, like he thought no one would see him.”

“How come you saw him?”

“I was working the deli counter. Supposed to be, anyway. Sneaked out to see what the fuss was about, and was trying to get back before my boss saw I was gone.”

“OK. Was he on his own, the guy you saw? Or was anyone with him?”

“I don’t know. I only saw him, but—”

“So he could have a hostage with him? You can’t rule that out?”

“Not for certain, no.”

“What about weapons? Was he armed?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Where does the door lead to?” It was a different woman. Her voice was also familiar. It took me a second to pin it down. Then it clicked. It was Agent Brooking. Peever’s boss.

“The deli prep room,” the store employee said.

“Any knives in there?” Peever asked.

“Knives? Of course. Drawers full of them.”

“Any other ways out?” Brooking asked. “Doors? Windows?”

“One door. It leads out to the Dumpsters.”

“Don’t worry,” Peever said. “There are uniforms on every exit. If he sticks his nose out, it’ll get blown off.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Brooking actually sounded sincere.

“Um, do you need me anymore?” the store employee asked. “Because if there’s going to be any shooting …”

“No,” Peever said. “We don’t. You can go. And thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“OK.” Brooking waited for a light set of footsteps to recede into the distance. “Options?”

“Do nothing, for now,” Peever suggested. “Wait for the hostage negotiator.”

“How do you figure?”

“Bowman’s trapped. He can’t get away, this time. But we’re knee-deep in civilians. We can’t account for them all. One could be in there with him. He has access to weapons. Why take the risk? What if we try to force something, and it goes wrong? Think how it would look.”

“What’s the ETA on the negotiator?”

“An hour, worst case.”

“OK. I can spend an hour to avoid a PR nightmare. But you two stay here. And if Bowman makes any kind of contact, I’m the first to know. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Another set of footsteps retreated from the door.

“Do nothing?” It was a man’s voice. One I didn’t recognize. “Wait for the negotiator? What the hell?”

“I know, I know.” Peever sounded irritated. “That crap nearly choked me. But I had to get rid of Brooking, somehow. What if she was still here when McKenna shows up? And insists on trying to take him in? Tries to give him his rights? Have you read the procedures for a situation like this?”

“You think McKenna’ll show?”

“He did last time we got our hands on his little buddy. It’s worth a shot. It’d be a lot easier putting this business to bed with both of them out of the way. And we could do that with a lot less paperwork if we don’t have Brooking breathing down our necks.”

“Amen to that.”

“You stay here and watch the door. I’ll go spread the word that the goat’s tied to the stake. Back in five.”

From a sanctuary to a cell. And now to a coffin. For a moment I could have sworn the walls were closing in on me. Shrinking the space. Transforming the room into a tile-lined casket. But I pushed the image away. I only had time to think about one thing. How to get out. I had five minutes. Less, if Peever was faster than he’d thought.