I turned right, moving at a controlled jog. Running would attract attention; walking would waste precious seconds. My footsteps echoed despite my efforts to step lightly. I passed storage rooms with padlocked doors, a break room with empty vending machines, and a wall of electrical panels labeled with store names and numbers.
A door opened ahead of me. I pressed myself against the wall, hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there anymore—I'd left it on the mall floor as planned.
A janitor backed into the hallway, pulling a yellow mop bucket. He turned and froze, the mop clattering to the ground as his eyes locked on me. Middle-aged, Hispanic, his name badge reading "Miguel." Recognition flashed across his face—my photo had been on every news station for the last couple of days.
His mouth opened to shout. I closed the distance between us in three quick steps, pressing my finger to my lips in a universal gesture for silence. His eyes widened further, darting between my face and the corridor behind me.
"Please," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I didn't do what they're saying."
He hesitated, and I saw the calculation behind his eyes—the risk assessment. I could see him wondering if I would hurt him, if I was armed, if helping me would cost him his job, or worse.
"Five minutes," I said. "Just give me five minutes before you tell anyone you saw me."
The distant door I'd entered through burst open, voices echoing down the corridor. The janitor's eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to me. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and pointed toward a narrow hallway branching to the left.
"That way," he whispered in a heavy accent. "Through kitchen storage."
I touched his shoulder briefly in thanks and slipped away, guilt mingling with gratitude. I'd just made him complicit in aiding a fugitive. Another innocent person potentially damaged by this nightmare that had become my life.
The narrow hallway led to a large storage area filled with pallets of supplies for the food court restaurants. I navigated between towers of napkins, plastic cutlery, and industrial-sized food containers. Beyond them, a heavy metal door with a push bar promised escape.
I paused, my hand on the bar, calculating. Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds since the first shot. Police response would be in full force now. The parking lot would be swarming with officers, who would be establishing a perimeter. SWAT would arrive within minutes if they weren't already on scene. Helicopters would follow shortly after.
My options were shrinking by the second.
I'd spent my career tracking killers who tried to stay one step ahead of law enforcement. Now I was living their experience, understanding their desperation in ways I never could have imagined.
Through my mind ran calculations of escape routes, police response times, and the stark reality that I had no choice but to keep moving.
The wail of police sirens grew louder, their Doppler effect indicating multiple units converging from different directions. I pressed my ear against the metal door, listening for movement outside—nothing distinct—just the general commotion of an evacuation.
With a deep breath, I pushed the emergency exit bar.
An alarm immediately shrieked—a local door alarm separate from the mall's main system. I stepped out into blinding afternoon sunlight, momentarily disoriented by the transition from the dimly lit corridor.
To my left, the flashing lights of police cruisers created a blue-and-red strobe effect against the buildings. To my right, the service road curved behind a dumpster enclosure before disappearing around the corner. No officers visible in that direction—yet.
I made my choice and ran, the distant thunder of helicopter rotors beginning to build overhead. The hunt was on, and I was both predator and prey.
Chapter 3
ONE WEEK EARLIER
Chapter 4
The Paradise BayMotel was anything but paradise. Its faded blue sign flickered in the gathering dusk, half the neon letters dead, the remaining ones casting a sickly glow across the crumbling stucco facade. I leaned my head against the passenger window of our stolen sedan, fatigue pressing down on me like a physical weight. Three days on the run had left me hollow-eyed and desperate, my body aching from too many hours crammed in car seats and makeshift hiding places. Matt's hand found mine in the darkness, his fingers giving a gentle squeeze—a silent reminder that I wasn't alone in this nightmare. At least not yet.
"You ready?" he asked, his voice low and rough with exhaustion.
I nodded, though every fiber of my being wanted to stay hidden in the anonymous safety of the car. "Let's get this over with."
The motel office smelled of stale cigarettes and lemon-scented cleaner that failed to mask decades of human transience. A bell above the door announced our arrival with a cheerful ding that felt obscene against our grim purpose. Behind the counter, an elderly man looked up from a dog-eared paperback, his eyes narrowing as they landed on my face.
My pulse quickened. I'd pulled my hair back under a baseballcap and traded my usual clothes for a shapeless sweatshirt, but my face had been plastered across every news channel in Florida for days. Recognition was a luxury I could no longer afford.
The old man's gaze lingered, making my skin crawl with the uncomfortable sensation of being cataloged, memorized. His eyes—surprisingly sharp in his weathered face—moved from my hair to my eyes, down to my mouth, then back up again.
"Need a room," Matt said, stepping slightly in front of me, his bulk creating a partial shield between me and the owner's probing stare.
