Two more aisles to get across first. The comforting smell of cut wood blended with the acrid odor of fertilizer. Even if she’d been delivered to the store with her eyes covered, she would have known instantly where she was by the smells. She could picture the parking lot full of police and their perimeter forming around the home improvement store. Knowing there were dozens of people who had her back gave her some confidence. But she had to get to them while avoiding the man with the gun. She tightened her fingers around her gardening tool, mentally practicing a strong high swing. If she came face-to-face with the shooter, she’d have to act instantly. Any pause would mean her death.

First rule of gunfights: Avoid gunfights.

Second rule: Bring a gun. Preferably two. And all your friends who have guns.

Her goal was to follow the first rule.

The shooter’s actions had triggered the last part of the second rule. Good people were outside.

“Put down your weapon and exit the building backward with your hands on your head.”

Ava pictured Sergeant Shaver glaring over his bullhorn, and wondered if Mason and the rest of the task force were close by.

Mason. Does he know I’m the shooter’s target? She couldn’t dwell on how he must be feeling. He probably wanted to both shake her and kiss her at the same time.

If only she’d been armed. She slapped a hand over her mouth as hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. Twice now she’d needed to be armed after a yoga class. A choking garbled sound came from her mouth as she fought to control her reaction to the irony. Maybe she could start a new trend: guns and yoga. She grabbed a chunk of her lip and pinched hard, the pain silencing the need to laugh. Tears threatened, and she sucked in deep breaths.

Focus.

She did her peek-and-dash to cross the next aisle and ended up across from an alcove that housed the doors to the bathrooms. An EMPLOYEES ONLY sign hung on a third door. With a quick glance to the right and left she crossed the rear aisle and grabbed the knob. Please lead to a break room and rear exit. The door was locked. Her heart skipped two beats, and she whirled around to dash back to the end of the aisle. She didn’t want to be cornered in the alcove.

Keep moving.

A rapid glance down the next aisle revealed her chaser. She yanked her head back and tried to melt into the endcap display of garbage disposals. He was in the center aisle that ran parallel to the aisle she was following along the rear of the store. Tall. Armed. Moving in the same direction as she. She shuddered, thankful he’d been looking in the opposite direction when she’d taken a glimpse. She slid down to a crouch, fighting the desire to crawl between the boxes of garbage disposals and hide. But she wasn’t two feet tall. Her vision started to tunnel, and she focused on the deadly head of her weapon, imagining it swinging into his brain.

She could do that.

His steps sounded closer; now he was in the aisle around the corner from her.

Mason watched the two four-man teams get ready to enter the store.

Here we go again.

It was all too similar. He stood on the outside, powerless, while Ava was inside. No reassuring text messages this time. And there was another big difference. This time they had a good idea of whom the shooter was after. His balls-out chase out of the mall and into the home improvement store was a clear indicator that he was after something he wanted. The shot-out doors and broken glass told Mason volumes. Their killer had it in for Ava.

Why?

When had Ava popped up on their shooter’s radar? She’d spoken to him the day of the mall shooting, but he hadn’t shown any interest in her at that time. Clearly the shooter had a past history of targeting women who carried weapons, but was that the sole reason? Counting Ava, three of them were in law enforcement. The odd woman out was a shooting instructor—and the first victim. What had happened to make him target these women?

And would they find more women when they dug in his past?

Shaver had told him they were giving the shooter a small window to respond favorably. This man had made his mission clear from the shootings in the past and had lost all benefit of the doubt from law enforcement. They would ask; if he didn’t respond correctly, they would act.

“We are sending teams into the store. Put down your weapon and you won’t be harmed.”

The teams readied their shields and helmets and entered the store.

Ava backed around the corner and into the aisle behind her, her zombie-killing weapon ready to strike. Beside her in this aisle were the round ends of large rolls of industrial carpet, stacked on top of one another in tall wide slots. She stepped into one of the slots that held a single roll, turned around, and backed up on her knees. She lay her weapon the length of the carpet and scooted back as far as she could into the shadows and out of the reach of the bright overhead lights of the store. He would have to stop and peer directly into the long dark slot to see her.

If he did, she was an easy shot. A fish in a barrel.

Her breathing echoed in the tight slot and the heavy grip of claustrophobia squeezed her lungs. PleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod.

She no longer heard his footsteps, the enclosed place removing her ability to hear quiet sounds, and she abruptly doubted the wisdom of her hiding place.

Female shrieks came from the direction of the bathroom. Ava held her breath. From his cursing and the woman’s pleading, Ava gathered he’d found her hiding in the restroom and dragged her out.

“Hey, Ava! Federal agent lady! I’ve got someone who wants to meet you!”

He knows my name? She couldn’t move. How . . . ?