More importantly, the shooter now had a hostage. Ava leaned her head against the hard wood of the carpet slot and closed her eyes, the woman’s cries echoing in her head.

It was no longer about her.

The bathroom entrances were directly across the back aisle from the next aisle over. She opened her eyes and inched forward in her hiding space, picturing the area in front of the bathrooms. Would he bring his hostage down that aisle or the next one? Would the contact teams spot him first? The situation had suddenly changed with the addition of a hostage. Ava figured Shaver had given orders for the teams to take down the shooter; he was a proven killer. But with a hostage, they would hold back.

A standoff.

Could she get the woman away? Could she get behind him if he was occupied with a hostage? She scooted forward more, picturing the shooter wrestling with his hostage. He’d be intent on the woman, distracted, with at least one hand holding her, lowering his aiming capability.

Was it worth it?

The woman pleaded with the shooter to let her go. Relying on the distance of that female voice, Ava stepped out of her hiding spot and planted her feet, listening carefully. They were over one aisle.

“Aaaaay-vaaaah!” He drew her name out as if singing it. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” he taunted. “I’m going to blow her brains out if you don’t come say hi.”

Run. Get out now.

Her feet wouldn’t move. She couldn’t leave the woman behind with the killer.

She took a deep breath and tightened her hold on the zombie weapon.

40

Travis had found the employee in one of the stalls of the women’s bathroom. It was amazing how compliant she became with a gun pointed at her head. She was young, maybe in her early twenties, with long blond hair that gently curled at the bottom. On a regular day she would have caught his eye. Today she was a means to an end. He let her shriek and protest, knowing it would catch the federal agent’s attention. The employee didn’t matter. He wanted the woman who thought she was smart enough to bring him down.

Women had a role. Just as this blonde currently did. He held her against him like a shield, grinding his barrel into her head occasionally to make her shriek on cue. He guided her to the right, peering down the long aisle toward the front of the store. The paint department in the middle of the store blocked him from seeing to the front.

Where was the agent?

He ignored the police out front. They could squawk and send in as many teams as they wanted. As long as he had a blond human shield, he was safe. He bent his head to her hair, smelling her fear over her floral perfume. Fear had a distinct acrid, bitter scent and it was rolling off her in waves. He inhaled it, feeling his chest swell with excitement and the rush of being in control.

He dragged her over one more aisle and glanced down. Four police in helmets and riot gear halted at the far end as they spotted him, all their weapons pointed his way.

“Don’t shoot!” the blonde screamed. “Don’t shoot!”

Travis smiled at the cops, knowing they had no shot. He dragged the woman back the way he’d come and paused behind the endcap. His time was getting shorter. This couldn’t end until the female agent was dead.

“God damn it!” Shaver swore.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“The contact team says he has a female hostage.”

Mason’s heart stopped.

“Blond woman, orange apron. Must be an employee.” Shaver gestured at one of the patrol officers. “Find that guy who works here. I want to know who he’s holding hostage.”

Dizziness swamped Mason as his blood started pumping again. “No sign of Ava?”

“Not yet. But now we’ve got a different situation. Where’s the team’s hostage negotiator?” he shouted at more of his men.

“Aw, fuck,” muttered Mason, turning away. A hostage situation. New rules to play by. He said a silent prayer of thanks that his son, Jake, was back East, working for the summer while he waited for college to start back up. Last Christmas Jake had been held hostage, and it hadn’t ended well for the hostage-taker.

“We know where the shooter is,” stated Shaver. “I’m creating a perimeter inside the building and want him to know the amount of force we have focused on him.”

“Announce it with the bullhorn,” suggested Zander. “That will let Ava know what’s going on, too.”

The balding employee who’d escaped appeared, stress lines crossing his forehead. “Sounds like he’s holding Lizzy Marks. Sweet kid. Young,” he said to Shaver, shoving his hands in his apron pockets. “That leaves Clyde Simpson inside somewhere.”

And Ava.

It felt as if a truck’s winch had been steadily pulling Mason’s tendons tighter and tighter. Every limb was tense, and he swore his skin would pop if someone physically or emotionally poked him. He noticed the local patrol cops were giving him a wide berth, and both Zander and Ray had been watching him from the corners of their eyes, ready to calm him down if he blew up.

“I’m fine,” he said to no one, lifting his hat to wipe the sweat, but he saw Ray and Zander exchange a look.

Shouts came from the front of the store as two of the officers in riot gear escorted out an employee. “That must be Clyde,” said Zander.

Sergeant Shaver strode over to the gray-haired man. Mason followed, but didn’t hear Shaver’s question to the employee. The employee shook his head, holding up his hands. “I didn’t see no one. I heard the shots and breaking glass and hid over in the lumber area. These guys spotted me as I was crawling past the check stands. The screaming is coming from back by the bathrooms.” He rubbed a hand over his face, looking nauseated. “Sounded like Lizzy.”