Page 78 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Hey!” Cole’s voice rings through the cavernous halls of the mall. “I’m getting sick of hiding! I’m right here!”
A loud clang chases his voice as he pounds his bolt cutters against the metal grate of a half-shuttered shop.
Cole stands beside me in the dead center of the main corridor, his set of bolt cutters like an extra-long zombie arm. His other hand holds a walkie-talkie, another goodie from the basecamp shop that Everly grabbed (and probably didn’t leave an IOU note for—I’ll fix that later), and he’s got this unhinged look to him. Like this is it, he’s reached the end.
“Listen, Cole, are you sure you want to?—”
“Come on! Come get me!” he shouts again.
Well, alrighty then—there’s no turning back now.
Three flashlight beams snap around the corner, a matching set of footsteps accelerating. Well, we got all three of them on the first try—maybe God is on our side.
We turn and run.
Not away but into the plan. We pound down the east corridor together, our footsteps loud and deliberate, the thunder of men who want to be followed. Ten feet behind us, the thugs give chase—all three of them, the momentum of twelve hours of searching finally finding a direction to go.
“See you on the other side, Benson,” Cole says, his voice steady—steadier than I’ve heard it all night—a grin sliding across his face.
“See you there,” I say as we approach the junction. Cole peels left—toward the Penalty Box. He doesn’t look back. Neither do I.
I go right. Toward the food court. Toward the open space and the leftover scent of grease, Cinnabon, and pretzels.
Two of the thugs follow Cole. One follows me.
The leader.
I knew it would be him. The one who didn’t follow the bait the first time. He’s the one calling the shots—careful, strategic. He took one look at Cole’s bait run and made a calculation—that one’s a decoy, this one’s got something I want.
What can I say? I’ve got a magnetic personality.
He’s fast too. Faster than I’d like. I can hear his footsteps behind me—controlled, not sprinting. Conserving his energy.
Ahead, the food court opens up—a wide, dark cavern of empty tables and chairs stacked on counters. The skylights here are bigger, the gray dawn stronger. I can see his flashlight beam cutting arcs behind me as I weave between tables, knocking a chair sideways, buying noise and distance.
I need time. Cole needs to get his two down first, Everly needs to confirm she’s in position, and then the walkie needs to do its job. Until then, I stall.
I duck behind the counter of what used to be a sandwich place. Crouch down. Listen to the leader’s footsteps slow as he enters the food court—careful now, no longer chasing but hunting. The beam sweeps in long arcs.
“I know you’re in here,” he says. Calm. Almost conversational.
I say nothing. I count seconds. Somewhere across the mall, Cole is either pulling off the plan of his life or discovering personally what three hundred pounds of hockey equipment feels like landing on a person.
Come on, Thompson.
The leader moves closer. Table by table. His footsteps a hush on the linoleum. I try to stifle my breath—my lungs are burning. I’ve got maybe thirty seconds before he finds me, and I don’t want to find out what happens when he does.
Twenty seconds.
Fifteen.
The walkie crackles.
Cole’s voice—breathless, triumphant, exactly the voice of a man who just watched an avalanche of rental skates and helmets bury two people. “Two down. I zip-tied them myself. Heading back to Everly at the office. E, you copy?”
A beat. Then Everly’s voice, clear and professional. “Copy. I’m in the service corridor. Ready for you, C.”
The walkie is clipped to my jacket. Volume low. But in the dead silence of the food court, in the dark, with a man standing eight feet away, it’s not low enough.
