No Easy Way Out (35 page)

R
yan had dozed off; Mike’s fist in his shoulder knocked him to waking. Light streaked by the SUV’s blackened windows. It was a flashlight beam. Security must have come to flush them out.

Mike pushed one door open slowly, silently, then dropped to his knees on the pavement. He signaled for Ryan to stay, then crept around the side of the SUV.

Ryan crawled forward between the front seats of the truck and peered over the dash. Voices echoed throughout the cement maze of the garage. It was hard to tell where the people were, as opposed to the ghost of a voice.

He could hit the horn, give them away. Get security to take Mike in, stop him from his and Marco’s bizarre war. But something kept him from moving: They were teammates. Mike had saved him from the flu, from the cops again and again. How could Ryan throw him to the wolves after all that?

Mike crawled up into the back of the SUV before Ryan could answer the question.

“They’ve cut us off from the broken door,” Mike whispered. He flipped off the gun’s safety. “I’ll take out two of the closest, then you make a run for the pavilion.”

“No,” Ryan said, noticing the keys dangling in the ignition. “No more killing.”

“Don’t be naïve,” Mike said. “You think their Tasers are set to tickle?”

“There’s another way,” Ryan said. He pointed to the keys
.
“You want to drive?”

Mike’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Hell yeah, J. Shrimp.”

They got settled into the front seats and buckled their belts before starting the SUV. They had one shot at this—they would drive to the pavilion and make a run for it from there. Mike nodded and turned over the engine.

He slammed the car into gear and hit the gas. The truck squealed out of the space and rammed the car in front of it. Security guys screamed; the nearest guards charged them. Mike dropped the car into reverse, spun the wheel, threw it into first, and drove straight at them. Ryan waved his arms for them to get out of the way. The guards dove for cover. Mike blew past them down the pavement. Ryan gripped the overhead handle as Mike took the turn without braking, nearly flipping the truck.

On the straightaway, Mike floored it for the central pavilion. Guards scattered out of the way, while others rushed to catch up with them from behind. Ryan wondered if they’d actually be able to beat security into the pavilion. Then he saw feet coming down the stairs and escalators. They would be caught between two different groups. It was over.

How he underestimated Mike.

Mike must have seen the guys on the stairs, because instead of turning and trying some new plan, he sped up.

“You’re going to hit the pavilion!” Ryan screamed.

“That’s the idea,” Mike growled.

The SUV jumped the curb and blew through the glass wall. Shards flashed and flew out; people screamed; security bolted backward up the steps. Mike kept his foot on the pedal. The truck bumped up the wide stairwell between the up and down escalators, the door panels scraping and squealing against the metal walls on either side.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ryan screamed as his head hit the ceiling.

“Escaping,” Mike mumbled, sounding far too calm.

The SUV bounced and rumbled up the stairs, then launched out onto the first floor. Mike tried to avoid what tables he could, but he wasn’t too careful. The tires must have blown, because the truck shimmied all over the tile and carpet.

Ryan gripped the door frame. “Security’s coming up behind us,” he shouted, glancing in the fragments of the side-view mirror that remained. “And the car’s smoking.” Black clouds billowed behind them.

“Then let’s get off the road.”

Mike turned into the BathWorks, then jerked the wheel and pulled the e-brake, ramming the side of the SUV into a massive wall of shelving. The wood whined, then beams split and the wall fell like a giant domino against its neighbor.

“Ride’s over,” Mike said, unclipping his seat belt and busting out of the door.

Ryan’s hands were shaking and his door was blocked. He undid his belt, kicked what remained of the windshield out of the way, and slid off the hood. Mike bolted toward the back of the store, slammed through the stockroom doors, and raced for the service door. Behind them, Ryan heard sounds of destruction—breaking glass, booming. The walls of shelving must have been toppling, hopefully cutting off any pursuit. Mike had saved his ass once again.

Mike didn’t say anything when they reached the service hall. He just raced to a door marked
FIRE STAIRWELL
, then climbed the stairs like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just taken out most of the first floor of the mall and destroyed an entire store. Ryan’s legs felt weak beneath him. He was barely able to make it up the two flights.

The rally point turned out to be the pinsetters’ catwalk in the back of the bowling alley; Ryan recalled the door from the stairwell that led right into the hall outside the storage room. It had been busted like the doors near the IMAX. Mike shoved it open and walked right through.

A handful of people lounged around the rickety metal walkway. Security must have taken out most of Mike’s team. But not Marco. The instant Mike busted through the door, the kid slunk out of a shadow.

Marco looked terrible. Not that any of them looked particularly good, but the kid was giving off a psycho vibe. He sneered at Ryan. “Rejoined the team?”

Mike threw an arm around Marco. “Leave Shrimp alone,” he said. “I’m glad to see you made it, Taco.”

Marco’s eyes did not leave Ryan’s. The hate came off him in waves.

Mike released Marco and clapped his hands. “Let’s get this started,” he called to the others. “We have a medical center to bust open.”

Ryan grabbed Mike’s arm. “You’re still going through with this?”

Mike patted Ryan’s hand. “Of course,” he said. “And you’re going to be my wingman.”

But Ryan had already made this choice.

He pulled his hand from Mike’s. “I can’t do this.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “I just saved your life,” he said. “You owe me.”

“I won’t hurt people,” Ryan said. “I can’t survive like this.”

“How else do you think you’re going to survive?” Mike turned to give Ryan his full attention.

Ryan drew himself up, rolled his shoulders back. “Not this way.”

Mike’s shoulders drooped for a second. “You sure you want this?”

“I’m sorry, man,” Ryan said.

“Me too.” Mike snapped to attention, brought the gun up level with Ryan’s eyes. “Get out of my sight.”

Ryan stared back at Mike. Then nodded and left.

• • •

Security was not hard to find. Ryan walked out the front of the bowling alley and looked down over the third-floor railing to see masses of them rallying on the first floor, bunches of black bodies preparing to assault the BathWorks. If they thought Mike was still holed up in there, they did not deserve to find him.

Forget the mall. Let Mike and Marco tear it down. Ryan had to find Shay. She was all that mattered at this point. Ryan took the steps two at a time down the escalators. The instant he hit the second floor, he had guys on him.
Murphy Luck strikes again . . .

“Hands in the air!” screamed the closest guard. The guy sounded completely freaked. Perhaps the car stunt had unnerved the guards as much as it had Ryan.

He raised his arms. “I’m unarmed!” He did not need a pit stop in jail keeping him from Shay.

The nearest guard grabbed his arms and another shoved something in his ear.

Ryan didn’t put up any fight. “I swear, I’m just trying to get to the HomeMart.”

“Sure you are,” muttered the guard pinning him.

The guy pulled the thing from his ear. “He’s clean.”

The one holding Ryan’s arms pushed him forward. “Move.”

Ryan stumbled into a bench. “I’m telling you the truth,” he said. “Please, just let me go there.” He would figure a way to escape and find Shay once free of these assholes.

The guard didn’t even respond. He grabbed Ryan’s arm and dragged him toward the Shoe Hut. That was when Ryan began to struggle. The last thing he wanted was another “interrogation session” with Goldman.

“Where are we going?” Ryan asked. “I’m just trying to get to the HomeMart!”

The guard opened a service door with a card key, dragged Ryan to another door, into the back of the Shoe Hut, then through a third door into the already packed sales floor and slammed it behind him. Inside the room were about twenty other teens, a number of whom hung on the security gate looking out on the mall.

Ryan banged on the door. “You’re making a mistake!” he screamed. “Listen to me! I can help you!”

One of the girls told him to stop banging, that he was hurting her head. Another informed him that banging only made them angry. The guard had said that if they didn’t keep quiet, they wouldn’t get lunch. Apparently, they’d been denied breakfast already.

“You screw up my lunch and I will screw you up,” some big kid in a SUNY sweatshirt grumbled from his perch on a display table.

Ryan flung his shoulders against the nearest wall and slid to the floor. He slammed his elbow into the plaster and received a second threat.

It was all over. He had to admit that he’d failed. He’d left Mike to destroy the mall and abandoned Shay inside the destruction. He wished at that moment that he believed in God, in anything. It would have been nice to pray.

T
hey’d searched exactly four stockrooms and two kitchens on the third floor and were both beginning to feel hopeless about their search.

“How many stockrooms are there in this godforsaken mall?” Maddie said, opening the door to what looked like a crap shop full of As Seen on TV junk.

Ginger’s brain swam in her head. Had she breathed in something in the IMAX? She’d heard of smoke inhalation. Did that screw with your brain? Or was it that she hadn’t really eaten anything in—god, when was the last time she ate something?

“Mad,” she said. “I don’t feel so good.”

Maddie instantly turned around and slapped a palm to Ginger’s forehead. Then she sighed. “No fever, so it’s not the flu. You’ll live.”

“Do you see any food?” Ginger sat on a large box.

“Does a Magic Dicer count as food?”

“Maybe we should taste it to make sure.”

Maddie knelt beside her. “You’re a ballet dancer,” she said. “I thought you guys didn’t eat as a matter of course.”

Ginger winced a smile. “Lettuce,” she said. “Feed me lettuce.”

“All right,” Maddie said, standing. “I’m calling off this wild-goose chase. You’re wasting away, and I’m breathing on the reserve cylinder in my inhaler. I say we check in with the senator at the HomeMart. Maybe Lexi’s already there and we are just wasting our time.”

Ginger nodded. Like she had any other choice.

Like two broken dolls, they shuffled through the service halls and out into the mall. They made it to the first floor before they were stopped by a security guard in full riot gear.

“Place your hands on your head and drop flat on the ground!”

Maddie and Ginger looked at each other. Then Maddie reached into her pocket. “I have the senator’s card,” she began, but the guy hit her in the gut with a stun baton. Maddie doubled over and dropped to her knees.

“Stop!” Ginger screamed. “She has asthma!”

“Get on the ground!”

Ginger tried to help Maddie.

“I said drop before I hit you!”

Ginger folded herself down onto the floor. Every part of her body shook and tears dripped uselessly from her eyes. “Please!” she cried out. “We are working for the senator! Just let us get to the HomeMart!”

“No teens in the HomeMart,” the guard said, stepping on Ginger’s spine and fastening something around her wrists. He then removed the foot and stepped on Maddie, who groaned and wheezed in response.

“The senator said we were a special case!” Ginger pleaded. “We are helping to find her daughter!”

The guard laughed. “The senator is no longer in charge of the mall, and my orders from Goldman are to bag and tag only.”

He shoved a thermometer first in her ear, then Maddie’s. He frowned and pulled out his walkie-talkie. “One sick, one clean.”

“We’re not sick!” Ginger shouted. “She has asthma! Check it again!”

The crazy voice worked. The guy glared at her, then retested Maddie.

“Check that, two clean,” he growled into the walkie-talkie. “Where do I take them?”

“
Stuff-A-Pal,
” the radio answered. “
New store still being set up. I got one sick to deliver to Harry’s.
”

The guy hoisted Maddie onto his back, then pointed a Taser at Ginger. “You going to walk or am I going to have to drag you?”

Ginger crawled to her knees. “I can walk.” It was all she could do to keep from shaking to pieces.

He directed her back to the Stuff-A-Pal Workshop, which was now crammed full of people. They banged on the gate as the guard passed, screaming for food, water, freedom. Ginger tried to keep from throwing up. They were locking her in
there?
With
them? Again?

He shoved her and Maddie back through the doors from which they had only recently exited, into the sea of bodies.

“Get off!” a guy screamed, shoving Ginger back like she had landed on him on purpose.

Thanking god for her flexibility, Ginger managed to free her wrists from behind her back, then grabbed Maddie’s slumped body and dragged her to the nearest wall. She fumbled in Maddie’s bag for her inhaler and gave her a pump.

Maddie coughed, then shook her head. “Don’t waste it,” she said.

“What should we do?” Ginger asked, knowing how dumb the question was, given their situation.

Maddie looked around at the forest of legs in front of them. “Pray?”

Ginger closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her friend. “Dear God,” she began.

“I was kidding,” Maddie said.

But Ginger continued to pray in silence. It was all she had left.