Just a few more feet.
I stole a glance at the clock: 2:30… 2:29… 2:28…
Then: “Hey!”
I nearly jumped out of my sneakers. The voice had come directly from the controller in my hand. I looked. I could see the blond guard in M-2’s POV screen. He had sensed M-2 approaching. He had turned. He had seen the little device flying through the air straight at him and had cried out, his voice caught on M-2’s microphone.
Now the blond guard pulled his machine gun off his hip. He was turning around to face M-2.
I pressed the Fire button.
The electronic blast shook the controller in my hand-just like the vibrating function in the Xbox controller. The flash of electricity hit the blond guard smack in the forehead. He gave a cry and went tumbling backward, the machine gun flying out of his hands. Then he was down-and M-2 was still hovering near the place where he’d fallen.
But now I saw on the controller map: the red dots were on the move. I could hear voices-shouts-coming through the controller’s speakers. Not only that: I could see by the readout that M-2’s blast had depleted his energy and the numbers were low-though they were already climbing back up as he recharged his blaster from his energy source.
I glanced up at the monitor. Waylon was barking orders into his shoulder mike. The other Homelanders were charging toward the place where the blond guard had fallen. They were bringing their guns to bear on M-2.
All of them, that is, except the guard at the bunker exit. He had lowered his machine gun and was standing at the ready, but he stuck to his position, blocking my route of escape.
The three other guards converged on M-2. I had to keep him moving or they’d blow him out of the sky.
I looked at the clock on the bomb.
2:20… 2:19… 2:18…
The Homelanders kept closing in on M-2. The clock kept ticking down.
2:17… 2:16…
Two-minute warning.
I had to get out of here. Now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Race for the Trees I looked down at the controller. The red dots continued closing in on the green dot. Now they were near enough so I could see the guards advancing in M-2’s POV screen as well. Grim, determined faces getting closer and closer. Guns raised, pointed right at my little flying ally.
I held the controller steady. I let M-2 hover there in the air. The clock on the bomb approached two minutes.
The three charging Homelanders steadied their machine guns as they charged toward M-2.
I tilted the controller, wiggling it left and right at the same time. M-2 flew straight at his attackers, ducking this way and that as he came.
The three Homelanders opened fire, blasting away with their machine guns. The noise of it reached me distantly through the controller’s tiny speaker. I saw the coughing flame from the barrels in the POV screen.
But M-2 was a small target, moving fast and dodging back and forth-up and down now too. He got closer to them without getting hit. Closer, zipping and zigzagging through the hail of bullets.
And now, I heard the Homelanders cry out, cursing in frustration as M-2 zipped right into the midst of them, making it impossible for them to shoot at him without killing one another. One of them swiped at the flying device with the butt of his gun, trying to knock it out of the sky. It was a near-miss, but I cocked the controller and M-2 levitated above the swinging gun.
Then I pressed the button to release the tear gas.
Instantly the view through the POV screen went foggy white as the gas was released. I saw the Homelander guards for another second. I saw them clutching their throats. I saw their tongues coming out as they started gagging and coughing. Then they reeled back every which way, stumbling off into the smoke, where they vanished.
Now M-2 and I were both moving at once. I started for the bunker exit, working the controller even as I went. I guided M-2 through the smoke, out into the open air. I found the red dot standing outside the cylinder-the guard just outside the bunker entrance.
M-2 flew at him. I flew at the door.
Now I was standing in front of the wall. I worked the controller clumsily with my left hand as I raised my right hand against the place where the hidden door was. I glanced down at the controller, tilting it this way and that to keep M-2 flying at the guard by the brick cylinder. Now I could see the guard on the POV screen: a short, thick-necked bull of a guy with dark skin and bright, wicked eyes. He had his gun at the ready and was staring in confusion at his friends where they reeled and choked in the tear gas. I could tell by the look on his face that he hadn’t spotted M-2 coming at him yet. Those bright eyes of his were scanning the sky, searching for the flying security device.
I tilted the controller and sent M-2 right at him.
Then I turned to the door. With my free hand, I quickly traced the lines and diagonals on the wall. I had a moment of panicky doubt: What if it didn’t work? What if the code was different for this door than it was for the door of the Panic Room?
But no. The engine made its grinding noise. The panel slid back. I stepped out into the dark antechamber at the bottom of the cylinder’s steps.
And then-gunfire.
I was so startled, I nearly dropped the controller. I froze where I was at the foot of the stairs. The sound had come from the speaker in the device and from the outside world above me at the same time. The thickset guard at the entrance was firing at M-2, his teeth bared as he moved his machine gun back and forth and sent a wild spray of machine-gun bullets at the zigzagging thing that was racing toward him.
I could feel the time bomb ticking off its last two minutes in the bunker behind me. But I had to stop where I was. I had to pay attention to what was happening on the controller’s screen.
I could see the barrel of the guard’s machine gun flashing as M-2 raced toward him. Once again, I worked the controller to keep my little ally moving back and forth, up and down, dodging the spray of bullets as they came.
Then the gunfire stopped. I heard the fat guard give a curse. He was out of bullets. I saw him on the POV screen as he hurled his machine gun to the ground, reached inside his khaki jacket and pulled out a pistol. He started to lift it, started to point it at M-2. I saw the black darkness of the bore.
But he was too late. M-2 was in range now. His blaster was fully recharged. I fired and hit the fat guard square in the chest. I saw his face contort in pain as the shock went through him. Then he was gone, collapsing like a tower of blocks when you pull out the bottom one.
I’d done it. He was down. I grabbed hold of the banister and started up the long flight.
I took the stairs two and then three at a time, going as fast as I could to get away from the explosion that I knew must now be only a minute and a half away.
Now I was on the landing. Now I was making the sign of the house again in front of the blank wall. Now the engine was grinding, the door was sliding back.
I used the moment to glance down at M-2’s controller.
I saw Waylon’s face, contorted with rage, filling the POV screen as he rushed toward the entrance, toward me.
The door kept sliding open, revealing the fat guard where he lay on the threshold, unconscious. In another second, I’d be exposed, giving Waylon a clear shot at me, an easy chance to blow me away. At the same time, though M-2’s blaster was still recharging, it wasn’t anywhere near full power yet.
Now the door was half open. I looked up. There was Waylon. Our eyes met and a thrill of terror went through me as I remembered his cold, amused voice giving the order to kill me.
He saw me too. He lifted his machine gun, pointing the bore at my chest.
And there was M-2 as well. I saw the little device hovering in the air just beside the onrushing Waylon.
Quickly, I glanced down at the controller and pressed the Fire button.
I looked up in time to see what happened next right in front of me outside the open door.
M-2 let out a weak blast, using all the pow
er he had left. It hit Waylon in the side of the head. The terrorist leader cursed, losing hold of his gun as he gripped reflexively at the wounded spot. The gun was strapped around his shoulder so he didn’t drop it, but it swung loose as he staggered to the side, dazed.
It was my moment-my only moment. I leapt over the fat guard and ran for it.
I dashed out of the brick cylinder and into the ruins of the old hospital complex. The forest mist surrounded me as I ran past crumbling columns and empty buildings with shattered windows that stared like eyes. I saw the three guards where they stood trying to recover from the tear-gas blast. I saw the fourth guard-the blond guy M-2 had knocked over with a shock-trying to sit up. Then I lost sight of all of them as I ran behind a freestanding wall. Up ahead, I saw the woods. If I could get into the trees, I thought, maybe I could lose myself in the forest.
But just then: the stuttering cough of machine-gun fire. Dirt flew up at my feet as bullets dug into the earth.
I leapt to the side and rolled. There was a crumbling column of stone. I got behind it before the shooter found his range. The bullets struck the column, throwing chips of rock into the air.
Lying breathless on the ground behind the column, I looked down at the controller still gripped in my hand. When I tilted M-2 toward the nearest red dot, I saw Waylon in the POV screen. He’d recovered from the half blast and was coming after me, machine gun lowered, ready to open fire again when he had me in sight. If I broke from behind the column, he’d mow me down easily.
M-2’s blaster charge was still too low to get off another shot. But I thought maybe I could use the tear gas again to put Waylon out of commission. Hiding there behind the column, I tipped the controller and sent the security device flying after him even as Waylon came charging toward me.
Waylon came closer to the column. M-2 came closer to Waylon. I put my finger on the firing button, ready to unleash the gas.
But before I could, Waylon suddenly stopped in his tracks. He wheeled toward M-2. My flying pal was moving too fast to stop. He was too close to get out of the way. I peeked out from behind the column. I knew what was going to happen a second before Waylon pulled the trigger.
Waylon fired and M-2 exploded in a sparking, sizzling white and red flash. I felt my little friend die in the rattle of the controller in my hand.
But there was no time to mourn for plastic and wires when so much flesh and blood were at stake. Waylon’s back was turned to me as he shot M-2 out of the air. I seized the opportunity. I bolted from behind the column, hurling the useless controller away as I ran.
The ruin of a large, warehouse-like building stood in the mist off to my right. I ran for it, hoping to reach cover before Waylon could turn and find me. I was almost there when he opened fire. My heart seized with terror at that deadly, rattling sound. A bullet ricocheted off the wall of the building just ahead of me. I threw up my arms to protect my face as I was hit by flying shards of plaster.
Then I was there, dodging behind the same wall, out of the range of the stream of bullets.
I raced along beside the building. If I could reach the far side before Waylon came around behind me, I might have a chance of breaking around the corner for cover and then dashing all the way into the trees.
I ran full tilt, my face contorted with the effort, barely aware of my own exhaustion and breathlessness. All I could think was that any second Waylon might clear the corner behind me and pump a stream of machine-gun bullets into my spine.
I was nearly there. Running. Nearly there.
And then two guards stepped out in front of me, blocking my way.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Zero It was two of the guards I’d hit with tear gas. A moment later, the third one joined them. Then the fourth-the lanky blond guy M-2 had laid out with his blaster. All four of them blocked my way with machine guns lifted directly at me.
There was nowhere to go. No way to escape without being turned into Swiss cheese. I pulled up short. I saw the Homelanders’ fingers tighten on the triggers of their weapons. I thought they were going to shoot me dead then and there.
“Put your hands up!”
The voice came from behind me. I looked around and saw Waylon at my back. He had his machine gun trained on me too.
“Put ’em up!” he shouted again.
I raised my hands over my head. I turned to face him.
He stalked toward me angrily. I expected him to pull the trigger any second. But he kept coming until he was standing mere inches away from me, his furious eyes peering into mine. He stood like that a long second, his teeth bared. Then…
“Pig!” he said, and he slapped me.
It was a hard shot with the back of his hand. It landed full force to the side of the face, nearly knocking me over. I fell two steps to the side, my face stinging, my head feeling thick, my vision blurred.
Before I could recover, Waylon grabbed me by the front of my fleece and swung me around, hurling me against the side of the building. I gave a loud “Oof!” as the impact knocked the wind out of me. Waylon gripped the fleece harder, twisting it back so that his fist pushed into my throat, cutting off my air. He leaned in close to me as I struggled for breath.
“I ought to kill you right where you stand,” he said in his thick guttural accent. “And I will kill you, that’s a promise. I will kill you just as surely as I killed your friend in the bunker.”
“Waylon…,” said one of the other guards, a husky man with a big handlebar mustache.
“Shut up!” Waylon shouted-and the handlebar guy did as he was told.
Waylon’s face was close to mine. His fist dug into my throat. He grinned as I gasped and choked. Something stirred in my mind, some memory of him linked with fear. I didn’t know who Waylon was-I still couldn’t recover his image from wherever it was hidden in my brain-but it was there, all right, somewhere, and the memory was associated with terror.
“But before I kill you, we’re going to have a talk,” he told me. “We’re going to finish the conversation we started before you ran away. And this time, there’s not going to be any escape. This time, you’re going to tell me everything.”
“Waylon…,” said the handlebar guy again.
Waylon ignored him. He was enjoying himself too much. He was enjoying his threats, enjoying the fear he must’ve seen in my eyes, enjoying my fight for breath as he twisted his fist into my throat.
But even as his threats and his rank breath washed over me, I understood what the handlebar guy was trying to tell him, I understood what was going to happen next, and I was getting ready for it.
“There’s no one left to help you,” Waylon said. “All of Waterman’s friends have run off like the cowards they are. There’s only one other person who knows about you at all. And before you die-which will be in agony, by the way-you’re going to tell me who he is, and you’re going to die knowing that I’m going to kill him too. Because we’re almost ready to-”
And then the bunker blew up underneath us.
The time on the bomb had finally winked down to zero. The explosives went off and the blast was tremendous. Everything in that bunker-including Waterman’s body-must have been blown to smithereens.
And it rocked the ground above as well. It shook under my feet like an earthquake had hit. The four guards staggered-but they’d been waiting for it-waiting and trying to warn Waylon that it was coming. But Waylon hadn’t listened. He’d been so completely distracted by his dealings with me that the noise and the rumble took him totally by surprise.
His eyes went wide and he lost his grip on me, instinctively grabbing his gun to keep it secure as he stumbled a step to the side. It was only a step. He was about to recover.
But before he could, I punched him.
It was a full-force uppercut. I’d been ready to throw it, waiting for the chance. And, to be perfectly honest, it had a little extra charge in it because, for some reason, I just didn’t much like this guy. My fist connected with his jaw. He would’ve gone flying
backward if I hadn’t grabbed hold of his arm with my left hand at the same time. Quickly, I twisted him around and wrapped my arm around his throat, holding him in front of me, between me and the other guards. I took hold of his gun and twisted it upward, jamming the barrel under his chin.
The four guards had recovered from the force of the blast and had their guns leveled at me, but they froze when they saw me using Waylon as a shield.
“Stay where you are,” I told them. “I don’t want to kill him, but I will.”
And I would’ve too.
Waylon was still heavy in my grasp, nearly unconscious from the uppercut to his chin. He was woozy and staggering. Only by using all my strength could I keep him in place in front of me.
“You got nowhere to go, West,” the blond guard growled at me furiously.
But I was already backing away from him, backing away from all of them, edging toward the trees that surrounded the ruins.
“West!” the blond guard shouted in his fury and frustration.
I kept going, backing away, holding Waylon up in front of me, holding his gun up under his chin. As I came to the edge of the ruins, there was some sort of structure standing there in the morning mist: the slanted ruin of a wall, I guess, with rebar sticking out here and there from the concrete.
I slipped behind the structure, out of range of the guns of the other four guards.
Just then, Waylon started to come around, started to struggle in my grip. I slammed him into the concrete. He grunted. And while I had him pressed dazed against the wall, I stripped the machine gun off his shoulder.
I backed away from him, the gun leveled at him.
He turned slowly. His dark face looked lopsided as it swelled in the place where I’d slugged him. His eyes were bright-nearly white it seemed with the light of the hatred burning in them.
“Where do you think you’ll go?” he snarled at me. “The police want you. Your own people don’t know you. You can only bring danger to your friends. Even if you get away, I will hunt you down, so help me.”
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