Lies (Gone 3)

“Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Kids beyond Drake were still running. Far enough? Edilio had to give them all the time he could.

Drake nodded, understanding. “I see. You’re such a good boy, Edilio. Making sure the kiddies get out of the way before you gun me down.”

Edilio guessed that Drake’s whip would reach ten, maybe twelve feet. He was no more than twice that distance now. Edilio aimed for the center of Drake’s body, the largest target, that’s what he’d read you were supposed to do.

Another step. Another. Drake advanced.

Edilio stepped backward. Again.

“Oh, no fair,” Drake mocked. “Keeping me out of range like that.”

Drake moved suddenly, with shocking speed.

BAM!

Click!

The first round hit Drake in his chest. But no other bullets flew.

Jammed! The gun was jammed. The sand was in the firing mechanism. Edilio yanked the bolt back, trying to—

Too late.

Drake lashed him, curled his whip around Edilio’s legs and suddenly Edilio was on his back, gasping for breath and Drake was standing over him.

The serpentine hand wound its way around Edilio’s throat. Edilio thrashed. He tried to swing the gun like a club, but Drake blocked it easily with his free hand.

“I’d whip you, Edilio, but I don’t really have time for fun,” Drake said.

Edilio’s brain swirled, crazy, fading. Through blood-reddened eyes he saw Drake’s smile inches from his face, savoring the close-up joy of watching Edilio die.

Drake grinned. And then, as Edilio lost consciousness, as he fell into a pit of blackness, he saw metal wires growing across Drake’s mud-flecked teeth.

FORTY-ONE

12 MINUTES

SANJIT HAD FORGOTTEN every single thing he thought he had learned about flying a helicopter.

Something about a lever that changed the pitch of the rotor blades.

Something about angle of attack.

A cyclic. Pedals. A collective. Which was which?

He tried the pedals. The tail of the helicopter swung violently to the left. He took his feet off the pedals. The helicopter had almost spun off the deck.

“Well, that works okay!” Sanjit shouted, desperately hoping to reassure the others.

“You should probably go up first, before you try turning!” Virtue yelled.

“You think?”

Now he remembered something. You twisted something to make the rotors give you lift. What was there he could twist?

Left hand. The collective. Or was it the cyclic? Who cared, it was the only thing that twisted.