The Call (The Magnificent 12 1)

Stefan hit Risky in the back of the head with someone’s carry-on bag.

Risky staggered forward, nearly pushing Mack out of the door. But Mack moved fast. He detached one hand, swung around, grabbed Risky by her wondrous red hair, and tripped her over his leg and out the door.

Risky fell through the door.

But even as she fell, she struck out with one arm, one arm that was now the branched, tentacled arm of the monster.

The tentacles completely imprisoned Mack’s free arm. The pressure of the five-hundred-mile-per-hour wind dragged at Risky, and she dragged at Mack. Stefan wrapped his strong arms around Mack and tried to hold on, but it was no good, no good at all.

Mack lost his grip. He flew out of the door.

The wing flashed by beneath him, the tail flashed by, a huge scythe. It barely missed him, and then Mack was tumbling and spinning and screaming as he fell through the night.

Stefan had released his grip, but it was too late to save himself. Now as Mack spun crazily through the air, he saw flashes of Stefan, his arms windmilling: a crazy windblown action figure twirling out of control.

And Risky fell, too, her clothing billowing comically, her red hair a tornado. She laughed as she fell. Mack couldn’t hear it over the hurricane howl of wind, but he could see her mouth.

They were all three close, within a few dozen feet of each other.

The jet, on the other hand, was already far away and far above. Rushing away from them at five hundred miles per hour.

Mack saw moonlit sky and silvery clouds. He saw dappled ocean far below. In the east the sun was peeking up over the curve of the earth. And in the other direction he could just make out what must be a city’s lights—Sydney, no doubt.

The ocean that he had feared for so long was now rushing up to crush him like a windshield hitting a bug.

Sharks would eat whatever was left.

Seventeen

“Nooooooooo!” Mack screamed, but the wind tore the words right out of his mouth.

The plane had been cruising about seven miles up. It had dropped since losing pressure, but when Mack was yanked from the jet, it was still four miles up.

Mack recalled reading once that the fastest something could fall was about 120 meters per second. Which was pretty fast. In fact, it was about 268 miles per hour.

If he’d had access to his computer so he could use Wolfram|Alpha, Mack might have figured out that he didn’t have a lot of time.

But of course he had a more immediate problem: very little air.

Just as Mack lost consciousness, he saw the smaller craft, Risky’s weird flying seedpod, come sweeping in at a strangely slow speed. It seemed to be coming to a stop in midair. But that, Mack knew, might be an illusion.

Mack blacked out.

But as he fell toward the ocean and back into the earth’s air, he revived. He swam up through layers of clinging unconsciousness. For those first few seconds he was lost, not knowing what had happened or where he was.

The truth was a stab in the heart.

He cried out in terror.

He was much closer to the ocean. Fifteen thousand feet. There was air at fifteen thousand feet, but it was still incredibly cold.

Which was not going to be a problem for very long.

If you know what we mean.

He had time to scream once more, and he did, but his brain was working at desperate speed. How to survive a fall from four miles up?

Answer: no way.