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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

This might be a good time to heal quickly and get out.

Why is that?

The helicopter must have spotted our crash. Here it comes! The Dark Army won’t be far behind! Gisco?

Somehow the big dog has pried the door open and he’s already sprinting toward the river. I spot his dark shape galloping across the tree line, with the girth of a hippo and the gait of a racehorse. For a dog with cracked bones and ruptured organs, Gisco’s covering ground fast.

I squeeze out the door and follow, just as the police helicopter bursts over treetops. The bright search beam sweeps down on the car wreck, and frames it in a silver circle whose perimeter jiggles as the copter hovers.

I sprint after the dog across rough terrain in darkness. Dodging trees. Leaping rocks. A few hundred yards ahead, moonlight burnishes the dark band of Hudson.

Swish, swish of night breeze in tall grass. Musky smell of river mud. Angry whine of mosquitoes. No, wait, there are no mosquitoes when it’s this cold!

That’s the whine of motorcycles speeding our way!

The Hadley police don’t have motorcycles. And even if they did, they couldn’t possibly have responded to the car wreck so quickly.

The same Dark Army motorcycle assassins who killed my father! They monitored the police band and learned about the car crash as the helicopter reported it.

Now they’re coming for me!

7

7

Hudson River a hundred yards away. But it’s not a level football field. We’re talking about trees and rocks, bushes and bracken, on a steep, dark, sludge-strewn slope.

Luckily, during my days on the Outer Banks, Eko taught me how to run in low visibility. I remember the countless marsh channels we raced through side by side, with only the stars to light our way. At first I could barely trot three steps without getting clobbered by an overhanging branch or tripped up by a hole in the muddy bottom. Eko taught me to sense my surroundings, to feel rather than to see.

I’m using that training now. Vaulting over thorn bushes that reach like witches’ hands, grasping at me with talon-like fingernails. I skirt weed patches that try to toss green lassos around my ankles. Rocks and boulders do their shadowy best to block me, but I zigzag around them.

I catch up with Gisco and pass him. Come on, let it all hang out. This is the final sprint.

Large dogs are not known for sprints. Trotting with dignity is more my style. But we’ll make it. Don’t worry.

I’m worried. Motorcycles zooming after us. They sound like angry hornets closing in, with stingers bared.

We reach the mud cliff above the rippling water. Start picking our way down. Hard to get footing.