Something strikes the ground near us, with enough impact to knock me off my feet. “What was that?” I ask, getting to my knees.

Gisco peers around, suddenly very worried. The Dark Army.

I thought we outfoxed them by heading upriver.

I may have been overly optimistic.

Meaning what?

I believe we’ve sailed right into an ambush.

I look around. The morning mist is burning off the hills that slope to the riverbank.

There! On a hill a mile away, I spot the glint of dawn light on laser guns and black motorcycles. As I watch, the bikes roar into motion and speed toward us.

And there—on a road, much closer! What looks like a combination of a sports car and a tank. It’s built for speed, but it has a long gun on a roof turret that is pointing in our direction! The muzzle is smoking—it must have fired whatever missile just missed us.

And there! Far out in the river! An armada of speedboats, sailing right at our yellow dinghy!

The dinghy also seems to sense the ambush. The power lines swing back to normal, as if released from an invisible grip. We pull away from the bank.

Jack, get down! Incoming fire!

I turn my head just as the mini-tank belches out a red-tipped missile that streaks toward us.

Gisco and I dive face-first to the bottom of the boat at the same second.

The missile flies right over where we were just standing. Its speed makes the air hum.

As soon as it passes us it begins to slow, as if realizing that it missed, and veers into an acute turn.

This is clearly a beacon-of-hope-seeking missile—it comes whistling back at us to take another shot.

Something warm on my wrist. I glance down—the wristwatch that my father gave me is turning bright blue. A sapphire beam streaks out of it and touches the nose of the missile. It turns the projectile very slightly toward a massive oak tree that stands on the shore.

Huge explosion. Oak tree incinerated. Mud and grass and pieces of wood rain down.

I wait for the monsoon of wood, sod, and shrapnel to subside. Look up. A pillar of white smoke rises into the air where the tree stood. Brush fires lick all around.

I glance back up the hillside. The Dark Army killers slalom through the forest on their sleek motorcycles. They fire laser blasts that ignite the trees between us and make the rocks glow like hot coals.

The turret of the mini-tank swivels as it corrects its aim—the next missile will surely finish us.

Our dinghy is moving into deeper water, picking up speed. But we’ll never get away in time.

A beam of light snakes into the water near our bow, and steam shoots skyward with a deafening HISS.

The motorcycle riders have dismounted and now crouch on the shore, firing lasers at us!