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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

I reach out and grab the boy’s thin right wrist, and try to pull him in. He resists with surprising strength, and for a long second we’re looking each other in the eye. I don’t know what he sees in my face, but he suddenly stops trying to get away and steps toward our basket.

Rat-a-tat, bullets chip away at the rock he’s standing on.

The lad gives a desperate leap and reaches up to me. I grab both his arms, and haul him in.

He clambers over the side, flops down onto the floor of the basket, crosses himself, and shuts his eyes tight.

Even though we’re rising, the banditos don’t have a clear shot at us yet. Our angle of ascent allows us to hug the mountainside, and their fusillades are deflected by boulders and overhangs. But in a second we’ll be free and clear, and that will be the end for us.

Gisco, we’ll be out in the open, silhouetted by the rising moon. They can’t possibly miss us. We’ll be the biggest, easiest target in the history of submachine guns.

What choice do we have? Our only way out is up.

The balloon is now level with the highest rocks of this Andean pinnacle. The golden orb of moon glows above us. In different circumstances it would be beautiful, but now it looks deadly. In seconds it will backlight us, and the bandits will blast us into human nacho chips.

Then a tiny corner of the moon grows dark, as if it really is cheese and a rat has nibbled off a crumb. Soon it’s a third gone. Then half has vanished. A dark cloud trailing across the sky is slowly covering the lunar surface like a well-placed veil! The cloud will blow off in seconds, but that may be all the time we need.

The winds catch us and lift the balloon away from the rocky crag. We spin wildly, gaining speed, heading right for a neighboring snowcapped peak.

Jack, we’re going to smash into it!

There’s a jolt and a grinding sound, but it’s only the bottom of our gondola kicking ice off the crest.

Then we’re on the other side of it, out of danger from submachine guns and rising quickly into the starry vista of the clear and cold Andean sky.

33

33

The night grows stormy. Claps of thunder boom all around us, like angry Inca gods roaring at three interlopers in their preposterous balloon. Needle-sharp flashes of lightning stitch together a blanket of black clouds that soon covers the mountains.

The boy with the braid responds to this climatic chaos by curling into a fetal position. Is he praying for his life, the way Gisco does when he’s desperate? Or is this his way of dealing with the unknown—to hide in himself, the way a turtle pulls its head inside its shell?