D. MacHale - Storm

Feit shot an elbow backward and caught me in the temple, snapping my head back. It was all he needed to pull away from me.

But he was dazed. He couldn’t think fast, let alone move quickly. He struggled to get to his feet.

I wasn’t much better off. My ears rang, and colors swirled around me. I had to force myself to focus. If I didn’t end the fight soon, he would crush me. Any advantage I had was gone. He was an adult. A soldier. He knew how to fight. All I was was angry. If he was able to get himself together, I was done.

I spotted the jump seats. Feit was gathering himself up a few yards in front of them.

I pushed off the deck and charged him again.

This time, Feit knew I was coming and whirled around to face me. He stood up straight. Big mistake.

It was like a tackling drill I had done hundreds of times before. I got down low and led with my shoulder. I hit him square in the chest and pumped my legs, forcing him backward. Feit staggered back and landed in the jump seat.

Instantly the safety straps wrapped him up and locked him in. But he could still use his arms and legs. I couldn’t back off. I drove my forearm into his neck and held it there, jamming it against his windpipe.

My face was now inches from his. Feit’s nose was bleeding. It was probably broken. His hard breathing sent disgusting bits of blood and spit into my eyes, but I didn’t back off.

“Land this plane,” I demanded, seething. “You are not going to hit Los Angeles.”

“You can’t stop this, Tucker,” he hissed. “We’ve already won.”

“Who are you?”

Feit’s labored breathing turned into a gruesome laugh as he said, “Don’t you get it?”

“No. Explain it to me.”

“We’re you !”

His strange answer made my brain clutch for a brief instant. It was all the opening he needed to hit the release latch with his free hand to retract the straps. He shoved me, and I careened backward, fighting to keep from falling.

Feit launched out of the chair.

I got my balance and ran forward, cutting the angle to beat him to the hatch.

But he wasn’t going for the hatch.

He dropped to his knees and reached underneath the jump seats to grab something.

Whatever it was, I couldn’t let him get it, so I put on the brakes and headed his way…

…as he pulled out a black baton weapon.

He quickly turned it my way.

I froze. He had me.

Feit’s face was a mess, thanks to me. He was covered with blood from a smashed nose that was still spewing.

Through the gore, he shrugged and laughed. He always laughed.

“You know something? I don’t like you that much anymore,” he said and raised the weapon.

Boom!

The plane rocked so violently that we both fell to the deck. Boom!

We were jolted again as I saw a white flash of light through the transparent floor.

Two gray fighter jets screamed by below us.

We were under attack.

SYLO had joined the party.

Feit was disoriented. I had my chance and dove at him, grabbing the black weapon. We both had two hands on it, struggling to twist it out of the other’s control. Whoever lost would be dead.

It wasn’t going to be me.

Instead of pulling back, I pushed forward. Feit hadn’t expected that and fell onto his back. I did a somersault over his head while still clutching the baton. The weight of my body and the force from the move gave me the power to wrench the weapon from his grasp. I kept rolling, got to my feet, and spun back to face him.

Feit was still flat on his back. He was done.

I glanced quickly at the weapon, trying to figure out how to fire it. There was a button that was flush to the grip handle right where my thumb rested. I aimed the baton toward the silver canister on the far side of the cargo bay and pressed it.

There was a slight jolt as the weapon chugged in my grip, but not enough to make me lose control. The charge of energy hit the silver canister but only caused a slight dent. Whatever that thing was made of, it was strong.

More important, I knew how to use the gun.

“Get up,” I demanded as I took aim at him.

Feit slowly got to his feet.

“In there,” I said, nodding toward the cockpit. “If you so much as fart, you’re done.”

The guy was beaten. He nodded and shuffled toward the hatch with no argument.

I stole a quick glance at my watch.

In eighteen minutes the charges would explode.

I stayed close behind Feit, but not close enough for him to attack me. He pulled the hatch open, and I saw that the pilot was back in his seat. In one hand he held Tori’s pistol, aimed at something I couldn’t see. I had to believe it was Tori, and if he was aiming the gun, she was still alive.

“Put it down!” Feit ordered.

The pilot gave him a confused look. The guy was terrified. Can’t say that I blame him. We were being attacked. I wondered if the massive plane could maneuver like the smaller fighters. If not, we’d be shot out of the sky… and maybe that would be a good thing.

My question became irrelevant when two black Retro jets flashed by beneath us. The attack had become a dogfight. More black jets arrived to protect the mother ship as even more SYLO fighters arrived. The two sets of planes screamed past and around each other in a confused aerial ballet.

The SYLO fighters fired missiles, but the Retro jets blew them out of the air before they could reach their target.

Us.

“Sit down,” I ordered Feit.

I wanted him in his seat, where I could see him.

“Drop the gun,” Feit said to the pilot again.

The pilot gave me a panicked look then dropped the gun to the deck and turned his entire attention to the controls.

“I’m okay,” Tori called out.

I stepped into the cockpit and saw that she was sitting on the deck on the far side. She was alive, but she wasn’t okay. She clutched her thigh, where she had been shot. I kicked the gun across the deck to her. She gladly picked it up with her right hand while clutching her injured leg with her left.

“Seriously,” she said. “I’m okay. But I’m sick of getting shot.”

She lifted her hand from her leg to reveal a blossom of blood growing on her jeans.

The control screens were alive with the frantic sights of the dogfight. About six different cameras, as well as the long windshield in front, gave a full-circle view of the activity outside.

A SYLO jet was headed directly for us. It launched a missile and then broke off. Seconds later the missile exploded in the air. It rocked us, but that was all.

“Where did they come from?” the pilot asked, frantically glancing at Feit. He was all squirrely, as if he didn’t have much combat experience. “How could they know we were headed for Los Angeles?”

“I doubt if they do,” Feit said. “The fools probably think we’re going to attack Catalina Island. Relax, the fighters will keep them off of us.”

“Why would they think you’d attack Catalina Island?” I said.

Feit shrugged as if it was no big deal. “It’s a SYLO base, like Pemberwick Island.”

I looked down through the deck to see that we were over the ocean. Below us was a fleet of warships. I flashed back to the airand-sea battle we had gone through to escape from Pemberwick.

Tori’s theory was true. SYLO had been protecting Pemberwick Island from the Retros, just like they were now protecting Catalina.

But Feit wasn’t going after Catalina. He was headed for Los Angeles and what were probably thousands of survivors. Maybe hundreds of thousands.

I glanced at my watch. Sixteen minutes.

“Turn around,” I demanded.

Feit looked over his shoulder and gave me a hideous grin.

“We’re not landing,” he declared.