Armand Baltazar - Diego and the Rangers of the Vastlantic

Diego couldn’t move, couldn’t think—

“Magnus.” Balthus was back at the door. “We need to depart.”

Magnus nodded. “Of course.” He glanced again at the grating and then strode out of the room.

It was some time before Diego could bring himself to move. When he finally did, he carefully lifted the grate aside, crawled out of the vent, and then collapsed against the wall and began to cry. His body shivered, all his fear pouring out of him, his face in his hands.

A horn sounded from out on the water. Diego dragged himself to his feet and hurried onto the deck. The three Aeternum ships were sweeping back out to sea.

He pictured his father on board, maybe in a cell, in chains.

He had to find a way to help him. But first he had to get out of here and tell the world what had happened.

And I have to tell Mom .

Diego stepped back into the control center. He found the radio. It had been blasted to pieces. Dad would have known how to fix it .

But maybe Diego did, too. He placed his hands over the broken pieces and tried to calm his thoughts. It wasn’t easy, with images of the firefight, of the mosasaurs, of Magnus with his sword to Santiago’s throat . . . but finally he pushed the thoughts away and felt the tingling sensation of the Maker’s Sight. It ignited like a match in his mind, illuminating the connections between the radio parts, only to be snuffed out as flashes of the battle and his father bulled their way into his mind.

He started over, and then again, searching for his focus. Finally, his hands started to move, to reach for tools, and slowly, he reassembled the radio.

CHAPTER SIX

Streets of Fire

Diego sat at the kitchen table, unmoving. Numb. He pushed the glass of warm milk a few inches away from him. Picked it up, put it down. He ran his spoon through the Irish stew his mother had made, stirring dark broth and chunks of potato and carrot back and forth, but he didn’t take a bite.

“It’s not your fault,” Siobhan said gently from across the table.

Diego glanced up. He’d barely been able to look at her since he’d been brought home. She offered him a supportive smile, but her eyes were red, her face tight with worry.

Tears sprang from his eyes again. He couldn’t hold them back. “I wanted to stop them, but I didn’t know what to do.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Siobhan said. She reached out and rubbed his hand. “You’d be no match for Magnus and his warriors. Few people are. And you were doing what Dad wanted. He would never have forgiven himself if you were captured, too.”

Diego nodded. He knew this. But it didn’t make him feel any better. “I just . . . I wish there had been something . . . some way I could have used the Maker’s Sight. Anything.”

“So . . . Santiago was right after all,” Siobhan said. “You have the Maker’s Sight.”

“Yeah.” Diego shifted in his chair. “And I know it needs to be kept secret. I just . . .”

“What is it, honey?”

“Nothing.”

Siobhan rubbed his hand again. “All that matters is that you’re safe. Now eat up and then get some rest.”

She stood and took her sidearm holster from the counter and slung it over her shoulder. He’d seen her wear it to military functions, but she’d never had it out around the house. “I’m going to check with the guards.” She headed for the front door. Two marines were stationed outside.

Diego shuffled through his nighttime routines, then lay in bed, staring at the curved inside wall and wondering how he would ever sleep. His mind replayed the attack. He could hear the explosions, feel the station rattling, smell the smoke.

Siobhan came in a few minutes later and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Any news?” Diego asked.

“No,” Siobhan said. “There won’t be until morning. Magistrate Huston has called a meeting first thing tomorrow at Union Station. We’ll know more then. Now, try to sleep.” She kissed his forehead.

“Mom . . . ,” Diego said cautiously. There was a question he’d been yearning to ask. “Those Aeternum . . . Magnus, Balthus—Dad knew them. They talked to him like they were old friends.”

Mom’s lips pursed. “Not friends, exactly. But yes, your father worked with them in the past, before they were the Aeternum. It was during the Dark Years. He doesn’t like to talk about it, and he’s never told me very much, but I do know this: when your father met Magnus, he was a great warrior, and he helped the allies turn the tide and end the fighting in the Chronos War. But after that . . . he changed.”

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