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Authors: Michael Carroll
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later, the man’s muffled voice came from outside. “I toldja, it ain’t in the truck.”
I’m outta here! Lance darted out from under the workbench and made a dive for the door.
One of the men said, “What . . . Hey !”
Lance slammed the door behind him, ran through the musty office and out to the front. He jumped onto his bike, slung the backpack onto the handlebars, and began pedaling like crazy. He couldn’t help grinning. I did it! I got away!
He zoomed around the corner and onto the main road, shifted up a gear, and increased his speed. It was tough going with the heavy jetpack on his back, but he wasn’t going to stop for anything.
Then he heard the roar of an engine coming up fast behind.
He risked a glance back: A large white panel truck was bearing down on him. Two black-suited men were in the cab, the passenger gesturing wildly while the driver sat with a grim, determined look on his face.
Lance took a sudden right into another narrow side road, almost coming off the bike. The driver had to hit the brakes to make the turn.
The road was closed off at the end, with only a narrow pedestrian passage leading through the gap between two buildings. They’ll never be able to follow me through! He mentally pictured his route home. If I cut through the church grounds I can . . . He stopped himself. No, can’t go home. Not with all this stuff. I have to hide it somewhere.
As he was considering the best place to stash his stolen goods where they wouldn’t be found, he cycled out of the business park and onto the street. The rush-hour traffic was long gone, but the street was still busy.
He slowed a little as he approached the crossroads, weaved in and out of the waiting cars, then turned right, heading toward the mall. There was a dense clump of bushes at one end of the eastern parking lot—he’d often hidden stuff there before, and it had never been discovered.
At the next junction he jumped the red light and almost collided with a white truck that was turning the corner. He pulled hard on the brakes, put his foot down to steady himself, and glared at the driver. His face fell. Oh no. . . .
The two black-suited men looked as surprised as Lance did. The passenger shouted, “That’s him ! An’ he’s the same kid from the accident! He musta got Marcus’s briefcase!”
Lance jumped back onto the bike, darted around the truck and down the road, knowing that they’d have to make a U-turn to follow him.
He heard a loud bang and something shattered a mailbox as he passed. “They’ve got guns? Oh, this just gets better and better!”
Another bang , and Lance felt like something had thumped him in the back. They hit the jetpack! OK, that’s it. I quit. He slowed a little, steered the bike onto the pavement. I’ll say I’m sorry and hand it all back and when their hands are full I’ll run like mad. A hundred yards ahead was the pedestrian entrance to a housing estate. Perfect. Stop there and—
There was a third gunshot. Lance changed his mind about stopping. He hunched forward, keeping his head low, and pushed as hard on the pedals as he could. There were two more shots, and before he even heard the second Lance found himself racing forward, as though he had just crested a steep hill.
But the road was almost flat, and still his speed was increasing. It felt like someone was pushing him from behind. Then a familiar whine reached his ears, and he knew what had happened: The last gunshot had somehow activated the jetpack.
He zoomed out onto the road, his knuckles white on the juddering handlebars. I’m gonna die!
He knew that he couldn’t slow down or jump off the bike. With the jetpack still thrusting him forward he’d have no way of stopping. He couldn’t even lift his head more than a couple of inches.
Lance rocketed across an intersection, overtook a guy on a motorbike, narrowly missed a deep pothole. He could steer the bike, but it wasn’t easy—at this speed, the slightest nudge on
I’m outta here! Lance darted out from under the workbench and made a dive for the door.
One of the men said, “What . . . Hey !”
Lance slammed the door behind him, ran through the musty office and out to the front. He jumped onto his bike, slung the backpack onto the handlebars, and began pedaling like crazy. He couldn’t help grinning. I did it! I got away!
He zoomed around the corner and onto the main road, shifted up a gear, and increased his speed. It was tough going with the heavy jetpack on his back, but he wasn’t going to stop for anything.
Then he heard the roar of an engine coming up fast behind.
He risked a glance back: A large white panel truck was bearing down on him. Two black-suited men were in the cab, the passenger gesturing wildly while the driver sat with a grim, determined look on his face.
Lance took a sudden right into another narrow side road, almost coming off the bike. The driver had to hit the brakes to make the turn.
The road was closed off at the end, with only a narrow pedestrian passage leading through the gap between two buildings. They’ll never be able to follow me through! He mentally pictured his route home. If I cut through the church grounds I can . . . He stopped himself. No, can’t go home. Not with all this stuff. I have to hide it somewhere.
As he was considering the best place to stash his stolen goods where they wouldn’t be found, he cycled out of the business park and onto the street. The rush-hour traffic was long gone, but the street was still busy.
He slowed a little as he approached the crossroads, weaved in and out of the waiting cars, then turned right, heading toward the mall. There was a dense clump of bushes at one end of the eastern parking lot—he’d often hidden stuff there before, and it had never been discovered.
At the next junction he jumped the red light and almost collided with a white truck that was turning the corner. He pulled hard on the brakes, put his foot down to steady himself, and glared at the driver. His face fell. Oh no. . . .
The two black-suited men looked as surprised as Lance did. The passenger shouted, “That’s him ! An’ he’s the same kid from the accident! He musta got Marcus’s briefcase!”
Lance jumped back onto the bike, darted around the truck and down the road, knowing that they’d have to make a U-turn to follow him.
He heard a loud bang and something shattered a mailbox as he passed. “They’ve got guns? Oh, this just gets better and better!”
Another bang , and Lance felt like something had thumped him in the back. They hit the jetpack! OK, that’s it. I quit. He slowed a little, steered the bike onto the pavement. I’ll say I’m sorry and hand it all back and when their hands are full I’ll run like mad. A hundred yards ahead was the pedestrian entrance to a housing estate. Perfect. Stop there and—
There was a third gunshot. Lance changed his mind about stopping. He hunched forward, keeping his head low, and pushed as hard on the pedals as he could. There were two more shots, and before he even heard the second Lance found himself racing forward, as though he had just crested a steep hill.
But the road was almost flat, and still his speed was increasing. It felt like someone was pushing him from behind. Then a familiar whine reached his ears, and he knew what had happened: The last gunshot had somehow activated the jetpack.
He zoomed out onto the road, his knuckles white on the juddering handlebars. I’m gonna die!
He knew that he couldn’t slow down or jump off the bike. With the jetpack still thrusting him forward he’d have no way of stopping. He couldn’t even lift his head more than a couple of inches.
Lance rocketed across an intersection, overtook a guy on a motorbike, narrowly missed a deep pothole. He could steer the bike, but it wasn’t easy—at this speed, the slightest nudge on
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