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Authors: Michael Carroll
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the handlebars sent him weaving all over the road. The fuel in this thing has to run out sometime. Need a good long stretch of road . . .
Ahead, the road branched to the right: the on-ramp for the freeway. He knew that bicycles weren’t allowed on the freeway, but figured that in this case the traffic cops might make an exception. Besides, he didn’t have any other option.
There was a line of cars at the end of the ramp waiting to pull out into the busy traffic. Lance zoomed past the surprised drivers and cut in ahead of a white Toyota.
The speed limit on the freeway was sixty-five miles per hour. Lance knew from being in the car with his dad that most drivers regarded sixty-five as the minimum speed, not the maximum. He didn’t know how fast he was going now, but he was overtaking everything else on the freeway. The bike shuddered and rattled over the asphalt and he prayed to the god of cycling that he didn’t blow a tire.
He tried to remember exactly what the newspaper article on Paragon’s jetpack had said about its range. He had a horrible feeling that there had been something about Paragon being able to make it all the way from New York to Chicago without the need to refuel. And he’s a lot bigger than me too. Plus he’s got all that armor. This thing might not run out before I reach the end of the freeway!
Lance’s back and shoulders were aching from the strain, and he desperately wanted to sit back. He knew that if he did, the jetpack would launch him into the air, bike and all.
Paragon had spent years developing his jetpack. He knew how to control it, how to land safely.
Lance didn’t even know how to undo the clasps.
“I can hear breathing,” Thunder said. “Lots of it. A couple of dozen people. Most of them are struggling—their breath is all wheezy and bubbly.”
Special Agent Lloyd Rosenfield—a gruff middle-aged man with thinning hair and little patience—turned to the military officer. “Colonel, explain to me again why we’re taking advice from a couple of kids who think it’s Halloween.”
“Because we’re superhuman,” Abby said. “We can do stuff your soldiers can’t.” She’d disliked this man from the moment his shiny rented car had screeched to a stop and he’d bounded out brandishing his FBI badge.
They were half a mile downhill from the power plant, surrounded by armed police officers, soldiers, and FBI agents, standing on the narrow road next to the FBI’s operations truck. The power plant was now completely encircled by soldiers, but none closer than five hundred yards.
Rosenfield looked at Abby. “What? You want to say that again with the visor up so we can actually hear you?”
Colonel Morgan said, “They seem to be the real deal, Agent Rosenfield. At least, the boy does. He can hear stuff from miles away, block sounds, project his voice, all that sort of thing.” Morgan was a short, squat man in his forties with buzz-cut white hair.
Abby and Thunder looked at each other. It had been her idea to talk to the police—Thunder had wanted to find a way into the power plant without their help.
Rosenfield considered them for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” He extended his hand to Thunder. “Welcome aboard.” As Thunder reached out to shake it, Rosenfield said, “Whoa, wait a second. Where I come from we believe it’s disrespectful to shake hands wearing gloves.”
Thunder started to pull off his right glove but Abby put her hand on his arm. “Don’t. Then he’ll have your DNA on his hand and he’ll be able to find out your secret identity.”
The agent rolled his eyes. “Secret identity? Are you kidding me? This isn’t a game, kids. Go on home before your mommies miss you.”
The colonel said, “We’re wasting time here.” He looked to the west. “And we’re losing light. Sun’s almost down. These guys haven’t made any demands that we know of. So what do they want? Thunder?”
Thunder closed his eyes for a moment.
Ahead, the road branched to the right: the on-ramp for the freeway. He knew that bicycles weren’t allowed on the freeway, but figured that in this case the traffic cops might make an exception. Besides, he didn’t have any other option.
There was a line of cars at the end of the ramp waiting to pull out into the busy traffic. Lance zoomed past the surprised drivers and cut in ahead of a white Toyota.
The speed limit on the freeway was sixty-five miles per hour. Lance knew from being in the car with his dad that most drivers regarded sixty-five as the minimum speed, not the maximum. He didn’t know how fast he was going now, but he was overtaking everything else on the freeway. The bike shuddered and rattled over the asphalt and he prayed to the god of cycling that he didn’t blow a tire.
He tried to remember exactly what the newspaper article on Paragon’s jetpack had said about its range. He had a horrible feeling that there had been something about Paragon being able to make it all the way from New York to Chicago without the need to refuel. And he’s a lot bigger than me too. Plus he’s got all that armor. This thing might not run out before I reach the end of the freeway!
Lance’s back and shoulders were aching from the strain, and he desperately wanted to sit back. He knew that if he did, the jetpack would launch him into the air, bike and all.
Paragon had spent years developing his jetpack. He knew how to control it, how to land safely.
Lance didn’t even know how to undo the clasps.
“I can hear breathing,” Thunder said. “Lots of it. A couple of dozen people. Most of them are struggling—their breath is all wheezy and bubbly.”
Special Agent Lloyd Rosenfield—a gruff middle-aged man with thinning hair and little patience—turned to the military officer. “Colonel, explain to me again why we’re taking advice from a couple of kids who think it’s Halloween.”
“Because we’re superhuman,” Abby said. “We can do stuff your soldiers can’t.” She’d disliked this man from the moment his shiny rented car had screeched to a stop and he’d bounded out brandishing his FBI badge.
They were half a mile downhill from the power plant, surrounded by armed police officers, soldiers, and FBI agents, standing on the narrow road next to the FBI’s operations truck. The power plant was now completely encircled by soldiers, but none closer than five hundred yards.
Rosenfield looked at Abby. “What? You want to say that again with the visor up so we can actually hear you?”
Colonel Morgan said, “They seem to be the real deal, Agent Rosenfield. At least, the boy does. He can hear stuff from miles away, block sounds, project his voice, all that sort of thing.” Morgan was a short, squat man in his forties with buzz-cut white hair.
Abby and Thunder looked at each other. It had been her idea to talk to the police—Thunder had wanted to find a way into the power plant without their help.
Rosenfield considered them for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” He extended his hand to Thunder. “Welcome aboard.” As Thunder reached out to shake it, Rosenfield said, “Whoa, wait a second. Where I come from we believe it’s disrespectful to shake hands wearing gloves.”
Thunder started to pull off his right glove but Abby put her hand on his arm. “Don’t. Then he’ll have your DNA on his hand and he’ll be able to find out your secret identity.”
The agent rolled his eyes. “Secret identity? Are you kidding me? This isn’t a game, kids. Go on home before your mommies miss you.”
The colonel said, “We’re wasting time here.” He looked to the west. “And we’re losing light. Sun’s almost down. These guys haven’t made any demands that we know of. So what do they want? Thunder?”
Thunder closed his eyes for a moment.
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