Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

The floor buckles, and water spirals skyward. It breaks into a dozen tendrils, a multiheaded hydra that snatches soldiers off the floor and tosses them against walls. There are so many targets that it’s hard to keep all of them straight, or maybe that’s the gas. Are there suddenly more soldiers? Are they running down the aisles toward me?

I feel something stab my thigh. I look down and see several pointy darts attached to wires sticking out of my leg. A soldier is nearby with another of those weird guns they used to shock Bex. There’s no way to brace for the pain, even though I know it’s coming. A zap pushes me into a bonfire. My arms and legs are no longer mine to control, and they flail around like saplings in a hurricane. My head snaps up, and a scream boils over in my voice box. I fall hard, my face crashing into floor.

“You have to get up,” Lucas demands, dragging me to my feet. He reaches down and pulls the wires out of my leg, then pulls me farther backstage and lays me down by the grate. Malik is there, and the two boys argue while I beg them to go back for my friends. Whatever I’ve been shot with has made me weak and confused. Everything seems to swirl before my eyes.

Malik gets the gate open and is nearly down the steps when Lucas begs for his help. The boy reluctantly takes my arm, and together they lower me into the tunnel, where we plunge back into the darkness. Lucas closes the trapdoor, and then he and Malik drag me through the irrigation tunnel.

“Why are you helping her?” Malik cries. “She’s one of them.”

“She’s not what you think she is,” Lucas cries.

“I can’t leave them,” I say, but it comes out like nonsense.

“You can’t help,” Lucas argues, but then I realize he’s talking to Malik.

“I have to try. I’m going back.”

“I’ll come back once she’s safe,” Lucas promises.

Malik shakes his head. “That’s the dumbest idea ever. I’m sorry, man. This is over. Go live your life. Get to California like your mom wanted. Go find that aunt.”

He runs back the way we came, leaving Lucas to help me along by himself. He ignores my cries and pleading, and soon we come out into the bright sun under the bridge we first entered. I’m blinded by the light, dizzy and off-kilter.

“My truck is right up this hill,” he says, nodding toward the embankment. He fishes a set of keys out of his pocket and then looks at me again. “Can you pull yourself together?”

“I’m not going,” I garble, finding it difficult to raise my head so he can see my determination. The world feels like it crested the highest hill on the Cyclone and now it’s roaring toward the bottom. The next things that happen appear only as small snippets, like YouTube videos edited together into something that barely makes sense. My feet stumble on pebbles in the street, sirens, more helicopters, a red pickup truck with black tires, keys in a truck door, the squeak of it swinging open, Lucas shoving me into the seat, the click of a seat belt, my hot-dog fingers struggling to free me.

“No! We can’t leave them. I need them.”

There’s a sound by Lucas’s door. An arm covered in tattoos reaches in and takes the keys. Lucas is dragged out, and several men lead him away. My door won’t open. A man in sunglasses stands by my window.

“Doyle?”

“Hello, Lyric. We need to have a talk,” he says. His shirt has a logo. It’s a white tower on a black background.

My head spins, and then everything goes away.





Chapter Ten


I’M SITTING IN A BOOTH IN A LITTLE RESTAURANT THAT HAS gone way overboard on the pastels and florals. Doyle sits across from me, sipping from a mug of coffee. He smiles.

“Where am I?” I ask.

“Menard, Texas.”

I’m still loopy, and the black swirl in his cup hypnotizes me. I feel disconnected from my thoughts, like someone has cut the cord that connects communication between the two sides of my brain. Still, there is a feeling that something is really, really wrong. A little voice calls out from the fog. It tells me to run.

“You have had a rough two weeks,” he says, eyeballing my outfit.

“Where’s Lucas?”

“Lucas is fine, Lyric. I’m sure you have a million questions, but first, I’m very glad to see you, very glad that you survived the tidal wave. Better yet, I’m thrilled you found your way here. You are an incredibly resourceful young woman. Of course, you had a little help from me—”

“You’re with Tempest?”

He nods his head, and I feel bile rise up in my throat.

“I’m what you would call an independent contractor. My job title is Combat Trainer and Strategic Engineer. In layman’s terms, I train soldiers and plan security details for high-risk clients. I’m also an expert in crowd control.”

“You took Bex and Arcade!”

He nods. “It was important to separate the three of you so we could have this conversation. I didn’t want the others to sway—”

“You killed that cop.”