Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

“Come!” I shout.

It blasts through the soil, eager to please, forming a powerful spray that smacks into the underside of the cop car. The big machine totters back onto all four wheels with a heavy crash.

“Get in!” I shout to Bex, and we dart to the car. The passenger-side door is crushed and won’t open, so we hurry around to the driver’s side. Bex scurries in and I follow, happy to find a set of keys still in the ignition. I have no idea if the engine will start, but I have to try. It gurgles and groans but won’t turn over. I try again with the same results.

“Keep trying,” Bex says, staring out through the remains of her broken window. When I look past her, I see Arcade is still attacking the chopper and narrowly avoiding its gunfire.

I give the key another turn, and this time, with some grinding and sputtering, the engine comes to life. I rev the motor loud, just to let the car know my intentions are to drive it hard and fast. It doesn’t stall out, so I take that as permission just as Arcade lands as nimbly as a cat on the hood. She leaps off and opens the back door.

“Go!” she shouts.

The helicopter falls out of the sky behind us. The propellers smack into the ground, break apart, and fly in every direction. The helicopter’s tail end spins around toward us, threatening to saw off the back of the car.

“Drive!” Bex shouts.

I stomp the gas pedal and steer us all over the place, fighting a bent alignment. I manage to get it on the road just in time to watch the chopper explode into a ball of fire and fuel in my rearview mirror.





Chapter Six


BEX CRIES. ARCADE STARES OUT THE WINDOW. I’m too shell-shocked to know how to feel. I just saw a woman die in front of me, and I know it was my fault. She died because of me, but why would they kill an innocent police officer and let me go? Why not just kill me instead?

“What was that?” Bex cries.

“I don’t know, but they shot her on purpose,” I say.

Arcade leans forward.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It makes no sense to me.”

“I believe they were trying to kill Bex Conrad and me as well,” Arcade says.

“They weren’t police or military. I think they were from Tempest.”

“They know we are coming,” Arcade says.

“We have to get off the roads, I think,” Bex suggests.

I nod, and the first dusty path I see, I turn onto it, following the tracks of what looks like a large farm vehicle until I can’t see the road behind me any longer. I park and sit in the dark for a moment, suddenly feeling the emotions that have been in limbo since I saw the woman die. I kick the car, and punch and scream. Then it’s my turn to cry. Bex leans over and wraps me in a hug, the first affection she’s shown me in days. Arcade sits quietly. I suppose the greatest kindness she can give me is to hide her exasperation with my tears.

When I’m myself again, we search the sheriff’s car for anything useful. It feels terrible to steal from it, but we’re desperate. In the trunk we find riot-gear helmets and batons, extra speeding-ticket booklets, something called a meth kit, and rolls of crime-scene tape. There are a couple of thin wool blankets, a bottle of water, and a pair of leather gloves. There’s also a pair of pants that won’t fit any of us, but we take them anyway. It looks like we’re going to be sleeping in the desert tonight, and it’s going to get very cold.

“This might come in handy,” Bex says, snatching a small yellow case with the words ROAD FLARES printed on the side.

Bex and Arcade march out into the brush with whatever they can carry in their arms while I take a moment to leave a note in the car, knowing that its owner will never read it, but hoping someone will find it someday and understand.

To whom it may concern: We didn’t kill her, I write. A helicopter with a white tower painted on its belly fired on us. They’re responsible. I’m sorry. We’re not trying to hurt anyone. I just want my family back, and then I’ll disappear forever. You’ll never hear from me again. I promise.

A photograph rests on the dash. It’s a picture of the dead cop. She’s standing next to a tall man with a big, happy smile and a dark black mustache. Next to her is a little boy in a baseball jersey and hat, and next to them, an elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair. They are all overjoyed to be together. The cop looks so happy, she might cry.

She can’t anymore, so I sit in the car and do it for her, sobbing until my throat is raw.



We walk for hours, sometimes in pitch-black. Arcade’s night vision is incredible. Having spent her entire life underwater, her eyes have adapted to see even the faintest flickers. She guides us along, warning us of obstacles to avoid.