Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)

The dogs are the first to notice us, and their barks are shocking and loud, like thunderclaps on a clear day. All their hostility is aimed at Arcade. A golden retriever charges at her and bares its teeth, then circles around her slowly, sniffing and snapping. A German shepherd takes the opposite approach, lying on its belly, a sign of submission. Even the dogs know Arcade’s an Alpha.

“Easy now, Phil,” Tattoo Boy says as he hops off his board and hurries to the retriever’s side. He’s calm and loving, caressing the animal’s great golden head and neck.

The girl sits up and turns to us. She’s beautiful in a way that’s hard to define, with long black dreads that hang like ropes, light skin, freckles, big green eyes, and full brown lips. Unfortunately, all those amazing features are twisted and annoyed.

“You’re scaring our dogs,” she complains.

“Which city?” Tattoo Boy says as he rolls up to join us. He kicks off his board and it pops up into his hands.

“What do you mean?” Bex asks.

“You’re Coasters, right? What city are you from?”

Bex flashes me a look, and I shrug. What’s the point of lying?

“Brooklyn.”

“Whoa!” he cries. “Near Coney Island?” our host begs.

I nod. “Near.”

“Criminals or refugees?” Tattoo Boy presses.

Bex and I share a look, which makes him laugh.

“My favorite combination. They call me Duck,” he says, and then he gives me a hug. Bex is next, but when he tries it with Arcade, she growls. He tosses his hands into the air in surrender. “Not a hugger. That’s cool.”

“Duck?”

“Yep. Do you like it?” he says, then lets his face unfold into a grin. Oh, boy, he’s flirting.

“I’m Bex. This is Lyric and . . . Jill.”

“Jill?” Arcade growls.

The Asian boy offers his fist for a pound. “Lucas. That’s Sloan with the sour expression. Jill doesn’t talk?”

“Jill doesn’t talk. Will you take us to this squat or not?” Arcade cries.

“What did you do?” Sloan asks suspiciously.

“What did we have to do? We’re Coasters,” Bex says.

It seems like a good enough answer for Sloan. She shrugs and turns to lead us away when the retriever launches into panicked barking. The shepherd joins him, and this time their attention is on the road. As if on cue, a cop car cruises slowly by, shining a bright spotlight into the park.

“Is he looking for you?” Lucas asks.

“Maybe,” I confess.

“I think that’s Ferguson,” Sloan warns us.

Lucas points toward a playground to the left of the pavilion. There, among the slides and swings, is a kids’ tree fort. It looks like something out of the frontier age, with little windows and a rope ladder. It could be a great hiding place, or the perfect cage if one of these kids decides to rat us out. Sloan looks eager to get rid of us. Lucas and Duck, however, seem sincere.

“C’mon,” I say, and Bex and Arcade and I race across the grass. We scamper up the ladder, then duck out of sight inside the tiny tower. It was designed for little kids, and scrawny little kids at that, not a gang of tall teenage girls.

“More hiding,” Arcade growls.

“Shush,” I say.

“You see any other kids out here tonight?” a voice booms. It has to belong to the cop they call Ferguson. “You, speak up. Have you seen anyone?”

I poke up enough to see its owner. He’s short, maybe no taller than five foot four, with a port-wine stain smeared across his left eye. He’s got a shaved head. What is it about the shaved head with cops?

“No, sir,” Duck says a little too enthusiastically. I suddenly know everything I need to know about that kid. He’s the one who never knows when to shut up, especially around authority figures and people who can make his life hard. He just can’t help himself.

“What about you, girl? Have you seen any strangers around today?”

Sloan turns toward the fort and locks eyes with me. I bite down hard on my lip, sure we’ve been betrayed, but then she turns back to Ferguson and shakes her head.

“You speak English?” the cop demands.

“Of course I speak English,” she snaps. I guess Duck and Sloan were made in the same factory.

“We haven’t seen anyone, but we could keep our eyes open. What do they look like?” Lucas says, stepping between the cop and his friends.

“There are three of them. They’re about your age; pretty girls. Two of them are wearing metal gloves.”

“Metal gloves? Like Shredder?” Duck laughs.

“What?”

“The bad guy from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” he explains. “His name is Shredder. He wears gloves with razors on them so he can shred. What did they do? Are they dangerous?”

“Heck, yeah, they’re dangerous. Do you think I’m out here looking for them because they’re selling illegal Girl Scout cookies? One of them is one of those fish things.”

“Fish things?” Lucas asks.

“Forget it,” the cop barks, then turns to Duck. “Are you sure you haven’t seen them? You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”

“No, sir,” Duck says.

“Are you a citizen, boy?”

“I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy, pal,” Duck says.

The punch comes from nowhere. Suddenly, Duck is on the ground and Ferguson has his foot on Duck’s head.

“You a Coaster, smart-ass?” he shouts. “Do you have your paperwork? Did you sneak over the border? I bet you’re all illegal. What about you, girl? Where are you from?”