Storm (Swipe Series)

yet he wasn’tabove it. He had to know what the general was telling his parents inside. He had to hear. America’s newest national hero deserved it.
    So when the armed guards at the door finally looked away, down the dirt path of Main Street toward Central Square, scanning momentarily for movement in just precisely the wrong direction, Connor jumped at the chance. In one swift motion, he ran from the shadow of his neighbor’s house all the way into the flowers and bushes lining the back of his own, and he pressed his ear hard against its rough, brown wood siding.
    The general’s voice was low, muffled, and distant through the wall. But the tenor notes of his father’s carried through soon enough. Connor held his breath, determined to hear.
    “General . . . please. We’re begging you to reconsider. What you are asking of us will bring . . . unbearable suffering to your citizens. Hardship in every corner of this Union!”
    There was a pained pause from behind the wall. In that moment, Connor grabbed the window ledge above him, pulled himself up, and peeked through the glass, hoping for a better understanding of the scene inside.
    The general was pacing now, his tall frame towering over Connor’s parents. When he did speak, his words came slow and heavy through the windowpane.
    “I am . . . aware of the consequences, Mr. Goodman. And I am sympathetic to the risks. I’ve taken a fair share of my own just coming here today. But the time is upon us. This threat is one that could destroy our way of life—our very existence —here in the American Union. We’ve no choice but to eliminate it.
    “Ready or not, Mr. Goodman, we find ourselves here. At this crossroads. Today. And without your cooperation . . . withoutyour patriotic commitment . . . this nation of ours will perish from the earth. The Union hangs in the balance. And that, Mr. Goodman, is worth this sacrifice.”
    Then the sound of footsteps drowned out the general’s voice. Connor twisted and froze, dangling helplessly from the window ledge above the bushes, holding his breath.
    The two guards were silhouetted against the midnight black. Connor swallowed hard.
    Two red targeting dots found him, converging to a bright spot over his heart. Remarkably steady. The guards’ hands did not shake.
    Think fast. Act now. And with one quick twitch of his wrist, Connor knocked hard on the window to his right. The general came up against it, cupping his hands around his eyes and looking out into the dark yard beyond. He saw Connor there. He saw the red glow of the laser sights. He saw the guards, guns raised, awaiting his order.
    General Lamson laughed.

ONE
    FIGHT OR FLIGHT
    1
    T HE FLOOR SHOOK VIOLENTLY UNDER LOGAN’S feet, its rug jumping and sliding in short, stiff bursts. The window to his side rattled, and he wondered if the whole door might soon fall off.
    Logan leaned forward to the driver’s seat in front of him, peering over Peck’s tense shoulder at the fuel gauge, which jittered so much that the after-image of its soft green glow showed only a blur.
    But he could still see the needle, pointing with certainty.
    Empty.
    “Can’t this thing go any faster?” Hailey asked from the passenger seat.
    “Not if we want it to stay in one piece,” Peck said, but he pressed harder on the gas pedal even so.
    Lifelessly, Erin bounced from her spot on the backseat and slid to the floor.
    “She all right?” Peck asked, unable to take his eyes off the road.
    Hailey turned to look over her shoulder. “Not stirring,” she said. “Keep driving.”
    “Low on gas,” Logan warned, hoping not to spark an explosion of new frustration from up front.
    “It’ll stop when it stops,” Peck said. “’Til then, worry about what’s behind us.”
    So Logan turned to peer out the back window, where behind them a drone plane appeared low on the horizon.
    “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Logan said.
    “Nope. Very serious. As predicted.”
    Not far off and closing in fast, the running lights of the drone glowed bright red, green, and white against the night sky. It flew silent and unwavering in the steady hands of its remote pilot. And on its side, branded proudly in big white letters, was the single, horrible, menacing word:
    DOME.
    Most of the way to Sierra by now, Logan had hoped that the four of them might enter the sprawling city undetected, that the protests they’d stirred up back in Beacon might distract authorities enough to provide some cover. But the