Storm (Swipe Series)

her. She wasn’t fearful anymore, and she wasn’t cold. She was wet and her clothes stuck to her skin, but it didn’t bother her. She was comfortable and she was clean. And as she ran through the rain, she tripped and slipped on the slope and she fell, down, down, fell all the way back. Into the SSC. Into her bed. Into her covers and the tangle of medical wires.
    And Arianna was by her side, sitting with her, her hand on Erin’s arm. “Bad dream, huh?”
    “Is it raining?” Erin asked.
    “No.”
    “But I’m soaking wet.”
    “You’re sweating,” Arianna said, swiping a finger across Erin’s arm. “Your fever’s the highest I’ve seen it. You’ve been dreaming about it.”
    But Erin didn’t think so. “It didn’t feel like a dream,” she said, sinking back into the pillow behind her. “The rain, the way it hit me, the storm . . . I’m sure I was there. But who was it at the top?”
    “The top of what, Erin?”
    “The mountain. Who was it at the top of the mountain?”
    “There is no mountain, Erin. You’ve been dreaming.” Arianna smiled encouragingly.
    But for once, Erin knew, Arianna was wrong. The mountain was real.
    The rains were coming.
    Erin closed her eyes. This time, all she saw was black.

EIGHT
    ON THE ROAD AGAIN
    1
    N IGHTTIME FELL ACROSS LAHOMA LIKE A blanket. The moon was low in the sky, hanging red like some great lantern, and it lit the weather mill with an eerie, ominous, dying-ember glow.
    The electrotrucks idled on the dirt path to the loading dock. Men and women rolled crates bigger than they were through the cargo door. Others swept the field of missile launchers, inspecting the electronics and the mechanics of each, jotting notes on tablets, ensuring that everything was up to code and ready to go.
    March 15 , Connor thought. Two more weeks.
    It had been days since he’d sent his message to General Lamson, pleading for help, for backup, for even so much as an explanation— something for Connor to go on.
    The general had not responded.
    But it is the right thing , Connor reassured himself. It had to be, confirmation or not. His parents weren’t fools. And they certainly weren’t traitors.
    Connor really was on his own. But that was no reason to give up. Since when did Connor Goodman ever back down froma challenge? When the general-in-chief makes a request, you do what it takes to follow through. And if anyone could figure out how to destroy this mill for good, he could.
    He lay prone on the ground outside the mill now, observing, strategizing, and planning.
    No way to sneak in , Connor noticed, looking at the place now. There were too many workers at the entrances, too much security on site. By the looks of it, he was facing video feed, laser trips—the works. The best cat burglar in the world couldn’t get in there.
    Well then, that’s step one, Connor thought. You can’t hide in the shadows on this. You’re going to have to walk in with your head held high.
    So that was step one, he supposed. But what about the rest of it? What about the destruction itself? Connor was no arms dealer. He didn’t have demolition equipment, he didn’t have bombs . . . You don’t even own a slingshot , Connor thought, laughing a little at himself. So what options were there?
    He could set fire to the place. Except that his parents already did that. It shut the mill down for a couple of months, sure—but it hardly destroyed it. What Connor needed now was to level the place. So that it couldn’t be rebuilt. So that his job—so that Lamson’s wish—could be complete, permanently.
    And that’s when the missile inspectors caught his eye. The way they handled the launchers, the way they double- and triple-checked so carefully the calibration of each . . .
    “The launcher angles,” Connor whispered aloud. Of course! How could he not have seen it sooner? Connor didn’t need bombs or ballistics of his own—he was staring at a whole field of them! And the day of the mill’s reopening, that field would be fully loaded with thirty supersonic ground-to-air missiles just waiting to be fired.
    If he could get out there onto that field between load-up and launch . . . if he could manually throw off those launch angles, could just manage to set their sights for the weather mill itself . . . then Connor Goodman could turn America’s seeding canisters into the missiles of their own mill’s destruction.
    2
    It took Logan and Hailey the day to find the carved waves that announced the