Storm (Swipe Series)

knocked on the main door, he calculated his heart rate. One hundred thirty beats per minute. Not exactly the resting rate of someone who was supposed to be relaxed. And for a moment, it frustrated him that he couldn’t control his heartbeat the way he could most everything else.
    Unsurprisingly, it was Steve’s dad, Mr. Larkin, who opened the door. Mr. Larkin was the head of security at the mill, of course, and the person who had caught Connor’s parents in their final act. If anyone was going to miss out on a wonderfulafternoon picnic just to be a thorn in Connor’s side, it was bound to be Mr. Larkin.
    “Connor!” he said, with just the smallest hint of unease hovering in his voice. “So great to see you. You’re early for the ribbon cutting ceremony. That shouldn’t be for another two hours or so.”
    “I know,” Connor said. “Are you the only one here?”
    “Yes . . . ,” Mr. Larkin said slowly.
    “Oh. Well, my apologies for disturbing you, then. It’s just . . . I came by to pay my respects.”
    Mr. Larkin wasn’t sure he understood, so Connor held out the tulip for him to see. “Before we reopen this place. I really think . . . well, I feel as though it might do some good for me, just personally, emotionally, I mean, if I might have the chance to visit, just this once, where my parents died. Lay a flower down from their favorite flower bed, say a few words . . . It wouldn’t take more than a minute . . .”
    “You could come back for the ribbon cutting,” Mr. Larkin said. “And do it then. We’ll be holding tours for the kids.”
    “Mr. Larkin,” Connor said, sticking his foot out and wedging the door open with it. “You know I can’t do it properly, right out in the open, with a whole crowd here. And do you really want me skulking around during all your big ribbon cutting festivities?”
    Mr. Larkin eyed him just a moment longer than one might expect. “Okay,” he said. “Follow me.”

    When Connor pictured himself, pictured the movie of him, the way he must certainly have looked to anyone who might be watching, he imagined the whole scene as an action sequence, larger—much larger—than life. The quick cuts, the slow-mo, the zoom-ins . . .the low-angle shaky cam following close behind, the pulsing sound track underscoring the edge-of-your-seat suspense . . .
    But in fact there was nothing glamorous about the way Connor hit Mr. Larkin when he got inside. There was nothing clean about the way he knocked him out, and dragged him into his office, and magnecuffed him to his desk, and locked the door behind him.
    It took Connor a minute to compose himself after the whole ordeal was through. But once he had, he ran quickly into the missile launcher field. And from that moment on, Connor Goody Two-Shoes was all action.

    It took him over an hour to crank the missile launchers down by hand. But it was an hour he’d bought himself. And it was an hour Steve and Sally had given to him.
    He was standing at the control panel overlooking his good work when he saw the two dots running toward the mill from Lahoma.
    “Who in the world . . . ?” he said aloud.
    He saw their faces. Outsiders.
    He braced himself for trouble.
    5
    Logan and Hailey took one look at the skewed missile launcher angles, and immediately they were furious with themselves for spending so much time spying back in Lahoma.
    “Of course the picnic was a cover,” Hailey was saying. “What were we thinking ?”
    But in Connor’s haste, he hadn’t locked the main weather mill door. Logan and Hailey barged in easily, taking fast control of the situation.
    “Step away from that control panel!” Logan yelled. “Right now!”
    Connor was silent. He stepped back. But he didn’t pull his hand from the tablescreen.
    Logan could already hear the ticking from the panel in front of them. He knew all of them were on the clock.
    “It’s already done,” Connor said. “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”
    “Okay, buddy, listen,” Logan said. “Let’s all just take a deep breath. Calm down. Let’s talk this through.” For a second, Hailey wasn’t sure whether Logan was talking to Connor—or to himself.
    “Who are you?” Connor asked. “You’re no Lahoman.”
    “That’s true,” Logan said. “My name’s Logan Langly. This is my friend, Hailey Phoenix. We’re from Spokie, originally, just outside of New Chicago. Not far from here, in fact. Though most recently we came here today by way of Sierra, and Beacon