Rick Mason knew he had about five minutes left to live … if he was lucky.
There was something about being handcuffed to a chair in the heart of an abandoned building about to be set on fire that forced him to focus. It didn’t matter that Rick was only twelve years old—his mind often felt much older than that, and at this moment it only had one purpose: to get him out of that house.
It had been a mistake to come to the mansion alone, and an even greater mistake to let his guard down for even a second. Of course McAllister had sent his bodyguards to do the dirty work. By the time Rick had heard the telltale lunge of boots, the crowbar was already swinging toward his head. They could have done away with him then … but clearly McAllister wanted Rick to experience a more elaborate death than a simple pummeling. Rick was starting to smell the smoke now. This wasn’t the time to dwell on mistakes.
First step: Break the chair.
Rick tipped forward on his feet, then flipped himself into the air. When he landed, he made sure to lean all his weight onto the chair’s wooden frame. The first fall weakened it. The second fall cracked it. The third fall broke it. Rick’s spine also felt like it might scatter onto the floor, but Rick clenched his teeth and kept going. The sound of fire from the ground floor was beginning to roar now, and the smoke was getting heavy. Rick swiped his cuffed hands on the floor and was relieved when they came up without any gasoline on them. McAllister wanted this to look like a natural death. It bought Rick a little time.
The cuffs would have to stay on for now. He pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth, then dropped low, pushing forward to the staircase.
Unfortunately, the fire had gotten there first, and was now climbing its way to him.
This left the windows. At the top of the stairway was a stained-glass casement with a saint in the middle. Saint Christopher, Rick thought, even though Saint Christopher really wasn’t McAllister’s type. Like many Adventurers, Rick had a great respect for art. In this case, it meant he whispered a quick apology to the glassmakers before crashing through their creation.
Rick was relieved to find the mansion’s front overhang waiting underneath the shattered window.
He was not relieved when he noticed that people were shooting at him.
And the front porch was on fire.
The smoke gave him some cover, but it also meant that the place where he was standing was likely to cave in, in about five … four … three … two …
Rick ran around a corner and leapt in the direction of the tree line. Had it been winter, he would’ve landed on ice-hard ground. But it was still enough of autumn for there to be leaves to soften his plunge. With shots inconsiderately pinging off the tree trunks to his left and his right, he zipped deep into the forest, only catching his breath when he heard the sound of a fire brigade making its way onto the property.
Awkwardly (because of the handcuffs) he checked his pocket watch. It was twenty strokes short of six. He had to keep moving. Not just because McAllister’s goons would be on his tail in the time it took to lick a lollipop, but because he prided himself on never missing a rendezvous. McAllister might manage to kill Rick Mason, but he would not make him late.
Nineteen minutes later, Rick approached the back of a Texaco station, relieved that none of the attendants had chosen this moment for a coffee break. Two minutes later, a motorcycle swerved to his side.
Rick knew better than to say a word until Oliver removed his helmet.
Once it was off and Rick could see Oliver’s smile as well as his smiling eyes, he chided, “You’re late.”
Oliver took this in stride. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving. Didn’t even leave a note on your bed.” He registered Rick’s situation. “And you definitely didn’t tell me to fetch the bolt cutter.”
“Mistakes were made,” Rick mumbled as Oliver handed him a helmet.
“But I knew to come here anyway,” Oliver said, neither annoyed nor surprised. They both put on their helmets.
Rick hopped onto the seat behind Oliver. Then, because there was no other way to do it, he brought his cuffed arms around Oliver’s head and got them around his waist.
“Hold on,” Oliver said, gunning the motor.
Rick knew there’d be enough time to figure out what had gone wrong. Right now, he was grateful that this one thing had gone right. Rick Mason was an orphan, but that didn’t mean he lived a life bereft of family. Part of being an Adventurer was knowing the other Adventurers had your back. Or, in this case, would give you his own back to hang on to as you zoomed your way to safety.