A half-mile down the offramp, the van followed the slope to ground level and began a wide loop into the airport. The curve of the road doubled back to a main entrance that was close to Ash. The van would be coming this way.
She hesitated. There would be cops, and Ash probably wouldn't be able to just cut Elsbeth's handcuffs or whatever and slip away with her. She might have to fight.
She wasn't going to hurt anybody. Total clarity there. She knew the guards in the prison, and the people in the van, and the pilot of the plane – everybody – were just trying to do their jobs, trying to do the best they could with what they knew. Mr. Alexander and his weasels had lied to them. Ash wouldn't lose that distinction, wouldn't lose track of who the enemy really was.
But she was still a newbie with the whole sneaking thing. The suspicion sat like a pebble in her stomach: she was going to be seen. There would be reports, filed in triplicate and emailed, describing her. And that would risk the Cloak... which would risk Elsbeth and Ash and all the other invisible guardians, wherever they were.
And that was unthinkable.
Ash breathed. She couldn't indulge these doubts. Elsbeth needed her, and now.
When people ran out of the woods claiming to have seen Bigfoot, what did they hear from everyone? You saw a bear. Maybe on its hind legs.
A UFO? You saw a cloud. An experimental plane. Swamp gas. Venus.
If no one has an explanation for what they see, Ash told herself, they reach for the conventional, no matter how silly the conventional is. Who would believe these emails? Who would believe a tale of an attack by an unreasonably speedy five-foot-nothing teen girl, dressed head-to-toe in velvety black?
You must have seen a shadow.
Maybe it was a trick of the light.
Then again, maybe you saw a ninja... no, Ash figured quite a few other guesses would be ventured before anyone proposed that. For centuries, the Cloak had worked, and it was protecting her now – by making her very existence the height of improbability.
Gremlin, she thought. Venus, she thought.
She grinned, and jumped from the side of the offramp into the tree a few feet below.
A branch made of the hardest wood on Earth whacked her bruised eye. The agony grabbed her body and shook it. She clung lamely to the tree like a stuck cat and winced, her legs kicking randomly, trying to shake off the pain.
Eventually, her vision cleared. Of course, she thought. The easiest tree landing would hurt the most. She slid down the trunk and landed on the grass, deep in the shadow of the offramp, where the yellow of the streetlights and the city-lit sky couldn’t reach. The darkness was total, a blanket of safety, and she was tempted to linger, to rest.
She reached the edge of the miniature park, past trees and landscaping. The van was still looping back, and ahead of it, at the start of a long runway, sat a white passenger airplane. It looked just like any other small white airliner, except that it had no markings. No light came from the long row of little passenger windows that ran along the side. The door just behind the cockpit was open, and a set of movable stairs had been parked under it.
The tarmac was otherwise clear. Ash had been dreading a hundred armed cops who had all been told that they were transporting some crazed serial killer. But besides the plane and an unmarked gray sedan about fifty feet from it, there was nothing nearby but shining mist-damp asphalt.
Not many places to hide. But at least there was no army to fight. Regular airport staff, mechanics and luggage handlers, had probably been told to stay clear. Just two men standing at the stairs beside the plane. One wore a dark blue windbreaker with US MARSHAL in yellow letters on the back.
The other carried a shotgun.
Ash needed to get closer. She took a deep breath, then another, and counted time. The air seemed to grow still and warm, and the sounds from the highway behind her receded. She let her body sink, lowering her carriage and center of mass, and sprinted into the open.
Rows of long white buildings lay between the grassy area and the tarmac. Ash came to the closest and bolted up the side, clearing the wall and landing on the flat pale roof. Its white paint looked dull and gray in the soft light from the city-lit clouds, except for the dark rain-puddle stains.
Ash raced a quarter-mile along the rooftop and skidded to a stop at the far side. At the edge, she crouched and watched as the van pulled to a stop. Its rear doors were barely ten feet from the base of the stairs leading to the plane.
They opened. A man emerged, also in a navy windbreaker, and he guided Elsbeth out onto the tarmac.
She wore a loose-fitting orange jumpsuit. Ash gasped. Elsbeth looked exactly like a criminal, as anyone would dressed like that. If Ash didn't know her, she would think that Elsbeth had to be dangerous, had to be put away.
Elsbeth's hands were cuffed behind her, and chains rattled between her ankles. The men watched her and guided her. To an outsider, it would all look normal... perhaps mildly interesting, but ordinary. Nothing to see here.
It filled Ash with a cold rage, bitter and powerful. She realized with detachment that her decision not to harm these people was merely intellectual, and in her heart lay the power to do terrible things.
She was pissed enough to really kick their asses.
She pushed the anger down. Focus on the mission. Get Elsbeth. Get out.
And the first step: stop the plane.
Ash dangled by her fingers over the side of the building, then slid down the ten feet of steel wall to the ground. She bolted across the lot, black against black, a flicker of shadow, circling closer to the tail of the plane.
Elsbeth was led step by step to the stairs, chains clinking. Her glasses were missing. Her face was serene, passive... not an uncommon expression for her, but under the circumstances, it struck Ash as positively zenlike.
Ash would be freaking out. She stopped her circle and ran straight for the plane, balling up behind a rear wheel of the landing gear.
She reached behind her head and drew the sword. This would go just like Mr. Baseball Cap's truck. She was getting good at this. She caught the flat of the blade in the L of her index finger and thumb, and set the silvery tip against the tire.
Crouching, Ash drove the sword into the tire, and it sank in.
Nothing happened. The tire didn't deflate.
Ash pushed harder. She tried twisting the blade, but couldn't.
She pulled the sword out and stood, peering around the landing gear at the men. They all watched Elsbeth being led up the stairs.
Ash gripped the sword handle with both hands and swung in an arc, slashing the tire.
It popped, like a loud, angry black balloon. The blast of air hit her in the face, and the stink of rubber choked her. She squeezed her eyes shut and fell back a step. She opened them when she heard a soft metallic creak above her.
The plane leaned as it settled against the flat tire. One wing tip dropped almost to the ground, and the stairwell, fixed to the plane, rattled as it was dragged. The guard by Elsbeth gripped the rail. Elsbeth herself remained steady, riding along. Then everyone froze. They all stared at the exploded tire.
Ash cowered behind it. Oops.
At least the plane wasn't going anywhere any time soon.
The guy with the shotgun scowled, angry and suspicious. He took rapid steps sideways, away from the van, and pointed the shotgun at her. "Who's there?"
Ash tried to blend against the shredded tire and disappear. It didn't work.
"What's there?" called the one with US MARSHAL on his jacket. "Is it a person?"
The guy had come halfway around the landing gear and peered down the sights of his shotgun at her. Ash felt panic welling up. She wasn't bullet proof, was she? Oh, how she didn't want to find out.
She should rush him – quick.
And do what? Judo him? Deck him in the face? She wished she had Mule's right cross. But in all her practice, she had never even cracked her ping pong paddle, and if you couldn't defeat a ping pong paddle, you probabl
y wouldn't last long against armed law enforcement.
She could get into this guy's grill in no time flat, but she'd just hurt her wrist if she tried hitting him. Or maybe–
"Freeze!" he said. "Step away from there. Step out where I can see you."
Punchy's job hadn't only been to toughen up her fists.
Ash drew in a breath and focused on the guy, noted the angle of his elbow, the tension in his right index finger on the trigger, the energy in his posture, and she judged her timing. She shifted the sword to her left and leaned, set a foot against the landing gear behind her, and launched herself at him.
As she cleared the distance, she saw the tension build in his trigger finger. He was going to fire...
She leapt over him, grabbing the barrel of the shotgun in her free hand. She pulled it up and the shot went off, releasing a slow-motion roar and flash of light past her leg. A flock of holes appeared in the plane's side, like a sprinkling of pepper. Her body continued its arc over his head, and she squeezed the barrel, feeling in her forearm all the times she had gripped Punchy – so tight – as she hit it.
And she yanked the shotgun out of the guy's hands.
The second Wile had worked – small moves had given her strength she didn’t know she had. Ash landed in a crouch ten feet behind him, sword in one hand and shotgun in the other, and had another passing thought of dealing some raging mayhem to these people.
The guy stared lamely at the sky, still reacting to the shadowy force that had passed over him. He turned oh-so-slowly to face her, vulnerable as a lost puppy. But she'd made her decision already.
She whirled into a fouetté, and after a full turn she let the shotgun go. It spun into the night, disappearing.
The guy stared at her, his suspicion gone, nothing on his face but dumb surprise.
Put that in your report, she thought.
She heard the shotgun clatter faintly on the tarmac behind her.
Something whizzed past her head, sounding like a killer mosquito. She heard the pop from the US MARSHAL's handgun a microsecond later.
He'd shot at her! Ash freaked, and the world slowed down even more.
He fired again, and this time, she saw the flash from his gun bloom like an orange flower, casting light that reflected off the plane's white fuselage. Something tiny and gray flicked past her ear, faster than she could react.
A bullet. She had seen the bullet.
Only then did she hear the sound, another angry pop. She had to do something, and preferably something other than cower behind the landing gear. Rush him, too? Not easy – he was farther away.
Elsbeth stood with her guard, unmoving. She had twisted her body, turning to him, her chin up, whispering. He lowered his head to her, listening.
Another flash, and another gray spec flicked by her, missing her right hip. She could see them, but she couldn't dodge them. Maybe she needed another Wile or two for that. Something to look forward to.
If she lived long enough.
The only thing in reach was the fuselage of the plane, all gleaming white. A square of rivets surrounded a round cap set into the metal, with red symbols of warning printed beside it, and a single large word: FUEL.
No time to think. Ash's arm swept out and the silver blade cut a six-foot gash through the metal, cutting FUEL in two. The plane sprayed her, dousing her with stinking jet fuel, almost pushing her off her feet. The mask over her nose didn't hide the smell, which was stronger than gasoline... and stung. It felt like blisters were forming in her nasal passages.
Ash felt like she was standing at the bottom of Snoqualmie Falls. The fuel spread like rainwater across the tarmac, touching the landing gear, the shoes of the stunned shotgun guy, the base of the stairwell, and the tires of the van. It spread halfway to the mysterious parked sedan.
Ash huffed out a breath, blowing a spray of tiny drops from her mask. "Well," she muttered, "that was dumb."
The US MARSHAL looked horrified. He backed up, pointing his pistol at the sky. "Everybody back!"
He pulled a walkie-talkie off his belt, and it barked static. "We have a major fire hazard. Get everyone clear and set up a perimeter at a hundred yards." He pointed to the man holding Elsbeth. "Everybody off the plane! Get her down from there!"
The US MARSHAL backed away. The now shotgun-less guy splashed through the jet fuel, going for distance. Ash slipped the sword into the scabbard on her back. "Maybe not so dumb," she told herself, grinning.
The man at Elsbeth's side jerked his head down in a quick affirmative nod and grabbed Elsbeth by her elbow. She didn't move.
"Wait," she said. Then she said more, but Ash couldn't hear. The man lowered his head, catching her words. He spoke back to her.
Ash strained to hear any of it, but couldn't.
The man at Elsbeth's side stopped nodding and only stared at her. A moment later, he pulled keys from his belt and unlocked the cuffs. Elsbeth rubbed her wrists and waited as he bent down and unlocked the chains at her ankles.
"Go," Elsbeth said.
The man stood and gazed at her, and Ash saw longing and affection. No guard ever looked at his prisoner that way. At last, he left her and pounded down the stairs.
Far away, the US MARSHAL yelled, "What did you just do?" But Elsbeth's new boyfriend just kept running, straight to his court martial or whatever fate awaited him. The US MARSHAL followed him.
What had Elsbeth said to him? It must have been good, whatever it was... and an example of power that Ash hadn't anticipated, a power Elsbeth had quietly possessed all along.
Ash had a long way to go.
She raced up the stairs and threw her arms around Elsbeth. "I can't believe he let you go! Which Wile was that?"
"We had a wonderful chat in the van. Tell you later." Elsbeth hugged her back. "You smell terrible."
"Come on. I'm rescuing you. Let's get out of here." Ash spun Elsbeth and pushed, prompting her down the stairs. Before Ash could take a step, a dark intuition came over her, a wrong feeling that made her nauseous – and it wasn't just the jet fuel.
Her back was to the plane.
Her intuition heightened to a dizzying sense of imbalance. Her hands, pressing on Elsbeth's back, suddenly clutched at her for some sort of reassurance... and then Ash identified the feeling.
It was the feeling of the sword being drawn from the scabbard on her back.
She spun around and saw the silvery blade held in a fighting stance by Mr. Alexander. He wore his usual perfect gray suit, and seeing him armed with an ancient sword – ready to chop off Ash's head – filled her with a crazy sort of terror. About to die, yes, but more: the world was off-kilter and spinning out of control.
Mr. Alexander cocked an eyebrow, and the blade turned playfully, catching the light from the plane's cockpit. "These are very rare," he said.
Ash could barely process his words. She was paralyzed with the realization that she would be killed, with the shame of making such a stupid mistake, and with the shock of seeing the person who stood behind Mr. Alexander like an obedient shadow.
Drake.
40
Seeing Drake standing beside his father somehow shocked Ash more than finding Mr. Alexander on the plane. She glanced past Elsbeth to the tarmac, looking for guards, U.S. Marshals, the TSA, firefighters, anyone. Everyone normal had cleared out.
She turned to Mr. Alexander and caught her breath, forcing out words to settle herself more than anything else. "What... are you doing here, Mr. Alexander?"
The blade waved slowly, dangerously, like the head of a cobra. "You mean what's a high school principal doing here? I also consult with numerous Federal law enforcement agencies." He smiled, looking a bit like a shark. "I'm a man of many talents."
"Sure you are," Ash said. Drake's freezing stare at his father drew her attention away from the hovering sword tip. His scowl appeared especially intense – no puppylike gazes at dear daddy. He seemed almost unhappy to be here.
She didn't believe it. He had already handed ove
r the page, and maybe his being here was a reward from Mr. Alexander – here, son, you can watch me decapitate a couple of ninjas. Maybe you'll kill a ninja or two when you're older.
Ash felt Elsbeth's touch at her shoulder. It strengthened into a firm pull. Ash, came Elsbeth's mental call, time to go!
But Ash resisted. She wouldn't leave the sword, and let Mr. Alexander score yet another victory. Tonight had gone badly enough already. She would rather stand here and die than go hide and hope for another chance on another day. She wouldn't do that, not in front of–
"Drake," she whispered. "How could you...?"
"I tried to warn you," Drake said. His beautiful voice was flat and lifeless. He glanced at the sword, and back to Ash.
Ash froze. Had she just missed something?
Drake gave the slightest sigh of exasperation. Mr. Alexander leaned forward, menacing, and the blade's tip drifted back over his shoulder. The muscles in his sword arm pulled his suit coat tight at his shoulder. He could swing any second. "Now," he said. "The page."
Ash frowned. Nothing was making sense. Was she so scared that she'd gone hysterical?
No. Let him swing. Then at least she could bleed on Drake.
"The page," Mr. Alexander said. He reared the sword back farther. "Where is it?"
Everything went click in Ash's head.
So! Drake was one sneaky guy. His face was a mask – as much as hers. His eyes revealed nothing. Why keep the page from his father?
Ash remembered what Rachel had said, and could guess the answer easily enough. Drake hated his father. Even when he was desperate for his father's approval.
So where had Drake hidden it? And what would he do with it? Hand it over to his father later? Could Ash sway him to her side? Get him to give the page to her?
A bitter rage pressed up from within her, and it held the answer. No.
Ninja Girl: The Nine Wiles Page 21
