Criminal Destiny

by Gordon Korman

  There’s a chorus of agreement.

  Tori is all business. “We’re going to switch to a different truck that can’t be so easily identified. We’ll use that one for our getaway. Okay?”

  “Okay.” In the rearview mirror, I see Rackoff regard her with an inscrutable expression. “But I don’t think it’s going to work out like that.”

  And then I hear it—we all hear it—a rhythmic thrumming coming from outside. It’s more than just sound. There’s a vibration to it, one that you feel in the deepest reaches of your body. Just as it registers with me that the sensation is familiar, it happens.

  The trees are buffeted by strong winds, and the wheel gets harder to manage in my hands. Up ahead in the road, a giant black military helicopter comes into view, settling down onto the roadbed, blocking our way. I slam on the brakes, and the van fishtails to a screeching, lurching halt. My passengers are bounced around like Ping-Pong balls.

  That’s not any chopper. That’s—

  “Purples!” wheezes Amber in horror.

  A trap! The emotions flash through me, one after the other: shock . . . outrage . . . terror . . .

  “Get us out of here!” barks Eli.

  I’m way ahead of him. I throw the van into reverse and make a frantic three-point turn that almost sends us down an embankment. I stomp on the gas, and the van leaps forward, heading back in the direction of Kefauver. At this point, anything is better than Purple People Eaters.

  Suddenly, there are two identical black SUVs coming at us, one in each lane. There’s no way around them. The road is completely blocked, a ditch on one side, the embankment on the other.

  In the side mirror, I can already see men pouring out of the chopper. They’re not wearing the purple uniforms; they’re dressed in street clothes, but there’s no mistaking their military posture and movements. These are the Purples, all right.

  We’re trapped.

  What can I do? I stop.

  “How did they find us?” Eli laments.

  “Well, I guess you’re not the masterminds everyone thinks you are,” Rackoff drawls. “They drew you to me, with Hector’s help, of course.”

  “Hector?” My head whips around to look at him.

  Hector is red-faced and miserable. “You left me stranded in the woods! What choice did I have but to go back to Serenity and cut a deal? Catching you was the only bargaining chip I had! I’m sorry!”

  I’m too stunned to be angry. Sold out—and by my best friend.

  Rackoff slaps him hard across the face. “You have nothing to be sorry about! You did what you had to do to survive, just like I would have! We’re the same person, you and me!”

  “No!” Hector whimpers.

  “It makes no sense!” Tori exclaims. “They’ve known where we are for a couple of days! Why wait till now to pick us up?”

  “Don’t you get it yet?” Rackoff asks in amusement. “First they had to use you to get me out of Kefauver. Who do you think has been bankrolling Project Osiris ever since Tamara Dunleavy dropped out? This escape has always been a part of that deal—fourteen years in coming, but well worth the investment.”

  They’re pouring from the SUVs, too, now. Mostly Purples, but I recognize their ringleader, Felix Frieden, or Hammerstrom, or whatever his name is. And—yikes—it’s my dad, Dr. Bruder. My burning desire to take his bow tie and shove it up his nose evaporates with an unexpected pang of regret at the sight of him: He’d never hurt me. He loves me.

  “No!” I shout aloud, trying to shatter the thought.

  There’s a sharp banging on the rear doors.

  “Open up!” barks Felix Frieden.

  Eli blanches.

  Not Laska, though. The more hopeless our situation becomes, the more her jaw sticks straight out. She squats and struggles to lift up the heavy wooden skid that held the mail sacks and Rackoff.

  “What are you doing?” Rackoff asks suspiciously.

  “Maybe you’re the one who’s not such a mastermind,” I sneer at him, bending my shoulder to give her a hand.

  Growing up in Serenity, all Amber and I ever did was argue and insult each other. But these days, she’s one of my favorite people. What do you do when you’re hopelessly cornered and outnumbered? You fight that much harder—using every weapon at hand. And the fact that you can’t win doesn’t change anything.

  Go, Laska! I should have appreciated you before it was too late.

  Eli and Tori join us, and we heave the big skid upright. I reach for the door latch, but before I spring it, I turn to Hector.

  “The next time you see me, you’d better be running the other way.”

  “I’m sorry, Malik!” he whimpers again.

  “Not sorry enough, but you will be.”

  I pop the doors, and the four of us crash out of the van, pushing the skid in front of us into the mass of Purples and parents. It’s a beautiful thing. We flatten everyone standing in the front ranks. A forest of grasping arms reaches for us, but somehow we avoid them, protected behind the heavy base like it’s a tractor blade. My loving father jabs at me with a syringe filled with some kind of cloudy liquid. But he misses, and the wood strikes his shoulder, bouncing him out of the way. The syringe goes flying.

  I’ve lost track of Tori, and a hand grabs Eli by the back of the collar, yanking him out of my line of vision. It’s just Laska and me now, thrusting with all our might behind the skid, bulldozing like our lives depend on it, which they do.

  All at once, the wood falls flat to the ground, and we see the slope in front of us, a steep embankment down to a river below. The base is already sliding on the incline.

  “Come on!” Amber shouts, leaping onto it.

  It’s the craziest thing anybody’s ever done. And, I realize, the only chance for at least two of us to get away. I hurl myself onto the wooden slats. The impact of my weight moves the skid even faster, taking us over the edge. There’s a lot of shouting and running. The Purple we call Mr. Universe dives for the skid, and actually gets a grip on it for a second. But Amber kicks his hand away. And we’re out of his reach, sliding down the slope, like we’re on a toboggan ride over snow.

  The acceleration is scary, and I understand immediately that when we reach the bottom, we’ll either be free, or dead. Either way, we won’t have to worry about the Purples we’ve just slipped away from.

  “You’re insane!” I scream at Amber.

  “I know!” she shouts right back.

  Watching her as the skid speeds up, blurring the world around us, it dawns on me that this girl has zero fear. Well, I’ve got enough for both of us. I wonder if Gus Alabaster was this scared through all the dangers he must have faced.

  It’s an interrupted thought, because that’s when we reach the river. You normally consider water a soft landing. Maybe not in Texas. We hit the rushing stream like it’s reinforced concrete. For a second, I’m airborne, launched clean off the slats. Then white water surrounds me, surging down my gasping throat, leaving me choking. I struggle to stay afloat, but I can’t catch my breath. The eddying current drives me under.

  All that water polo training, and I’m going to drown!

  Even now, in the greatest panic I’ve ever experienced, I can’t help but resent Happy Valley. Turns out, that stupid town will be the only life I’ll ever know.

  I surface, thrashing blindly, searching for a glimpse of wood. A hand comes out of nowhere, slapping me across the face.

  Laska!

  “What was that for?” I sputter.

  “Shut up and hang on!”

  She’s in the water too, holding on to the skid with one hand and me with the other. The river washes us downstream at astonishing speed. All we can do is close our eyes and go with the flow. I’m underwater for at least two-thirds of the ride, sneaking a breath whenever I can. If it wasn’t for Laska, I’d be fish food. But the current is taking us far away from the Purple People Eaters, and that’s a good thing.

  It feels like hours, although it’s only a few minutes b
efore the torrent calms down a little, and we’re able to haul ourselves onto the skid, riding it like a raft. I get about thirty splinters. They hurt way less than the rest of me.

  By unspoken agreement—because we’re both too breathless to speak—we don’t try for shore. Shore means Purples, who’ll be coming after us. This river is like nature’s getaway car. A gift.

  Finally, I find my voice. “The others . . .”

  “Caught,” Amber manages to gasp. “They must be.”

  A wave of sympathy washes over me. Poor Frieden, poor Torific. I’d love to believe otherwise, but I’d be a moron to deny the truth. We’re on our own now.

  If Project Osiris is ever going to be defeated, it’ll be up to Amber and me.

  28

  ELI FRIEDEN

  A rough hand grabs me from behind, strangling me with my own collar.

  Tori! Where’s Tori?

  No time to worry about that now. The chokehold is so strong that my vision starts to cloud. I know I have mere seconds to remain conscious.

  Desperately, I twist away from the grip, dropping to the gravel of the shoulder and rolling away onto the grass. I see the gray flannel of my attacker’s slacks stepping toward me. I reach for something I can use to defend myself. A stick, a rock—anything.

  My hand closes on a tubular object, smooth, cool, and plastic. I stare at it. A syringe. It was in Dr. Bruder’s hands just a few seconds ago. He must have dropped it.

  Wielding it like a knife, I get to my knees and stab it into my enemy’s thigh. He stops dead, letting out a gasp of pain that’s instantly familiar.

  Dread washes over me. It’s Felix Frieden.

  My father’s eyes widen. “Son—”

  No! I will not let this monster control me again!

  “I’m not your son!” I barely recognize my own voice. “Thanks to you, I’m not anybody’s son!”

  “Eli—” He takes one more step and collapses to the ground, out cold.

  I look at the syringe in my hand. Only a tiny amount of its contents has been used. Dr. Bruder must have filled it with a powerful tranquilizer, intent on recapturing his clones without a fight.

  A chorus of angry voices sounds. I wheel just in time to see Malik and Amber disappear down the embankment, sliding on the wooden skid. A stampede of Purples charges after them, slipping and sliding on the hill.

  That’s when I spy Tori, struggling against a Purple I recognize as Bryan Delaney, the husband of our water polo coach. I come up behind him and stab the needle into the back of his shoulder, depressing the plunger just a little. Bryan drops like a stone.

  Yep—tranquilizer, definitely.

  Tori grabs my arm and begins hauling me away from the embankment toward the helicopter. I see her plan immediately. With everyone freaking out over Malik and Amber, the chopper is sitting all alone on the road.

  “I can’t fly that thing!” I protest.

  “But he can.” She points to the bubble. The pilot is visible, sitting at the controls.

  I must be stupid, because I can’t follow her logic. “If I knock out the pilot, he can’t fly it either!”

  She looks exasperated. “A weapon is strongest when you don’t use it. Threaten him.”

  We jump aboard, and Tori pulls the hatch shut behind us. The pilot starts to get up, and I brandish the syringe.

  “This already took out two people, and see how much I’ve got left,” I rasp. “Take off. Now.”

  He doesn’t move, eyeing the needle fearfully.

  I add, “They’ll wake up eventually. But if I pump the rest of it into you, you never will.”

  Still he hesitates. I realize the flaw in Tori’s strategy. I can’t be bluffing. If he doesn’t obey, I have to be willing to see it through.

  My voice becomes low, flat, and the temperature of dry ice. “The guy I’m cloned from killed nine people. Want to be number ten?”

  That does it. He manipulates the controls. The engine roars to earsplitting life. The rotor starts to turn, slowly at first, then picking up speed.

  Through the Plexiglas, I see some of the Purples break off pursuit of Malik and Amber, and come running back in our direction.

  I press the needle flat against the pilot’s neck.

  No words are needed. We lift off, hovering over the chaotic scene. Purples mill around in our windstorm, shouting up at us.

  The radio crackles to life. “What are you doing? Land that bird! Pronto!”

  In response, Tori pulls a metal first aid kit off a bulkhead bracket and smashes the transceiver until wires and pieces pop out in a puff of smoke. The speaker goes silent.

  She drops the kit and points. “Look!” Far below, the wooden skid is rocketing down the river with two tiny figures dangling behind it. An instant later, they’re out of sight, obscured by trees and terrain, surging toward an uncertain fate.

  “Follow the river!” I order.

  The pilot takes us out over the waterway. We peer down, hoping to catch a glimpse of our two friends through a gap in the foliage.

  That’s when we see the black SUVs speeding along the road, tailing us. My eyes meet Tori’s. There’s nothing we can do for Malik and Amber. We have to escape Project Osiris.

  “Get us out of here,” I tell the pilot.

  “Which direction?”

  “Doesn’t matter. South.”

  We bank away through the sky, climbing higher and putting distance between ourselves and the SUVs. After a few minutes, we can no longer see them. The enemy is out of range, but so are our friends. We have no idea if Malik and Amber will be captured, or if they’ll even survive the rage of the river.

  We have no idea if we’ll ever see them again.

  The knot in my stomach tightens, and I bite the side of my mouth, hoping the pain will keep me focused. It’s sad, but sadness is no reason to blow our only shot at freedom.

  As we fly, I stay behind the pilot, holding the syringe against his neck, just as a reminder. That’s probably what Bartholomew Glen would do, although he might be thinking up crossword puzzles to communicate his orders. I hate him, but I’m pretty sure that, without his DNA, we never could have made it this far, flying away from the trap Osiris set for us.

  Tears are streaming down Tori’s cheeks, but her expression remains calm and resolute. For sure it’s the others on her mind—especially Amber. The two of them have always been closer than sisters.

  “Maybe they’re okay,” I offer. I wish I could give her more, but I’m not even sure we’re okay. We’re away from the Purples now, but what about the pilot? Wherever we land, we’ll be on foot, leaving a potential capturer equipped with a helicopter.

  I know how Bartholomew Glen would solve that problem, but I refuse to be him.

  We’ve been in the air about forty minutes when the pilot says, “Look, I’ve got to set her down.”

  I press down a little harder with the flat of the needle. “We decide when and where you land.”

  “No,” he replies evenly. “The fuel tank decides.” He indicates a gauge on the control panel. The indicator is already at E. “One way or another, we’ll be on the ground in a few minutes. A very few.”

  I scan the horizon. There’s a city up ahead—it’s no Denver, but it’s definitely a population center—large enough for two fugitive clones to disappear into. “What’s that?”

  “Lubbock,” he replies.

  “Can we make it?” asks Tori.

  “On fumes, maybe.”

  Our eyes move back and forth between the fuel gauge and the approaching skyline of Lubbock, Texas. The engine coughs.

  The pilot leans on the controls and we begin to descend.

  “We’re not there yet,” I say harshly, wiggling the syringe to remind him that it’s still there.

  “You do what you’ve got to do,” he tells me. “I’m doing what I’ve got to do.”

  The engine coughs again, shaking us. He’s right. It’s now or never.

  We’re still a few miles from Lubbock, above
ranch country. It’s a rough landing, and, like the pilot warned, probably on fumes. We drop the last few feet, landing with a crunch in a stubbly field. A crack appears in the Plexiglas, but otherwise the chopper is intact.

  The pilot hunches over the controls, panting from the effort of bringing us in.

  I say, “You’ll wake up. I promise,” and prick him with the needle, careful to inject only a small amount of tranquilizer into the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

  He’s out cold even before I withdraw the syringe. Immediately, I drop it to the deck, not wanting it in my hand a split second longer than necessary.

  Tori pops the hatch. We jump to the ground and start running. The only witnesses to our strange arrival and departure are a few dozen head of longhorn cattle in the next field.

  There are questions to be asked: Where can we go? What can we do? But there’s no time to think about that now. When the pilot regains consciousness, we have to be gone.

  In spite of everything we’ve been through, we don’t get tired. Our strides are powered by sheer desperation. The one thing we had on our side was the fact that the four of us were together. That’s gone. And the hunters are close behind us.

  I keep my eyes on the horizon—the future. We can get there; we can have one. We have skills locked in the DNA code of every cell in our bodies. We might not have discovered how to use them yet—not fully, anyway. But they have to be there.

  We’re masterminds.

  About the Author

  Photo by Owen Kassimir

  GORDON KORMAN wrote his first book at age fourteen and since then has written more than eighty middle grade and teen novels. Favorites include the New York Times bestselling The 39 Clues: Cahills vs. Vespers, Book One: The Medusa Plot; Ungifted; Pop; and Schooled. Gordon lives with his family on Long Island, New York. You can visit him online at www.gordonkorman.com.

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