The Airfield
We reached the abandoned strip just as the gas light cursed at us one last time. The engine coughed and quit fifty yards from the hangar.
The rain had turned from drizzle to downpour, slamming the gravel like a thousand fingers.
I dragged Malik out of the passenger seat and slung him over my shoulder. He was frighteningly light. The duffel bag swung from my other hand.
Inside the hangar, under layers of dust, sat a small single-engine Cessna. Old, but intact.
I set Malik in the co-pilot seat and climbed back out to check the fuel. Half a tank. Enough if the wind liked us.
“Elijah!” I started, catching myself. “Malik. Wake up. I need you.”
His eyelids fluttered. “Can’t,” he murmured. “Used too much.”
“You can rest after we’re in the air,” I said, flipping switches in the cockpit with more hope than skill. The propeller coughed, turned once, and stopped.
I swore under my breath and hit the panel with my fist.
Then came the thudding rhythm of rotor blades.
A sleek black helicopter settled onto the far end of the runway, its searchlight swinging toward the hangar like a giant white eye.
The side door slid open.
Graham Holt stepped out, walking under a large umbrella as if this were nothing but a minor inconvenience in his evening. Two Cleaners flanked him, weapons slung and ready.
He stopped just short of the plane’s nose.
“Mr. Brooks,” he called, voice amplified by a megaphone. “Turn off your camera.”
I hit record instead.
“Come and do it yourself!” I shouted through the cracked window.
Holt sighed and nodded to one of the Cleaners. A single shot rang out.
Metal pinged beside my head as a bullet punched through the fuselage.
“Next one goes through the boy’s leg,” Holt said calmly. “Bring him out.”
I looked at Malik. He met my eyes, fully awake now.
“He’s not letting us leave,” Malik said quietly. “Not even if I help Logan. I’m a secret he can’t afford to share.”
“So?” I asked, voice tight.
“I have to finish this,” he answered.
Before I could stop him, he opened the door and stepped down onto the wet gravel.
“Elijah—Malik! Wait!” I reached for him, but he was already standing between the plane and Holt. Small. Soaked. Unshaken.
“Good choice,” Holt said, stepping inside the hangar to get out of the rain. “Undo it. Take the Fire out of my son and bring it back to where it belongs.”
“If I pull it into myself,” Malik said, “my story ends.”
“Everyone’s does,” Holt replied with a shrug. “Yours just ends sooner. My son gets his life. You keep the million. Fair balance.”
He glanced around. “Speaking of which, where is my money?”
“In the plane,” Malik said. “Next to the camera.”
“Perfect.” Holt held out his hand. “Now come here. Make it right.”
Malik walked forward, squinting through the rain. The Cleaners kept their rifles trained on his chest.
I focused in, my lens the only thing I could control.
Malik stopped at arm’s length.
“You’re right about one thing,” he said softly. “Energy doesn’t disappear.”
Holt frowned. “Then stop lecturing and fix it.”
“You forgot another rule,” Malik said. “The one about what happens when you try to force order on everything around you.”
Holt’s patience snapped. He grabbed Malik by the wrist.
The air screamed.
