Free Spiderman 3 by Peter David Page A

crummy luck. Because the wind was coming at him, it meant he was upwind of the dogs, and they'd have an even easier time tracking him. But how had they gotten his scent? Obviously: he'd left the car behind in the service station. They'd sniffed around on the seat, on the steering wheel, the gas and brake pedals. That would have been more than enough to put them on his tail.
    The grass was now chest high, the ground spongier than ever. Marko was soaked in sweat, his breath labored. The marsh air was so thick with moisture that he felt as if he were trying to breathe water. Still the dogs grew closer. How the hell were they managing that? They were lower down to the ground than he was; how could they be moving faster? It didn't make any sense.
    He glanced back to see how close his pursuers were, half-expecting them to be no more than five feet behind, and slammed headlong into a fence. He staggered back and fell into the marsh grass. Sputtering and furious over this dead end, he scrambled to his feet and saw—in a dim outline as the moon once again scampered behind a cloud—the closely woven mesh of a cyclone fence.
    Marko had no time to retrace his steps, and certainly no time to move down the length of the fence to find a way around it. It could run a mile or more, and by that time they'd have him.
One choice is no choice
, his grandmother used to say. She'd had such high hopes for Flint when he was a child. He wondered what she'd say now.
    Actually, he didn't wonder. He knew.
    Flint forced himself to take one deep breath to steady his nerves, then he sprinted toward the cyclone fence once more. He vaulted as high as he could and his fingers snagged into the upper links. His feet scrambled for purchase and found some minimal support, but it was mostly the strength in his arms that enabled him to pull himself up and over.
    Just as he reached the top of the fence, lights hit him from behind. Powerful flashlights, maybe even searchlights. There were shouts of "Halt! Freeze!" and other orders that Marko was only too happy to ignore.
    He clambered over and threw himself to the other side. Marko landed heavily, but the spongy ground cushioned the fall. As he got to his feet, he noticed for the first time that a sign was posted on the side of the fence from which he'd just come. He hadn't taken the time to read it—probably a standard keep out warning, as if he cared.
    Marko started running once more. He discovered that he'd injured his ankle in the fall and was now limping badly, just to add to his aggravation. He heard the dogs barking at the fence, their claws scratching the links. He risked yet another glance, fully expecting to see the police scrambling over the fence after him. Instead they were remaining right where they were, on the other side, and were angrily shouting for Marko to come back before it was "too late."
    Too late? Too late for what? For them to catch me? Screw that.
    To his surprise, the marsh grass suddenly disappeared, giving way to a paved, pitch-black field. Something had been constructed here. A private airfield, perhaps. Yes, that made perfect sense. He had stumbled upon a private airfield, and this might be the biggest break he'd ever gotten. All he needed was to find a pilot with a private plane and "convince" him to transport Marko out of here. He was certain he could do it; Marko was a pretty persuasive guy when he wanted to be.
    His luck was finally turning. Even his ankle was starting to feel a little better.
    That was when the ground went completely out from under him.
    With no warning at all, Marko suddenly found himself tumbling down a massive concrete slope, curved like a gigantic bowl. He desperately tried to find a way to slow his downward skid, but the walls were perfectly smooth. He kept falling, rolling end over end, until finally he skidded to a halt in the bottom of the structure.
    Marko went headfirst in a large pile of sand. He pulled his head out, sputtering, coughing up granules