Free Storm of Lightning by Richard Paul Evans Page B

good,” the doctor said, nodding. “They’re better prepared for burn trauma.”
    â€œWe’ll take him immediately,” Scott said.
    â€œWhat’s the hurry?” Ostin whispered.
    â€œSomeone recognized Michael,” Nichelle said. “They’re calling him ‘the lightning boy.’ By the time we left the hotel, a crowd had gathered.”
    â€œI was afraid of that,” Ostin said.
    The doctor finished wrapping the man’s burn with gauze, and then two men carried the guard back out to our van with the IV needle still in his arm, the tube connected to a bag of saline that we hung from one of the van’s clothes hooks.
    Fortunately, the traffic at the border crossing back into the United States was light, with just three cars ahead of us.
    â€œThis could be tricky,” Scott said. “Transporting an undocumented burn victim across the border.”
    â€œI know a way to get across the border.” I turned back to Taylor. “Remember the mind trick you did in Peru at the Starxource plant? Could you do that again?”
    â€œYes. I’ll need someone to translate.”
    â€œThis guy will speak English,” Ostin said. “They’re American border guards.”
    â€œWhat if it doesn’t work this time?” Abigail asked.
    â€œIt will work,” Jack said. “If not, Michael, Zeus, and I will take the place down.”
    â€œNo,” Scott said. “No fighting unless they try to arrest us. We can’t draw attention to ourselves. This place has massive video surveillance.”
    â€œZeus can take out the video,” Jack said.
    Zeus nodded. “It’s my specialty.”
    â€œBut we still don’t know how many guards are inside. The last thing we need to do is turn this into a war zone.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said. “It won’t come to that. Taylor will get us through.”
    â€œI hope so,” Scott said, pulling the van forward. “Because we’re here.”
    We drove past a blue-and-white sign that read:
    WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES
    BIENVENIDOS A LOS ESTADOS UNIDOS
    In front of the building was a flagpole with an American and an Immigration and Naturalization Service flag. The American border station was two stories high and constructed after traditional adobe architecture, with the butts of logs sticking out of its pale yellow stucco walls.
    A long metal fence led up to the station, running parallel with a paved walkway on the east side for pedestrian traffic. There was a stop sign in the middle of the road, with the word “STOP” above the word “ ALTO .”
    Scott pulled up to the final checkpoint before the border crossing. The uniformed and armed U.S. border guard was tall and lanky with a serious expression. It took just a few minutes before he waved the car ahead of us through and motioned us forward.
    â€œGet ready,” I said to Taylor. “It’s showtime.”
    â€œI’m ready.”
    We pulled up to the guard and stopped.
    â€œGood afternoon,” Scott said.
    The man showed no emotion. “Are you U.S. citizens?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYour passports, please.”
    â€œOf course.” Scott handed the guard our documents.
    Suddenly the Elgen soldier groaned out loudly, and the border guard looked inside the van to see where the sound had come from. Ostin grabbed his stomach. “I knew I shouldn’t have drunk the water. Can we please hurry? I might blow.”
    â€œAnd now I’m going to hurl,” Tessa said. “You’re so gross.”
    The border guard looked at Ostin for a moment, then back at Scott. “There are eleven of you?”
    â€œYes,” he said.
    I whispered to Taylor, “Are you ready?”
    She slightly nodded. All he had to do was walk around the car to see the Elgen.
    The border guard quickly looked our passports over, then, without comment, handed them back.