Free Valley of Death by Gloria Skurzynski Page B

your balance. Believe me, you can’t go fast enough out there to outrun anyone. And those law-enforcement people have big spot-lights—do you think they won’t see you? You’d get about 20 feet is all, and they’d catch you and bring you back. So what good would that do for Ashley?”
    â€œLet me go, Jack.” She said it quietly, but the look she gave him made him loosen his grip on her. It was a look he recognized—the same one Ashley had worn when she was determined to learn to skate. Stubbornness. Determination. That “nothing’s going to stop me so get out of my way” look. “I have to do this,” she insisted. “I couldn’t stand it if Ashley got hurt because I just stayed here and didn’t even try to help her.”
    Shaking herself free of him, Leesa started down the hall toward the double doors. Those doors led to the side of the motel, not the front, so there was no one Jack could turn to for help, no desk clerk who could tell him how to reach his parents at the hangar, and no guard who could demand that she stop. Nine o’clock at night, and everything was quiet as a tomb.
    Until they pushed through the door. They’d barely reached the parking lot when a man’s voice rang out from the shadows, “Leesa Sherman! Look over here!”
    As the man came into full view, Jack saw that he was pointing something at them. “Leesa, drop!” he yelled. “He’s got a gun!”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    N ot even thinking, moving entirely by instinct, Jack rolled over on the concrete and pulled Leesa with him to crouch behind a parked car. But the man kept coming—coming toward them. Jack tried to shield Leesa with his own body, but what good would that do if the man started shooting? They’d both be dead!
    And then the man was standing right above them, shouting. Finally Jack’s mind connected to what he was saying: “Hey, you guys, chill out. This isn’t a gun. It’s a camcorder.”
    Yeah, sure. Not believing, Jack stared at the shiny black object in the man’s hand. In the dim light from above the motel door, all he could focus on was the dark circle that looked like the muzzle of a gun. It was pointed straight at Leesa. Jack was panting. Sweat stung his eyes. He knew— he knew —he was going to die. Several long seconds passed before his brain clicked in to what he was actually seeing—an object five inches high, four inches deep, one inch thick, with a gleaming round hole that was not the muzzle of a gun but happened to be the lens of a very small camcorder. Handheld. Hand-size. Jack had never seen anything like it.
    Ignoring Jack, the man said, “Let me help you up, Leesa.” He pulled her to her feet, brushing bits of dirt and tiny twigs from her back.
    â€œHow did you know I was Leesa?” she asked, trying to control her voice. She was shaking so hard it trembled. “And who are you?”
    â€œI saw your picture on television. You were on the evening news. My name’s Jesse Hererra—I’m a student at UNLV, the University of Nevada at Las Vegas.”
    â€œWait a minute,” Jack said. Pulling Leesa aside, he whispered into her ear, “Why should you believe him? He might be a member of The Unit.”
    â€œWith a name like Jesse Hererra? No way,” she whispered back. “He’s a Latino—one of the so-called mongrels The Unit says are destroying the purity of the Aryan race.”
    Even though Jack knew that Leesa no longer believed that hate-group propaganda, the words still sounded shocking enough to make him cringe. “Well, if you’re sure he’s OK,” he murmured.
    â€œLook at him, Jack. He looks like Ricky Martin.”
    Jesse had pulled a card out of his wallet and was holding it in front of their eyes, even though in the dark they couldn’t see much except a stamp-size photo of Jesse with his name underneath. “See,