Free The Isle by Jordana Frankel Page B

get bigger and closer.
    I swerve.
    Metal rips through the Omni. Water sprays into the pit, a frothing white stream of brack shooting everywhere. The floor grows slick. I spin around to see a foot-long metal harpoon skewering the left side, just above Callum’s knees.
    â€œRen!” he calls over the hissing water, holding his hand against it. “We need to get out!”
    I gun the engine again, but it don’t work—the dart’s attached to a rope, which is in turn attached to a net. They’re reeling us in easier than tuna fish. I watch Aven’s face for signs of even more unrecoverable trauma, and I find her bracing herself, pale as a corpse.
    â€œCallum. We’re fifty feet from the surface. Even if we could make it by swimming they’d be up there waiting for us. Then what?” I tug the visor off and stand up, an inch deep in water.
    He doesn’t answer. He’s reaching for an extra wet suit under the seat and ties it around the dart, to plug up as much of the hole as possible. Finding my eyes, he pushes his sopping, shaggy brown hair away from his face. “Even if we could lose the harpoon,” he says, “the Omni will be slower than before, and with the heat sensors they’ll still be able tofollow us. There is no way out except out .” He points to the airlock in the Omni’s butt.
    For a moment I believe him. My chest sinks hard. Maybe he’s right. I’ve got Aven to think about. At least if we evacuate, we could split up. She might have a chance at not being found.
    â€œRen?” Aven asks softly, pale brows knotted. She looks up at the both of us, white hair slick against her skull and her hospital-napkin dress soaked through. She’s so thin. She must be freezing. She leans forward like she wants only me to hear her. “What would you do if you were alone?”
    I almost laugh. She knows how to get to the heart of it, don’t she? “Well,” I start, thinking it over a moment. “I guess I’d go out there and knife the net—”
    â€œAnd then what?” Callum asks hotly. “They can still follow us, remember?”
    I scowl, and though he’s right to ask, I could do with a little faith.
    Looking to Aven’s small, pale face, I find nothing but faith. She’s waiting for me to think of something, because she believes I will.
    I close my eyes.
    If I knife the net, how can I get them to not follow us?
    Her teeth begin to chatter. She’s cold. She needs a wet suit or something. She’s been through too damn much to die from hypothermia.
    I shake my head— hypothermia. The idea that comes to me is nuts. Any idea that starts with hypothermia must be.
    And yet . . .
    â€œWhat is it?” Aven asks. “You’ve got something—I can see it.”
    I feel like I’ve just swallowed a fish whole. This is a terrible idea.
    Good thing I love terrible ideas.

15
AVEN
4:27 A.M., FRIDAY
    W ater fills the mobile, so cold it makes my teeth chatter. I’m as stiff as the dead, my arms pale and blue, and I’m fighting to stay awake. I’m just so tired.
    â€œHow much do you two trust me?” Ren asks, but the question is just for show. I know from experience. She’s already decided.
    â€œThermal imaging,” she begins. “It locates engines, ’cause they run hot. And you know what doesn’t run hot? People underwater. Totally undetectable. Right, Cal?” She looks for confirmation. He nods.
    â€œWe’re gonna trick their visors. We’ve got to stay underwater. But, since we’re still too far from the surface, we need this engine to take us there quickly. First, I’ll need to cut the harpoon free.”
    â€œYou’re flooding the mobile,” I murmur.
    â€œYou’ll have a wet suit.”
    A hard shell forms around my body. Suddenly I feel so young and so old at the same time. In the seat, I notice that I’m rocking back and