Free Public Enemy Number Two by Anthony Horowitz

sending a garbage can flying. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed hold of the edge and heaved myself into space. Now I was hanging there with the road sweeping away behind me. I tried to swing into the box. Then a strong pair of hands reached out and took hold of me. I was pulled inside, dropping the last couple of feet onto the floor. I stood up and blinked. And only then did I realize what kind of getaway vehicle we were getting away in.
    If you’ve ever been to an airport you may have seen them. They’re called “people movers” or something like that. Imagine an ordinary airport bus, only with more seats and bright neon lights. Then put metal arms between the wheels and the undercarriage. When you step out of the plane, you’re about twelve feet off the ground. But you don’t need steps. The driver simply parks the people mover beside the plane, presses a button, and the whole thing rises into the air until it’s level with the door. You step inside. The bus sinks back down onto the wheels. And you speed away to the arrival lounge, where, provided your driver isn’t Tim Diamond, you finally arrive.
    But our driver was Tim. I could see him at the far end of the bus, sitting in a sort of miniature cubicle, surrounded by switches and levers. He was making the most peculiar noises, whimpering and squeaking with every turn of the wheel.
    “Johnny boy!” a voice said behind me.
    I turned around. Powers had followed me into the people mover and now he was gazing at the man who had pulled us in. Only it wasn’t a man. It was a woman. And I didn’t need to ask her name to know who she was.
    Ma Powers. Johnny’s mother.
    On first sight she was like any other mother. She was about fifty, wearing a severe black skirt, a matching jacket, and a flowery shirt buttoned at the neck. Her hair was gray, mainly hidden by a black velvet hat. Her only makeup was a dash of red lipstick across her tight-lipped mouth. For jewelry she wore plain gold earrings and a cameo brooch in the shape of a rose.
    But un like any other mother, she was carrying a sub-machine gun, the barrel slanting across her chest. The more I looked at her, the less I liked her. Her eyes—like Johnny’s—were two bullet holes in a refrigerator door. She had a tough, weathered face, and when I say weathered I’m talking storms and blizzards. Her skin was as tough as leather. Her teeth when she smiled, which wasn’t often, were yellow and crammed together uncomfortably like being in a subway during rush hour.
    “How ya doing, Johnny?” she asked. She spoke just like him, only her voice was deeper.
    “I’m okay, Ma,” Powers said. “All the better for seeing you.”
    “That ya friend?” She nodded at me.
    “That’s right, Ma. Nick . . . come and meet my ma.”
    “Not now, Johnny boy. We gotta move.”
    Even as she spoke, I heard the scream of approaching police cars. Looking through the open end of the bus, I could see the flash of blue lights in the distance. Tim groaned. We were still only doing twenty miles an hour. At that speed, they’d catch up with us in seconds.
    “Go and check with ya brother,” Ma Powers commanded. “I’ll hold ’em off.” She cocked the machine gun and moved to the back.
    “Has Nails fixed the bus?” Powers asked.
    “Sure, Johnny boy. Bulletproof windows. Sawed-off back. And a souped-up engine.” She glared at me. “Shame we ain’t got a souped-up driver. Tell him to put his foot down.”
    Powers and I ran up to the front of the bus. Tim was white-faced, his eyes staring, his hands clutching the steering wheel like he was trying to pull it apart.
    “Nick . . . !” he began when he saw me.
    “Not now, Tim,” I said.
    “Can’t ya lower this thing?” Powers rasped. We were still twelve feet off the ground, higher than the top deck of a London bus. Only there was no bottom deck.
    “I don’t know how it works,” Tim whimpered.
    “Didn’t Ma show ya?”
    “Yes. But I’ve forgotten.”
    “Take the next turn