Michael (The Mark) (The Airel Saga, Book 4: Part 7-8) by Aaron Patterson, Chris White

my hand, gave a final burst of speed for the structure and kicked the door down. “There.” she shouted in triumph.
    I didn’t get it at first. I was looking for some kind of hand tool, falling for, as Ellie had put it earlier, basically whatever my mind expected to find. I didn’t understand fully until Michael finally caught us up, panting furiously.
    He placed one hand against the doorframe and looked into the darkness within the shed. “Whoa,” he said hoarsely. “A Bowler Wildcat.”

CHAPTER XV
    LIKE I HAD ANY idea what a Bowler Wildcat was. Boys and their ridiculous off-roaders. And of course it was looming hugely in the shed, unmistakable had I known we were looking for a racing truck.
    But I found out soon enough that it was indeed a tool. A tool for seriously fast going on any terrain. How did I find that out? Easy: Five minutes after we found the thing, we were racing east across a bumpy field of volcanic rock like it wasn’t even there.
    Since it was a two-seater, I had to sit on Michael’s lap the whole time, and contrary to what I might have thought, it wasn’t even close to fun. My head banged against the roll cage and the windows, my butt banged against his lap, my head pounded with the noise, and Ellie never slowed down through all of it.
    “You’re a crazy driver,” I shouted at her. But I endured it for the possibility of being able to help Kim.
    All Ellie did was drop the hammer, accelerating across the rocky undulating hills until it felt like we were either flying or sailing—I couldn’t tell which.
    “So where are we going?” Michael asked, his voice cracking against the noise and heat of the cramped enclosed space.
    Ellie pointed straight ahead and straight up. “There. Green Mountain. That’s where Kreios was and that’s where the Bloodstone is.” The racing engine roared even louder, and we were gone in a cloud of dust.
    ***
    Schiphol, Amsterdam—Present Day
    SCHIPHOL AIRPORT IN AMSTERDAM was one of the busiest air terminals in Europe. Flights came in from and departed to nearly every continent. Great walls of steel and glass enshrouded it in a shrine to the sleek and modern. People from every tribe and nation walked its corridors every day.
    Among them were two men lately of America, specifically Boise, Idaho. They walked and talked. Their layover would last only about one more hour and then they would have to board their plane for Cape Town via Johannesburg.
    “You know, at some point I’m going to have to use the restroom,” Harry said to his companion. “What will you do then?”
    “You wanna go? Let’s go.”
    “What, together?”
    “Certainly. Might as well get it over with.”
    Harry shrugged and kept walking toward the sign for the men’s room. “What’re you gonna do? Lend me a hand as well?”
    “You’re not funny at all,” Airel’s father said.
    “I think it’s a fair question, since you’re nannying me.”
    “No, Harry. You’re a big boy. I trust you not to soil yourself.”
    Harry grinned a little at the perverse tête-â-tête, but mostly he grinned at the idea of what he was planning. “You know, friend, I’m going to need a minute or two here …”
    He looked at Harry. “Fine. That’s fine. You go back one out and take your time with it. I’ll be waiting at the sinks when you’re done.”
    “It’s a lot of paperwork. If you know what I mean,” Harry said. “I tend to take my time in only two areas of my life, and this is one of them.”
    “I’m not asking what the other one is.”
    They walked into the restroom, Harry leading the way. He selected the farthest stall and walked straight for it. As he turned to close the door, his hand absentmindedly grasped its sleek metal top edge. He did not have time to latch it.
    Airel’s father, following Harry, did not hesitate an instant. He removed his pen from his shirt pocket in mid-stride and aimed the point discreetly at the door. The other men in the large restroom went about their own