The Quillan Games by D.J. MacHale Page B

along the sidewalk. I had to trust my instinct. I felt like there was something going on with that guy. If I was right, and he had helped that other guy escape from the dados, I had to hope he would do the same for me.
    I looked back to see that the dados had run out of the store and were scanning the crowded sidewalk. I had a short window. I ran forward until I got ahead of the guy. He was walking with his head down, just like everybody else. I ran past him, then turned around, and walked backward.
    â€œHey,” I said breathlessly. “I need help.”
    The guy looked up quickly. I saw the surprise in his eyes. I didn’t know if it was because a crazy guy had just jumped out of nowhere asking him for help, or because I was wearing a challenger shirt. Or both. He didn’t stop walking.
    â€œHow can I help you?” he said softly, with a touch of confusion.
    His calm voice didn’t fit with the surprise that he showed. The guy was very cool.
    â€œThey’re after me,” I said, glancing back toward the dados. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t bet on the match, but they’re shooting at me.”
    The guy glanced back toward the dados, then to me. He said, “I’m surprised to see a challenger on the street.”
    There wasn’t time for discussion. The dados were almost on us. If I didn’t get through to this guy, fast, I’d be done. I took a chance and grabbed my left biceps with my righthand—the same signal I’d seen him exchange with the woman who drove the motor scooter into the dados. I didn’t know if the guy would react, or keep walking as if it meant nothing to him.
    â€œGet on,” he said, suddenly all business.
    Yes! The guy threw his leg over the motor scooter. I hopped on to the back as he kicked the engine to life. It hummed with a soft whine that didn’t speak to the true power of this bike, for when he hit the throttle, we took off. Fast.
    â€œHang on,” he commanded, and made a hard right, turning into traffic. The instant he made the turn, I heard the familiar sound of shots being fired.
    Fum. Fum. Fum.
    So much for the dados not wanting to hurt innocent bystanders. A guy to the right of me was knocked off his feet. Another woman was hit, and spun around but was able to stay upright. I was horrified. Were people dying around me? Why were these dados so desperate that they were willing to shoot innocent people to get me? Did life mean so little to them? Or was I that important? If I was going to find the answers, I first had to stay alive. My fate was in the hands of this mysterious old guy and his scoot.
    The guy may have been old, but he knew how to handle the motorbike. He drove us across traffic, weaving back and forth, threading between the slow-moving cars. I didn’t dare look back, for fear of throwing us off balance. We hit the far sidewalk, bounced up over the curb, and turned into the flow of pedestrians. People had to dodge out of our way, but this guy didn’t care. He drove the bike quickly and dangerously. For a moment I flashed back to riding behind Uncle Press on his motorcycle as he took me from home to my first rendezvous with the flume. It felt like a lifetime ago. Or six.
    The guy made a hard right, turning into a narrow alley between buildings. We reached the end of the building, where he skidded us into another hard right and an even smaller alley. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. I had made the right call. He wound us through a few more turns until we were in a place of twisted streets, hidden deep within the cavern of buildings, where no people were walking. I was ready for him to stop because I didn’t think the dados had any chance of following that wacked route, but he kept pressing forward. I didn’t say a word. This was his show.
    Finally he made an abrupt turn that nearly threw me off the bike. We side-slid a few feet, then shot inside a garage door. Once in, he