Page 15 of Touchdown

When I decided not to grab that dugout, I'd decided for Noah too.

We could already be halfway home by now.

“You saw how fast it moved,” I said. “We could've been out of here so far ahead of the bad guys.”

“Not so very far ahead.” Noah touched my hand. “Not when they've got a motor, and you've got paddles.” He squeezed, and I couldn't help but squeeze back. “We'll take the real boat, and leave the real bad guys stranded. That's the only real plan.”

“Yeah.” I couldn't have sounded very certain. Because I wasn't.

“You did the only thing you could do, Slate.”

“That's the thing. That's why I'm kicking myself. If we're being real, I didn't do anything. I just stood here and watched him go.”

“Sometimes,” Noah said. “That's the hardest thing to do.”

Chapter 10

We walked along the shore to recon the perimeter of the island. And, yes, it was an island. Eventually, we found ourselves returned to the same circular bay with the same white sand beach.

One unspoiled crescent of sugar sand around a turquoise bay looks much like any other. But the footprints we left behind told us when we'd circled back to the original one. By then, the tide had gone out, enlarging the beach. A freshly exposed stripe of stranded pink shells had attracted a large flock of probing, bobbing sandpipers. Otherwise, the place looked the same as when we left.

“Well, that was a major waste of time,” I said.

We'd found no forgotten boats, no lost villages, no washed-up plastic scrap you could make into a raft, no messages in a bottle, no bottle.

No hidden stash of pirate treasure.

Fucking nada.

The movies lied. Tom Hanks's screenwriters had lied. It was enough to disillusion a man.

The longer we walked, and the more nothing we saw, the more I pondered a direct plan of attack. There didn't seem to be any way to escape without knocking heads with the very people who put us here in the first place.

Besides, as a great man once said, “The best defense is a good offense.” I used to think the great man was Vince Lombardi, but my history professor assured me that some general said it first.

Either way, there was no getting out of here without a fight.

But how do naked, unarmed men fight a well-equipped mindfucker of an enemy?

Play it sneaky. Set a trap.

It would have to be a fucking simple trap. Simple was all we had.

I stared at a sandpiper bobbing its beak up and down like one of those plastic drinky birds. I was sort of seeing it and sort of not seeing it.

Our enemy was going to have guns. We didn't even have shoes.

“Maybe we should go back to the house.” Noah had to be thinking along the same dark lines.

“I thought of that but... Nah.” I toed into the damp sand. “Presumably they left us in the house because they wanted us there. I'm not giving them what they want. That's making it too easy for them.”

He rubbed his chin in thought. Or else because his cute stubble was getting itchy. We hadn't been able to shave for a while. “I don't know, Slate. It wouldn't necessarily make it all that easy if we were alert. We'd be on higher ground, and you always hear that it's easier to hold the higher ground.”

“Hold it with what?”

We both went silent again. There had to be something we could do.

I was supposed to be so great, right? Championship hero and all that. And Noah was so smart he was being chased around by the NSA.

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