Storm Girls (The Juniper Wars Book 4) by Aaron Ritchey (best books to read for teens .txt) 📗

to think through the thunder of my heart, I set my back against the chair and pushed down on the stump of the yoke. No time to reload the Panzerfaust: I’d have to get the tank with the zeppelin herself. I just had to hope the Marilyn was tied up next to the rear hatch, so if I hit the tank with the nose, I might be able to disable the turret, bend the metal, fix it into place, and leave the Acevedo useless.

Might’ve been a good plan if I hadn’t been right there in the nose of the Kashmir IV. Wasn’t sure if I’d survive it, but again, I was chasing after my instincts to eliminate the current threat, that tank below.

I stood on the ruins of the yoke with both feet. The metal ripped into my flesh. I hardly felt the pain and didn’t feel the blood.

The zeppelin plummeted. And doubt filled me. It was a bad idea. But I couldn’t stop. Better I die killing the tank than letting the Acevedo kill me.

Lower, lower, lower. The snowy ground and the black metal of the war machine were all I could see. No wind, no sky, just ground and tank.

Coming up fast. Coming up too fast.

The Kashmir crashed down into the dirt right on top of the tank. Before I knew it, I’d tumbled out along with the AZ3 I’d left on the passenger seat, but not the Panzerfaust nor the crate of grenades. They stayed where I’d lashed them.

I was on the ground, armed at least. Problem was, the entire zeppelin came crashing down right on top of me. And it wasn’t just the Neofiber, the Kevlar canopy, the thelium; it was the millions of rounds of ammunition, bombs, guns, and enough gunpowder for World War IV.

We count the Sino as number three.

Snow and mud squelched under my hands, the wetness soaking my knees through the gown.

Again, I’d become mere survival instinct rather than fearless warrior. I scrambled forward underneath the back of the tank as the heat, as the fire, as choking smoke rained down. I went from ice-cold to oven-hot in less than a millisecond.

The thunderous world-ending noise, the stink of the tank’s oil and diesel, the stench of the burning plastic of the zeppelin, robbed me of my senses for a minute, and all I could do was scream against it all. Scream and scream and scream.

The tank’s gun roared. Most likely, the soldier girls inside the Acevedo wanted to see if they could blow the Kashmir IV off them. Maybe the tank could survive being hit with the zeppelin, but it didn’t survive firing into the box of grenades I’d left inside the cockpit.

Even as the Kashmir IV lifted off us, the explosion, right there, left my ears howling. All around me was metal and burning, heat and destruction, and I realized I was still screaming.

I was in the belly of a hellish beast, and the air around me roasted. I smelled my own hair catch fire. On my head. On my arms. In my nose.

It was night-dark tread on my right and left, but daylight in front of me and behind. I slapped at my frying hair with handfuls of snow and mud. Something caught my eye behind me. The dark gray of the zeppelin’s canopy was lifting up—prolly caught by the wind and now so off center with the front air-cells gone, the back bags of thelium would catch a breeze and blow around.

Something fell off the back of the Kashmir IV. Could it be? Yes. The Marilyn came sailing down from the zeppelin. The ropes must have burned through.

The Stanley hit the ground, and her pistons and leg joints took the impact well.

The Marilyn paused for a minute and then started walking toward me.

“Cavvy!” It was Wren’s voice, sounding annoyed, or was that fear? No, couldn’t be fear.

I stopped screaming my throat bloody long enough to pull myself out from the wreckage of the Acevedo. The turret, aimed at the night sky, had melted halfway down its barrel. The rest of the metal had been turned to Swiss cheese. I could’ve looked inside to confirm the operators were dead, but I didn’t want to see the carnage.

The zeppelin, on fire above us, exploded as more munitions went off, raining detritus to mix with the snow.

In the flickering light of the burning airship, I could see bodies all around, but only two figures upright. A Regio had Wren around the neck, the soldier’s pistol pressed against my sister’s temple. I could see Wren’s face was covered in a thick layer of blood going rusty as it dried.

We’d been here before, in this same position, time and again. My sister’s life dangled on the thread of a spider web, and I had to save her if I could.

Problem was, I never could before.

But things change.

This was just another problem I was going to solve with a bullet.

(iii)

I was barefoot in the snow, but I wasn’t feeling it. I’d been smoldering hot minutes ago, and besides, I was too keyed up to worry about my toes.

“Hey, Wren, you okay?” I asked.

“The chalkdrive! Where is it?” the Regio shouted.

“I’ll get to you in a minute,” I said quietly. “Wren, you injured?”

“I’m fine,” Wren answered. “The Audrey Hepburn nearly ended me with a missile. Goddamn friendly fire. I was just getting to my feet when this jackering skank grabbed me.”

“Don’t cuss,” I said automatically. Then I addressed the Regio, breathing hard since they had emotions, unlike the Vixxes or the Severins ... or so I’d heard. “Hey, I’ll give you the chalkdrive if you give me Pilate and Micah Hoyt. How is that for a trade?”

The Regio’s eyes narrowed. “I will not negotiate. Give me the chalkdrive, or I will shoot your sister.”

My teeth came together in a frustrated growl.

One of the Stanleys was tromping up behind me; the zeppelin, wreathed in hellfire, crackled above; but all else was silence. The shooting had stopped, and I