The door burst.
I ignored it, instead focusing on the floor of the hangar. Then I activated the Lenses. Immediately, a quick gust of wind blew from my face. It moved across the floor, erasing some of the footprints. Windstormer’s Lenses, a gift from Grandpa Smedry the week after our first Librarian infiltration.
By the time the Librarians got through the door, cursing and muttering, only the footprints I wanted them to see were still there. I huddled down beside my wheel, holding my breath and trying to still my thumping heart as I heard a fleet of soldiers and policemen pile down the steps.
That’s when I remembered my Firebringer’s Lens.
I peeked up over the top of the 747 wheel. The Librarians had fallen for my trick and were moving along the floor toward the door out of the hangar. They weren’t walking as quickly as I would have wanted, though, and several were glancing around with suspicious eyes.
I ducked back down before I could be spotted. My fingers felt the Firebringer’s Lens—I had only one left—and I hesitantly brought it out. It was completely clear, with a single red dot in the center.
When activated, it shot forth a superhot burst of energy, something like a laser. I could turn it on the Librarians. They had, after all, tried to kill me on several different occasions. They deserved it.
I sat for a moment, then quietly tucked the Lens back in its pocket and instead put my Courier’s Lenses back on. If you’ve read the previous volume of this autobiography, you’ll realize that I had some very particular ideas about heroism. A hero wasn’t the type of person who turned a laser of pure energy upon the backs of a bunch of soldiers, particularly when that bunch included innocent security guards.
Sentiments like this one eventually got me into a lot of trouble. You probably remember how I’m going to end up; I mentioned it in the first book. I’ll eventually be tied to an altar made from outdated encyclopedias, with cultists from the Librarian Order of the Shattered Lens preparing to spill my Oculator’s blood in an unholy ceremony.
Heroism is what landed me there. Ironically, it also saved my life that day in the airport hangar. You see, if I hadn’t put on my Courier’s Lenses, I would have missed what happened next.
Alcatraz? a voice suddenly asked in my mind.
The voice nearly made me cry out in surprise.
Uh, Alcatraz? Hello? Is anyone listening?
The voice was fuzzy and indistinct, and it wasn’t the voice of my grandfather. However, it was coming from the Courier’s Lenses.
Oh, bother! the voice said. Um. I’ve never been good with Courier’s Lenses.
It faded in and out, as if someone were speaking through a radio that wasn’t getting good reception. It wasn’t Grandpa Smedry, but at that moment, I was willing to take a chance on whoever it was.
“I’m here!” I whispered, activating the Lenses.
A blurry face fuzzed into existence in front of me, hovering like a hologram in the air. It belonged to a teenage girl with dark tan skin and black hair.
Hello? she asked. Is someone there? Can you talk louder or something?
“Not really,” I hissed, glancing at the Librarians. Most of them had moved out the door, but a small group of men had apparently been assigned to search the hangar. Mostly security guards.
Um … okay, the voice said. Uh, who is this?
“Who do you think it is?” I asked in annoyance. “I’m Alcatraz. Who are you?”
Oh, I—the image, and voice, fuzzed for a moment—sent to retrieve you. Sorry! Uh, where are you?
“In a hangar,” I said. One of the guards perked up, then pulled out a gun, pointing it in my direction. He’d heard me.
“Shattering Glass!” I hissed, ducking back down.
You really shouldn’t swear like that, you know.… the girl said.
“Thanks,” I hissed as quietly as possible. “Who are you, and how are you going to get me out of this?”
There was a pause. A dreadful, terrible, long, annoying, frustrating, deadly, nerve-racking, incredibly wordy pause.
I … don’t really know, the girl said. I—wait just a second. Bastille says that you should run out somewhere in the open, then signal us. It’s too foggy down there. We can’t really see much.
Down there? I thought. Still, if Bastille was with this girl, that seemed like a good sign. Although Bastille would probably chastise me for getting myself into so much trouble, she did have a habit of being very effective at what she did. Hopefully that would include rescuing me.
“Hey!” a voice said. I turned to the side, staring out at one of the guards. “I found someone!”
Time to break things, I thought, taking a deep breath. Then I sent a burst of breaking power into the wheel of the airplane.
I ducked away, leaping to my feet as lug nuts popped free from the airplane wheel. The guard raised his gun but didn’t fire.
“Shoot him!” said a man in a black suit, the Librarian who stood directing things from the side of the room.
“I’m not shooting a kid,” the guard said. “Where are these terrorists you were talking about?”
Good man, I thought as I dashed toward the front of the hangar. At that moment, the wheel of the airplane fell completely off, and the front half of the vehicle crashed down against the pavement. Men cried out in surprise, and the security guards dived for cover.
The Librarian in black grabbed a handgun from one of the confused guards and pointed it at me. I just smiled.
The gun, of course, fell apart as soon as the Librarian pulled the trigger. My Talent protects me when it can—and the more moving parts a weapon has, the easier it is to break. I rammed my shoulder into the massive hangar doors and sent a shock of breaking power into them. Screws and nuts and bolts fell like rain around me, hitting the ground. Several guards peeked out from behind boxes.
The entire front of the hangar came off, falling away from me and hitting the ground outside with a reverberating crash. I hesitated, shocked, even though that was exactly what I’d wanted to happen. Swirling fog began to creep into the hangar around me.
It seemed that my Talent was getting even more powerful. Before, I’d broken things like pots and dishes, with the very rare exception of something larger, like the concrete I had broken when I was seven. That was nothing like what I’d been doing lately: taking the wheels off airplanes and making entire hangar doors fall off. Not for the first time, I wondered just how much I could break if I really needed to.
And how much the Talent could break if it decided that it wanted to.
There wasn’t time to contemplate that, as the Librarians outside had noticed the ruckus. They stood, black upon the noonday fog, looking back at me. Most of them had spread out to the sides, and so the only way for me to go was straight ahead.
I dashed out onto the wet tarmac, running for all I was worth. The Librarians began to yell, and several tried—completely ineffectively—to fire guns at me. They should have known better. In their defense, few people—even Librarians—are accustomed to dealing with a Smedry as powerful as I was. Against others, they might have been able to get off a few shots before something went wrong. Firearms aren’t completely useless in the Free Kingdoms, they’re just much less powerful.
The shooting—or lack thereof—bought me only a few seconds of time. Unfortunately, there were a pair of Librarians in my path.