Okay, full disclosure. Modeling agencies aren't trying to sign me or anything, but I'm probably not bad looking. I can admit it here. Already five-five and hoping for more, I'm graced with my mother's tall, slender physique. She left me that much.
The path we rode swept northwest from our complex to the tip of the island, Cumming's Point. On the left, high dunes. On the right, sloping beach, then the sea.
Hi pedaled behind me, panting like a steam locomotive.
"Should I slow down?" I yelled back over my shoulder.
"Try it and I'll run you over," he called. "I'm Lance Armstrong. I live strong."
Sure you are, Hi. And I'm Lara Croft. I eased off gradually so he wouldn't notice.
Since much of Morris Island is marsh or dune, only the northern half has ever been suitable for construction. Fort Wagner was built there. Same with the other old military works. Most were simple ditches, trenches, or holes.
Not our bunker, baby. It's killer. We stumbled on it while searching for a lost Frisbee. A total fluke. The thing's so hidden, you have to know where it is to find it. Long abandoned and forgotten, no one else seems to remember it exists. We intend to keep it that way.
Five minutes more pedaling, then we cut off the path, curved up and around the face of a gigantic sand hill, and plunged down into a trough. Another thirty yards and a wall of the bunker was visible, barely, among the dunes.
A dozen yards to the right of the bunker's entrance, a side trail wandered to the beach below. I could see Ben's motorboat tied up to a half-submerged post at the edge of the surf. It rose and fell with the low waves breaking the shore.
I dismounted and dropped my bike to the sand. Just then, a muffled curse broke from the bunker.
Alarmed, I ducked inside.
CHAPTER 3
Tight squeeze, then I was in, blinking to adjust my eyes. That first slap of sunlight and shadow is always a shock.
As hideouts go, ours may be the best ever.
The main chamber is probably fifteen by thirty. Wood-beamed walls rise ten feet to the ceiling. A window slit runs the length of the wall opposite the entrance, framing a kickass view of Charleston Harbor. A wooden overhang masks any hint of the opening from outside.
A second, smaller room lies to the left of the first, accessed by a low passageway. Same squeeze as the front door. From that chamber's back wall, a collapsed shaft leads deeper into the hill. Mongo creepy. No one goes in there.
Ben slouched on an old bench in a corner of the front room, injured leg propped on a chair. Blood trickled from a gash on his shin.
He regarded me a moment. Then, "I asked for Shelton." Ben never wastes words.
Nice to see you, too.
Behind me, I sensed Hi shrugging. "Tory found me first. Ever try telling her what to do?"
Ben rolled his eyes. Nice ones, dark, with lashes I'd die for.
I arched a brow, revealing what I thought of their comments. "I brought a first aid kit. Let me see your leg."
Ben scowled, kept a close watch on my movements. I saw through his macho act. He was afraid I'd hurt him, but couldn't let on.
Good. Be nervous, wuss.
Unlike the rest of us, Ben has reached the magical age of sixteen. Shelton rounds that corner next fall, and Hi just turned fifteen this spring. We are closing out a rough freshman year. Ben is finishing up as a sophomore.
Instead of buying wheels like a normal person, Ben had just put all his savings into an old, sixteen-foot Boston Whaler runabout. He calls her Sewee.
Don't get the name, right? Neither did I.
Ben claims to be part Sewee Indian. I'm skeptical, since the Sewee were absorbed into the Catawba tribe over a century ago. How can anyone actually claim ties? But Ben has a temper, so it's not a point we argue.
I guess a boat's better than nothing. A non-wrecked one would be, anyway.
"Is there a reason you were showboating in the tidal bay?" I was dabbing iodine on Ben's shin. The wound wasn't a stitcher, thank God, just ugly.
"I wasn't showboating." Ben sucked in his breath as I tied off the bandage. "I tried to get closer to shore, where the fish were. I misread the depth."
"Catch anything?" I asked innocently.
Ben's scowl deepened. My guess hit home.
"And how about putting on a shirt there, pal." Hi needled.
Ben's eyes rolled to him.
"Hey." Hi spread his palms. "This is a classy bunker."
Having delivered his opinion on clubhouse etiquette, Hi crossed to the room's only table and sat. The rickety wooden chair listed to port. Reconsidering, Hi moved to the bench.
Ear-tucking thick black hair, Ben leaned one muscular shoulder against the bunker wall. Of medium height, there wasn't an ounce of fat on him. Ben's eyes were brown-black, his skin copper or bronze depending on the season.
"I thought Shelton could figure out how to fix the runabout," Ben said.
Diplomatic. He was trying to apologize without actually apologizing.
Ben obsesses about his boat. Sensing he was more worried about the damage than he was letting on, I accepted the olive branch.
"If anyone can fix her, Shelton can," I said.