Quite a Ride : An Alex Rider Story: a Penguin Especial from Philomel Books (9781101195871) (2 page)

It wasn't easy. Having unhooked himself, he was now supporting all his own weight, and as he let go with one hand, he felt the strain on the other. There was no time to rest. No time to hesitate. Nice was looming ahead of him. He could already see the swimmers—dots in the distance—bobbing up and down in the water, close to the beach. The Tigé was heading straight for them, almost deliberately, as if it wanted to do as much harm as possible before it crashed into the beach. Alex still hoped that Kristof would come to, get up, and see what was happening. But he was as still as a corpse.

Somehow, Alex's flailing hand caught hold of the rope. With the breeze beating at his face, he transferred some of his weight and pulled with all his strength, expecting the parachute to fold in on itself and then flutter down. But it didn't work. With a sense of dismay he realized that, as the boat plowed forward, the rush of the wind was too great. He couldn't fight it. He was stuck in midair.

He could still save himself. All he had to do was let go and he would fall. It might be a rough landing, but the life jacket wouldn't let him drown. The people on the beach would be less fortunate. Alex remembered the two young children he had seen in the water. What if they were hit? Ahead of him, the buildings were getting closer and closer. He could make out the improbable pink-and-green roof of the exclusive Negresco Hotel…he could even read the letters of its name. How much longer did he have? A minute, maybe more. He pulled again. The cord didn't give an inch.

Alex heard a roar and looked up to see an EasyJet airbus coming in to land at Nice airport. It was far too high up to be any threat to him, but all the parasailing companies were aware of the blowback from the jet engines and the danger they could pose. Alex felt the blast as it hit the parachute. He pulled one last time and the silk folded and suddenly he was plunging down, the water rushing up.

He hit the surface with both feet—not hard enough to do himself damage. Even so, he was shocked by the impact. One moment he had been floating in the air, the next he was being dragged at speed through the sea, salt water lashing into his face. He was blinded. He couldn't even open his eyes. At the very last moment, he had let go of the parachute—which had been instantly dragged away behind him—and transferred his grip to the towrope. This was the critical moment. Time was running out.

He forced his eyes open. The Tigé was in front of him. Fighting against the rush of the water, he began to pull himself forward, one hand over the other. He was being bounced violently up and down, the water pounding into him. He could hardly breathe. His arms were being torn out of their sockets. He was being tortured a dozen different ways.

But the boat was getting nearer. Now Alex became aware of one last danger. The Tigé's propeller was chopping up the water, turning it into a vicious white froth. If Alex tried to drag himself over it, he would be chopped up too. Gasping for breath, he hoisted himself above the surface, peering through the curtain of water that hammered into his face.

He had been lucky. When Kristof had fallen, he had snagged the rope, carrying it slightly to the side. As Alex drew himself toward the back of the boat, the propeller was horribly close. He could feel it churning the water, inches from his stomach and legs. But by turning on his side, he was just able to avoid it. There was a duckboard at the back of the boat. Alex reached it and caught hold of a stanchion at the very corner. He had used up almost all his strength. He was choking. The roar of the water was in his ears. He cried out and pulled himself up. Somehow his body came clear. He felt the wooden deck under the life jacket across his chest. He wriggled forward. He was on board!

He looked up and saw at once that he was too late. The Tigé was traveling at about forty miles per hour and the first swimmers were only yards away. Alex could see the horror in their eyes as they took in what was about to happen. They were frozen with fear. On the beach, sunbathers were rising out of their loungers, staring openmouthed, watching the disaster unfold in front of them. Someone screamed. Alex could pull back the throttle, cut the engine. But even that wouldn't help. Propelled by its own momentum, the boat would still shoot forward, its prow crashing into the swimmers before it hit the beach and stopped. People were about to die. He had no doubt of it at all.

In the last remaining seconds, Alex threw himself forward. Ignoring the unconscious driver, he grabbed hold of the wheel and wrenched it to one side. The prow swung around, missing the first of the swimmers by inches. There were people everywhere. Alex swung the wheel the other way, weaving through them. He heard more screams rising even above the roar of the outboard motor. Somehow, he managed to avoid them all. But the Tigé had reached the beach. The sand was right in front of him. The bottom of the boat was grinding against the shallows. Finally, Alex pulled back on the throttle even as the propeller came into contact with the ocean floor and shattered. He felt the whole deck shudder.

The boat had left the water. He was on dry land, sun loungers and umbrellas on one side of him, beach towels on the other, a blur of astonished faces watching him as he shot past. At the very end, he twisted the steering wheel one last time. There was narrow gulley with boulders on both sides and, straight ahead, directly underneath the Promenade des Anglais, a dark tunnel with a wire fence blocking the entrance. Some sort of storm drain. The boat was slowing down, dragging against the ground. The prow hit the wire.

The boat finally stopped.

Alex heard shouting behind him—a gabble of French voices. Quickly, he unfastened the life jacket and the harness. Someone else would look after the unconscious driver, and he had no desire to answer questions. Before anyone could reach him, he dropped out of the boat and ran up a flight of steps leading to the main road.

He had no sooner reached the top than he saw Celestine on the other side, coming out of an ice cream shop with a cone in each hand. Alex was dripping wet. He was only wearing his swimming shorts. Fortunately, in Nice, he didn't look out of place.

Dodging the traffic, he ran over to her.

“Alex!” She was surprised to see him. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” Alex had no intention of telling her what had happened. He looked back. He had moved so fast that nobody had seen where he had gone.

“Where's your T-shirt? And your sandals?”

“They were stolen.”

“Stolen? But that's terrible!”

“It doesn't matter. I've got more back at the house.” Alex took one of the ice cream cones. He needed something to cool him down. “Can we go home?” he asked.

“Of course. But how was the parasailing? Did you enjoy it?”

Alex glanced back one last time. He could hear the scream of an approaching ambulance. He could imagine the pandemonium on the beach. “Well,” he said. “It was certainly quite a ride.”