15

It was nearly too dark to read. TinTin glanced up from her book, warned first by a surge of external fear, then a faint ruffle of thought; the bounced-back image of herself on the sand, unarmed and helpless. Dropping Brian Greene's masterwork, the girl vaulted to her feet, whirling in midair like a cat, to confront three men with dark glasses and taut, expressionless faces.

The shoulder holsters bulging beneath their flowered shirts, and the small ear pieces they wore revealed that the visitation was anything but friendly, or accidental. TinTin took a swift back-step. Unarmed, yes; helpless... hardly. Over the roar of surf and land breeze the lead gunman said something about 'official business' and 'questioning', putting forth a hard, peremptory hand.

Starting at the pit of her belly, and growing like ice along her spine, the knowledge that these men intended the coldest, most business-like harm imaginable made her duck the grab and defend herself. All at once, she lashed out beyond the primitive blocks she'd taught herself to build and maintain. Like a whip-crack, the world filled with noisy, stabbing thoughts, most of the nearer ones directed aggressively at her. They wanted to capture her, and the boys, and then...

Untutored, TinTin had no subtlety. All she could do was wield power like a knotted club, smashing at the source of her sudden anguish, and calling desperately for help.

The men weren't conscious long enough, even, to clutch at their heads. They simply collapsed in thudding gouts of scattered sand. An instant later, Gordon pelted up from the shore, bleeding copiously. Startled by her summons, he'd fallen off his board, surfacing just in time to have the thing nail the back of his head. Alan hastened along just behind him, looking confused. He wasn't accustomed to being whistled up like a dog. He stared at the pile of felled gunmen, then over at the beach gate, which stood wide open in the bruised-purple twilight, the guard house seeming terribly still and quiet. For something to do, he folded a bandage out of TinTin's beach towel, and held it to the back of his brother's head. Stitches, for sure; at least five.

"Uh... guys?" Alan ventured uneasily, blue eyes wide and worried. "What's going on?"

TinTin's head hurt so blindingly (and the echoing throb from Gordon's bloody cut didn't help matters) that all she could manage was,

"Home, please. Quickly," ...only half aloud. Abandoning everything but the book, they headed for the distant gate.

The mess in the guard hut... pathetic contortions, spattered blood and ragged bullet holes, phone off the hook in a terrified death-grip... backed TinTin's plea for speed. Gordon hit his wrist comm, while Alan pulled the phone loose, and called for an ambulance.