Zeke Bartholomew Read Online Free PDF

middle of a bridge, diagonally cutting across two lanes. I was fifty yards away from either end of the bridge. No-man’s-land. Then I heard someone yell, “Freeze, Agent Lance! Move and you’re dead.”
    I slowly turned around. The driver was standing there, nasty spaghetti strands dangling from his sunglasses. I felt a burp rise in my chest.
    â€œI knew you were dangerous, Agent Lance,” he said, “but we clearly underestimated your diversionary skills. Now get back in the car and give us the codes.”
    I started to walk backward. I couldn’t get back in the car, but I didn’t have time to run. The muzzle was pointed right at me. “I can’t!” I shouted.
    â€œYou can and you will. Right now, or you’re one dead spy.”
    I kept backing up, kept telling myself, This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. Then the armed agent held out his hand and stepped forward. “Be careful, Agent Lance!” he shouted.
    Just then I felt the guardrail clip my knees from behind. And as I toppled over the guardrail into the abyss below, I heard my own voice echoing in the night: “ I’m not Derek Lance! ”

The first time I tried to swim on my own I was five years old. The town swimming pool was free to anyone who registered with city hall, and as soon as my arms fit into floaties my mom dragged me over and carried me into the water. My mom would always wear a one-piece with some sort of floral design. My dad wore swim trunks and a T-shirt. He never took off his shirt. He’s kind of pale guy, so I think he might have been worried that if he took off his shirt on a sunny day he might spontaneously burst into flame.
    So one day, when my parents weren’t looking, I ran and dove into the pool to show them that I didn’t need those stupid floaties. I was a big boy and didn’t need their eyes on me at all times.
    I did my best cannonball and splashed down in the deep end hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. Fifteen seconds passed. Thirty. Forty-five. I was doing it. I was swimming alone. Then suddenly I realized that in all of my excitement, I’d forgotten to breathe.
    And that’s when I felt a pair of hands grab me around my waist and hoist me out of the water, sputtering like a perforated garden hose. It was my dad. He was holding me and crying. And he still had his shirt on.
    â€œWhat in the heck did you think you were doing?” he shouted, the fear in his eyes far greater than any anger.
    I shrugged and said, “Proving to you and Mom I could do it. Swim alone.”
    He hugged me tight and said, “I’ll never doubt that you can do anything, Zeke.”
    My dad hoisted me out of the pool and plopped me on the ground. And that’s when I realized that, in my hasty dive, somehow my pants has come off. I stood there butt naked for about ten seconds before my father realized what had happened. My bathing suit was floating on the surface like an unmanned vessel. He plucked it out, picked me up, and carried me into the bathroom. So much for feeling like an adult.
    That years-old memory ran through my head when I realized, once again, that I’d forgotten to breathe.
    I lurched out of the water, my eyes, nose, and brain burning. Where was I? What had happened? Then I remembered the suited man pointing the gun at me. I remembered backing up, holding my hands out, and then…darkness.
    Wiping the water from my eyes, I looked around. Everything was dark. I couldn’t make out much of anything. Thankfully I’d become a much better swimmer since that day at the pool, so I was able to tread water while figuring out just what to do.
    The current was fairly strong. My sweatpants were waterlogged and heavy, and they were dragging me down. I couldn’t see a riverbank, so I began to paddle in a random direction hoping to strike land.
    Bad idea, Zeke.
    About a dozen strokes in, a massive light appeared above me,