Thunder roared a staccato, primal beat in Dodger’s ears. The silicon rainbow of a feathered wing tip brushed the ebon boy. Too close. The ice was too good. Dodger reached for the jack. Or he would have if his hands could have moved. The sight of his hands frozen on the keyboard superimposed over a vision of shining death growing larger within the frame of outstretched jet fingers. The thunderbird stooped for the kill.