for his guy to head off alone. The group had been shooting hoops, playing dice, smoking and drinking. Fang had heard bottles break and angry disputes dissolve into laughter.
It was late, a bit past midnight. The air was cold. Fang crouched against the wall of the abandoned building, its windows broken and burned out. The deserted lot was full of stuff people probably didn’t know how to get rid of: a stripped car, its side still blotched with red Bondo; an old mattress; naked box springs; half a baby’s crib, smashed and spray painted.
Fang had been waiting here, still and silent, for most of the night. This was what he’d left the flock to do. This is what Max would not have understood.
He could hear footsteps approaching him. It was his guy, no doubt. An empty glass bottle struck the wall and shattered with a force that seemed unnaturally loud.
Three, two, one…
With precise timing, Fang sprang out from the darkness.
But there was no one there. What the?
Before Fang knew what was happening, the guy had shoved him against the wall, a knife at his throat.
“No one sneaks up on me,
Fang always kept cool, but he couldn’t help letting a smile come to his lips. This guy was good. He was quick and strong and scary. Fang was going to need someone with those qualities on his team. But he wouldn’t let himself be subdued so easily, and certainly not by a mere
With an almost imperceptible flick of his arm, Fang grabbed the hand holding the knife and twisted it behind the guy’s back, pinning him. In the same instant Fang’s, other hand clapped over the guy’s mouth.
“Don’t say a word, Ratchet. Your friends can’t know I’m here.”
Ratchet squinted at Fang in the dark, as if to confirm that this was the same person he’d seen on the blog. Ratchet nodded tentatively, indicating that he was going to cooperate. For now, anyway.
“You make
Ratchet made a muffled response behind Fang’s powerful hand, then Fang released his grip.
“What’s the word?” Fang quizzed.
“Maximum,” Ratchet said, uttering the password they’d agreed on.
Fang let him go, and Ratchet put on his sunglasses, trying to recoup his swagger. “A’ight, dude. S’long as there’re no capes and tights anywhere in your game.”
And so it began. This guy made it into Fang’s new flock—of one.
10
“NO,” I SAID AGAIN.
Just to catch you up, during that brief intermission, all certifiably crazy talk of my producing a feathered dynasty had been dropped, as my mom had insisted. We started eating lunch. But Jeb and Dr. Gunther-Hagen had something else up their dirty sleeves.
“Max, please,” Jeb said.
“We’re asking you to do this for your own good,” said Dr. Uber-Goober.
“The stuff you’re asking me to do for my own good would stun a yak,” I said pointedly. “No.”
“My plane is right outside.” Jeb tried again. “Or you can fly yourself. I just want you to see the possibilities.”
“Nope.” I took another bite of PB&J. Even my mom’s peanut-butter sandwiches tasted better than any other peanut-butter sandwiches. I highly recommend having a mom.
“It isn’t far—a twenty-minute flight.” Jeb tried to sound stern.
“Tough,” I said through a mouthful of sandwich.
“Max, this really isn’t optional,” Dr. Hans said firmly. “The Rocco Laurie School for the Gifted houses many of the children you will be leading when the time comes. They need to be able to recognize you and vice versa.”
I gestured at him with my sandwich. “Don’t even talk to me.” Then I turned to our resident blond cherub. “Angel, what do you
