James Patterson - Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports

"We're going to take a plane?" Nudge asked, her voice practically squeaking.

Total frowned. "Isn't that redundant?"

I sighed.

Flying west without Max was like flying with one wing missing, Fang thought. He kept seeing her face, furious, confused, and, even though she would never admit it, scared. He'd seen that face just about every day of his entire life. He'd seen it filthy with caked-on dirt, bruised and bloodied, snarling, laughing, sleeping, telling complicated lies with total sincerity...looking down at him with that light in her eyes, that communication between them...

But she had his back against a wall. What did she expect him to do? Just lie back and take Ari? Like, oh, sure, he'd just forget how many times Ari'd tried to kill them, how likely it was that he was wired and tracking them, how dangerous he was to have around. He was a disaster of patched-together body parts, upgrades, twisted emotions, psychological torture. A walking, flying time bomb about to explode.

Fang looked at it this way: If you knew you were checking out in a couple days no matter what, well, what did it matter what the heck you did? You could do crazy stuff, dangerous stuff, break any law, kill anybody. None of it would matter because you'd be cold and stiff in a couple days. Friends didn't matter, loyalty didn't matter. You could burn any bridge.

That was who Max was choosing to spend time with. Who she was letting hang around the younger kids.

Fang would have followed Max to the end of the world, wherever and whenever that was. If she'd dropped into the cone of an active volcano, he would have backed her up, no matter what.

But he couldn't go along with Ari.

"Fang?" The Gasman's voice was subdued. None of them liked being split up. If they felt as though half of them were missing, it was because they were.

Fang looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Where are we going?"

"West Coast," Fang said. The opposite of wherever Max was going.

"What's there?" Iggy asked.

Funny you should ask. "The biggest information-dissemination system in the world," Fang said. "A place to get out news fast."

The Gasman frowned. "What, like, some computer place? Some kind of tower?"

Fang shook his head. "People magazine."

"Is this part of the 'lie low and be inconspicuous' plan?" Iggy asked pointedly.

"No," Fang said, angling his wing tips just a hair to lead them into a twenty-three-degree turn. "This is part of the 'blow the story open, post the blog, tell the world' plan."

"Oh."

Yep. Always pretend there was a plan. A lesson he'd learned so very well from Max.

"I hate you! You're such losers!" Iggy's face was a picture of anger and frustration. "You're just being jerks."

Fang rolled his eyes. Then, remembering, he said, "I'm rolling my eyes, Iggy."

"I'm shrugging my shoulders," said the Gasman, taking a stupendous bite of hot dog. "I have no idea what the heck you're talking about."

"Describe the people on this beach," Iggy said again. "This is Venice Beach! Part of LA. Home of Freak University! And you guys are, like, looking at maps and stuff!"

"Is there really a college named Freak University?" The Gasman looked thrilled.

"No," Fang told him. So much for Gazzy's dreams of higher education. Fang smoothed the map out on the slatted bench in front of them and started looking for landmarks.

Until Iggy kicked him.

"Ow! Dang it! What's wrong with you?"

Unerringly, Iggy's hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Fang's shirt. He pulled Fang's face close to his own. "Describe. The. People."

"There's a million people," Fang said, irritated. "Why? Are you meeting someone in particular here? Should I be looking for a man with a rose in his teeth, holding a New York Times?"

"This is Venice Beach," Iggy said again. "Home of roller disco. I smell coconut oil. I hear high-pitched giggles. I know we must be surrounded by beach bunnies, and you're looking at a map!"

Oh.

"What's a beach bunny?" the Gasman asked, his mouth full.

Fang glanced around. "Beach bunny, schmeach bunny. Who cares? As long as they're not Flyboys."

Iggy groaned so loudly that several people nearby turned to look. Fang kicked his shin lightly, telling him to cool it.

"Who cares?" Iggy whispered, sounding outraged. "Who cares? I do! You can see them. I can't. And God knows I won't be able to get familiar with them by touch. Just do me a favor!"

What would Max do in this case? Fang wondered. Actually, he didn't think Iggy would have talked to Max about it. This was a guy-guy situation.

Sighing, Fang looked around. "Um, okay. There are two girls over there. One's in a white bikini. One has 'Utopia' written across her butt. They have big blond hair. Um, over there is an Asian girl, skating on Rollerblades, with her dog, like a greyhound or something, running beside her. Oops, she almost took out that stroller."

"What's she wearing?" Iggy asked.

"A striped bikini."

"And knee guards," the Gasman put in.

"Oh, man," Iggy breathed. "More, more."

He never would have done this in front of Max, Fang thought. She would have been all over him like ugly on an ape, telling him what a sexist pig he was.

But they were all guys here.

"Um, there's a girl meeting her friend," he went on. "Her friend is giving her an ice-cream cone. Oh-it's dripping. Huh. It, uh, dripped on her...chest."

Iggy drew in a hissing breath.

"It's gonna stain for sure," the Gasman said. "That's chocolate."

"Hmm," Fang said, watching the girl dab at her chest with a paper napkin.

"What's that sound?" the Gasman asked.

"Huh?"

"That sound," the Gasman insisted. "What's that sound? Fang."

Fang blinked a couple times and looked down, where the Gasman was yanking on his sleeve. "Sound?"

Then he heard it. A droning hum. A teeming chorus of metallic voices.

Oh, crap.

"Up and away!" he said. "It's Flyboys. They've found us!"

So, for those of you in the LA area, I need to fess up about the major wreckage over at the big Hollywood sign. A million hopefuls have fixated on that sign as a symbol of future movie careers, and I sure do apologize about it being destroyed.

But it wasn't my fault.

The Gasman, Iggy, and I were minding our own business somewhere in the greater LA area (which extends from Tijuana up to Pismo Beach), and suddenly, out of nowhere, a couple hundred Flyboys dropped down on us. How did they know where we were? I always assumed they tracked us either by Max's chip or by Angel's dog.

Which, as you've probably heard, are with us no longer.

So how'd they know where to find us?

Unless one of us three is telling them?

Which is impossible, of course.

Anyway, like I told you before, Max saw thousands of Flyboys back at the School, hanging in rows, charging up. So today they let a bunch of 'em go for a test-drive. I have to tell you people, those things are fast. They're strong. They can go for a long time without stopping.

But smart? Not so much.

Gaz, Iggy, and I shot up, fast, from where we'd been innocently hanging out. We're always better off in the air. Of course jaws dropped, eyes popped, small children screamed, etc., when we suddenly whipped out wings and took flight. I guess we're unusual even for LA.

The three of us against a couple hundred Flyboys? I don't think so. Sure, maybe sixty, or even eighty, no problem. But not two hundred. Not even if Max were there.