The Trap (The Magnificent 12 2)

Stefan saw it a split second sooner and was a split second quicker to react. He jumped in front of Mack. The blade pierced Stefan in the center of his chest.

Stefan cried out in surprise and pain.

Jarrah rushed at Nine Iron and shoved him onto his butt. The sword went flying, twirling across the polished tile floor.

Mack caught Stefan as he slumped forward.

“Dude!” Mack cried.

“Huh,” Stefan remarked. He put a hand over the hole. Blood seeped through his fingers.

Mack heard shouts and ru

shing feet. No way to know whether it was guards or elves, and it probably didn’t matter.

“Run!” Mack hissed.

They ran, with Stefan moving at half speed and looking as if he’d soon be going slower.

Much slower.

Chapter Nine

Run!”

They ran. Out into the courtyard. Dozens of flashlights stabbed the darkness like light sabers. Chinese voices were yelling.

Mack didn’t know what they were yelling, but it was probably “Get them!”

They passed beneath an arch, up a ramp, down a staircase, running blind, no idea where they were going, just running.

But as they ran, Mack kept thinking he really should stop, give himself up. The guards would call an ambulance for Stefan. They could probably save his life.

But if they gave up, Mack would be kicked out of the country and sent home. What would become of the Magnificent Twelve then?

This was not the kind of decision Mack liked to make. Doom Stefan or doom the world. That wasn’t like choosing between shorts and jeans. This was life and death.

But it probably wasn’t going to matter much. Because suddenly Mack, Jarrah, and Stefan had run out of places to run.

They were boxed in. Guards were closing from three directions, and the fourth direction was a wall beautifully decorated in tile. Ten flashlights were in their faces, blinding their eyes.

“We have to give up,” Mack said to Jarrah.

Mack’s phone rang. He jumped about three feet in the air. “Aaah!”

“Two . . . three . . . seven . . . nine!” Jarrah said.

“What are you counting?” Mack pulled out his phone. The display showed his home number. No way he could answer it, no way.

Today Mack’s teacher said, “Where is your English paper, Mr. MacAvoy?” I said, “In England?” The teacher sent me a very hard look. “Your English paper, Mr. MacAvoy. The one I assigned last week.” This was confusing, so I said, “ I don’t understand ass sign.” So now I have extra detention. Double detained. I think I had better call Mack about the English paper. I hope he’s not busy.

“The wall! Look at it!”

Mack turned away from the advancing guards. The decorated wall wasn’t just pretty tile. Jarrah was right: nine brightly colored dragons cavorted down the hundred-foot length of it.

“Huh,” Stefan said, but he wasn’t appreciating the wall. He was noticing that some small shadows were creeping up behind the guards, even as the guards were edging closer.

“Back off, you quivering jelly bags of mucus!” one of the Tong Elves said. “They’re ours!”