Angel (Maximum Ride 7)

Again, Dylan took my arm. He leaned down and spoke into my ear, almost inaudibly. “Up ahead. To the left. They’re behind that wall.”

I glanced into his eyes—he looked certain but cautious.

We flattened out against the wall and sidled forward, moving noiselessly, breathing very slowly, totally in sync with each other. Another five yards. Then I thought I heard Gazzy’s voice.

“Just ten,” he said.

“No,” said Angel.

“Five.”

“No.”

I shot a knowing look at Dylan but had too much experience to feel glad yet. They could be in cages. This actually could be a trap. Any number of awful things could still happen.

Slowly, I edged around the corner, listening so hard my ears hurt. The screams, chants, and clapping overhead were starting to drown out everything down here. With Dylan behind me, I sank down to my knees and eased forward so I could see.

Gazzy and Angel were alone in a huge, cavernlike room that reminded me of the subway tunnels in New York City. There was a grate of metal bars at the entrance, but it had been left open, as if someone had left in a hurry. I stood up and stepped forward.

Angel saw me first. “Max!” I saw relief on her face, but she remained quite still, and I soon saw why.

She was completely surrounded by explosives.

72

“MAX!” SAID GAZZY. “Look!” He waved his arms at piles and piles of what looked like Silly Putty. Big, huge bricks of Silly Putty. Which had wires running to them. On the wall was a digital clock with large red numbers. It was counting down.

The sewer tunnels beneath the Place de la Concorde, where thousands of people were awaiting their “new beginning,” were packed with enough C-4 to make a crater the size of Texas. France is a bit smaller than Texas.

“Thank God you’re okay, Ange,” I said, my throat tight. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’ll tell you later,” said Angel. “Time is running out. Gazzy and I came down here to check out some stuff we overheard at the DG headquarters and—”

“Max,” Gazzy broke in, practically vibrating with excitement. “Have you ever seen so many explosives?”

“No,” I said. “Not even close.”

“I guess this is the big fireworks display they were talking about,” Dylan said.

Suddenly a new voice spoke out of the darkness. “I bet you’re right.”

The four of us spun around. We assumed battle positions even as my brain realized that it was Fang, that he must have followed us, and that fighting in a room full of plastic explosives was probably not a good idea.

“Where did you come from?” I asked, rattled.

“I saw you go down,” said Fang. “I came to help.” My sense of pride flared up, then quickly faded. The days when I preferred to fight the bad guys with one wing tied behind my back were gone. The more help, the better.

“Could I maybe… just keep ten chunks?” Gazzy asked wistfully. “Small ones?”

“No,” Dylan, Fang, and I all said in unison.

“Okay, I’m seeing a lot of plastique, and it’s wired to a detonator,” I said. C-4 by itself is actually pretty stable. It needs something to ignite it before it will explode. “But what’s in these big metal tanks?”

“It’s marked VX—gaz toxique,” Angel said.

“Is that a cute French way of saying we’re surrounded by a completely lethal gaseous

nerve agent?” I asked.