Desperate times call for desperate measures. I don’t know who first said that, but they were right on the money. I took a deep breath, then very, very quietly, began to move toward Ella.
27
Okay, two more blood samples and the glucose assay will be done. Then we can do the EEGs.
Why isn’t this over? Where are you, Max? Angel thought sadly as the whitecoat approached. The front of Angel’s dog crate opened, and a guy knelt down and peered in at her. She pressed herself against the back as hard as she could.
He reached in to grab her hand, where the shunt was, and noticed her face. He turned back to his fellow whitecoats. “What happened to it?”
“It bit Reilly earlier,” someone said. “He hit it.”
Angel tried to pull herself into a tight little ball. The whole left side of her face throbbed. But she was glad she’d bitten him. She hated him. Hated all of them.
Stupid Reilly. Guy should work in a car wash. If he wrecks this specimen, I’ll kill him.
“Doesn’t he realize how unique this subject is?” the whitecoat said angrily. “I mean, this is Subject Eleven. Does he know how long we’ve been looking for it? You tell Reilly not to damage the merchandise.”
He reached in and tried to take Angel’s hand again.
Angel didn’t know what she should do. The plastic shunt on the back of her hand hurt, and she’d cradled it against her chest. All day she’d had nothing to eat or drink, and then they’d made her drink some horrible, sickly sweet orange stuff. They’d taken blood from her arm, but she’d fought them and bit that one guy. So they’d put a shunt in the back of her hand to make taking blood easier. They’d drawn her blood three times already.
Angel felt near tears but clenched her jaw.
Slowly, she uncoiled herself a tiny bit and edged closer to the opening. She stretched her hand toward the lab guy.
“That’s it,” he said soothingly, and pulled out a needle with a test tube attached. He unclipped the stop on the shunt and pushed the needle in. “This won’t hurt. Honest.”
Angel turned away, keeping her back to him, that one hand stretched away from her.
It didn’t take long, and it didn’t hurt. Maybe he was a good whitecoat—like Jeb. And maybe the moon was made out of cream cheese.
28
“Okay,” said Iggy. “We’re being very careful. Hello? Gazzy? We’re being very careful?”
“Check,” said the Gasman, patting the explosive package they called Big Boy.
“Nails?”
The Gasman rattled the jar. “Check.”
“Tarp? Cooking oil?”
“Check, check.” The Gasman
nodded. “We are geniuses. Those Erasers’ll never know what hit ’em. If only we had time to dig a pit.”
“Yeah, and put poison stakes at the bottom,” Iggy agreed. “But I think what we’ve got is good. Now we need to fly out, stay out of sight, and check on how the roads run, and whether the Erasers have made camp anywhere.”
“Okay. Then we can seed the roads with the nails and set up the tarp and oil.” The Gasman grinned. “We just have to make sure not to get caught.”
“Yes. That would be bad,” Iggy said with a straight face. “Now, is it night yet?”
“Pretty much. I found you some dark clothes.” The Gasman pressed a shirt and pants into Iggy’s hands. “And I’ve got some too. So, you ready to roll?” He hoped Iggy couldn’t hear how nervous he was. This was a great plan; they had to do it—but failure would be disastrous. And probably deadly.
“Yeah. I’m bringing Big Boy in case an opportunity arises.” Iggy changed his clothes, then put their homemade bomb into a backpack and slung it onto his shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said, as if he could see the Gasman’s expression. “It can’t go off till I set the timer. It’s, like, a safety bomb.”
The Gasman tried to smile. He cranked open the hall window as wide as it would go and perched on the ledge. His palms were sweating, and his stomach was all fluttery. But he had no choice—this was for Angel. This was to show people what would happen if they messed with his family.