&
nbsp; He turned to them.
“So, I guess I’m asking you guys the same thing. How far are we willing to go to stop Saint John?”
Nix pulled her journal from her pack and held it out to Benny. “As far as it takes,” she said.
96
THEY WERE FIVE MILES FROM Mountainside when they saw two men on horses standing in the middle of the road. Benny slowed his quad and stopped twenty feet from them. Both men wore jeans and carpet coats, and both had red sashes across their chests. The man on the left was the smaller of the two. He had dark skin and a shaved head and machetes slung from each hip. The man on the right was thick in the chest and shoulders, and the handle of a wooden bokken rose above his left shoulder, held in place by a cloth sling. The horses shied at the sound of the engine, so Benny cut the motor off. So did the others.
Everyone—the two men and the five of them—dismounted, and for a few fractured moments they stood in the road and stared at one another.
“Oh my God,” Benny heard Nix say.
He walked forward until he stood a foot away from the taller of the two. Close enough to shake hands. Close enough to punch.
He said, “Morgie.”
Morgie Mitchell looked at Benny, at the quads, at Chong and Lilah. At Riot.
At Nix.
Benny tensed against what was coming. Rage. Hard words. Fists.
Then Morgie suddenly gave a huge whoop of pure, unfiltered delight and swept Benny off the ground in a fierce bear hug.
“You ugly monkey-banger!” he bellowed. He swung Benny around in a circle, scaring the horses. Nix and Chong came running over. They wrapped their arms around Morgie. Nix kissed him. They spun in a crazy circle, ignoring all the stares and gasps and words.
Morgie tugged his arms free and then rewrapped everyone and pulled them close.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tears running down his cheeks. “Benny . . . Nix . . . I’m so sorry. I’m a stupid ape and you have every right to kick my ass.”
“Ughh . . . sure, okay . . . love to,” gasped Benny. “But . . . ouch.”
Morgie realized that the look on Benny’s face had gone from delight to pain, and he let him go. “Did I hurt you? Ah, jeez, I’m a freaking idiot. I—”
“No,” wheezed Benny, backing off and staggering. “I kind of have a knife wound thing going on, and I think I popped my stitches.”
“Knife wound?” echoed Morgie.
Benny’s knees buckled, and the other man darted forward and caught him.
“I never thought I’d see you again, Benjamin Imura,” said Solomon Jones. “I never thought we’d see any of you again.”
He helped Benny over to a fallen log and steadied him as he sat. The others clustered around. Benny could feel wet heat under his clothes.
“How are you here?” asked Morgie, his face almost slack with confusion. “And how do you have cars?”
“Not cars, Morg,” said Chong, clapping him on the back. “Quads.”
Morgie looked past him to the girl with the leather vest and scalp tattoos.
“Whoa,” he said. “Hello. Where’d you come from?”
“It’s a long story,” said Nix.
“Plenty of daylight for a good yarn,” said Solomon. “We have lots of time.”