Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports (Maximum Ride 3)

“I mean, points for the jail cell,” I went on, motioning at the room with my head. “Kudos for the Velcro straps. Those were good starts. But you’re sort of falling down with the chocolate-chip cookies. Like, did you skip school the day they taught hostage treatment?”

Pink patches flared on her cheeks, and she stepped back.

“Keep your lousy cookies,” I said, narrowing my eyes and letting a snarl enter my voice. “Whatever you sick freaks have planned for us, get on with it. ’Cause otherwise you’re just wasting our time.”

Now her face was stiff as a mask, and she started to head to the door.

This is a plan, I thought. When they came in to get us for whatever, that would be our chance. And we would seize it.

She was almost to the door when Total raised his head weakly. “Not so fast,” he croaked. “I’ll take a cookie. I’m not proud.”

Fang and I exchanged looks, and we rolled our eyes.

The woman looked startled when Total spoke and didn’t know what to make of his request. So she just hurried out the door, and when it slammed behind her, I felt it in my bones.

40

“Okay, the second they undo us, make sure all heck breaks loose,” I said when everyone was awake the next morning—at least I figured it was morning, since someone had turned the lights on again.

The flock nodded, but with none of the angry thirst for revenge they would need to escape.

“Look, we’ve had our backs against the wall before,” I reminded them. “These guys always screw up, always make a mistake. We’ve gotten the best of them every time, and it’ll be the same here.”

No reaction whatsoever.

“Come on, guys, buck up,” I coaxed. “Let’s see some insane rage put apples in those cheeks.”

Nudge smiled faintly, but the others seemed lost in their own worlds, tugging without purpose against their straps. Fang sent me an understanding look, and I felt so frustrated and stuck that I wanted to howl.

The door opened with a whoosh, and I quickly met everyone’s eyes: This was it!

It was Jeb. Followed by Anne Walker, whom we hadn’t seen since we ditched her Martha Stewart farmhouse in Virginia. And the unholy trio was completed by a golden-curled little girl: Angel, who was eating a chocolate-chip cookie and calmly watching me with her big blue eyes.

“Angel!” Gazzy’s voice broke as he understood that his sister had turned against us. “Angel, how could you?”

“Hello, Max,” said Anne Walker, not smiling, not looking at all adoptive mom–like.

I sighed heavily and stared at the ceiling. No crying. Not one tear.

Jeb came and stood right next to my bed, so close I could smell his aftershave. Its scent awoke a slew of childhood memories, the years between ten and twelve years old, when I’d felt the happiest I ever had.

“Hello, Max,” he said quietly, searching my face. “How do you feel?”

Which was a ten on the “imbecilic question” scale of one to ten.

“Why, I feel fine, Jeb,” I said brightly. “How about you?”

“Any nausea? Headache?”

“Yep. And it’s standing here talking to me.”

His fingers brushed the covers on top of my leg, and I tried not to shudder.

“Does it feel like you’ve been through a lot?” he asked.

I stared at him. “Yeah. Kind of. And sadly, I’m still going through it.”

Jeb turned and nodded at Anne Walker, and she made a noncommittal face back at him.