Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure (Maximum Ride 8)

“And then find Angel,” he said fervently. “And spring her out of there. And do serious damage to whoever’s had her.”

I winced. “Gaz…”

“I know, I know,” the Gasman said. “Could be a trap, she might not be there, I get it. But still. She could be alive, Max!”

“Yeah, sweetie,” I said, grinning. “She could be.”

I happened to look over and meet Dylan’s eyes, which were as blue as the sky we were flying in. He hadn’t said much this morning. Actually, he hadn’t been saying all that much since Fang had returned. Mr. Discuss Everything was suddenly how Fang used to be. Meanwhile, Fang was now talking and emoting and expressing more than ever before. It was like the two of them had switched personalities.

“Yo, up ahead!” Fang said suddenly. “I see something!”

Nudge nodded excitedly. “It looks like a cluster of buildings!”

We all—well, except Iggy—concentrated on the ground, letting our raptor vision focus in on what indeed appeared to be a cluster of buildings, some of which were made of boring gray and black stone, others of brick and gleaming one-way glass. The buildings were arranged in the shape of a T, and to be honest, they looked like they could hold pretty much anything institutional and uninteresting. A coat-hanger factory. Whatever.

Except for the fact that they were in the middle of nowhere, with no cities, towns, or even houses in sight. And their location corresponded perfectly with the map we’d been given online.

“This is it,” Fang muttered. “Circle down.”

As we drifted back down to earth, Dylan moved closer to me. “Ready to beat up some whitecoats?” he said over the noise of the wind.

“Always,” I said. And I was glad he was with me.

The six of us landed among a sea of small desert shrubs and immediately sank down to their height, keeping low. Then we got in a huddle to go over the plan for the umpteenth time.

“Okay, so first Max and I scout the place,” said Fang. “Look for possible cracks in the armor, etc. If we don’t come back within a half hour—”

“We fly to Badwater Basin,” Iggy interrupted. “Then we wait for three days. Then, if you’re still not back—”

“We absolutely do not barge in there and attempt to rescue you,” Nudge deadpanned, repeating the words I’d drilled into all of them over and over again. “We act like sensible, self-preserving mutants and head back to Oregon.”

“Good,” I said. “Anybody have a problem with the plan?”

They all shook their heads no. Except Dylan. I knew he wanted to go with me, knew he was miffed, or peeved, or maybe even furious that I’d asked him to stay with the others. He’d bought my explanation—that they would need another good fighter with them, and that Dylan, out of all of us, was the least well known to the inner circle of crazed maniacs who seemed to chase us everywhere we went. He’d bought it. But he wasn’t happy about it.

I looked at Fang. “You ready?”

He nodded, his eyes burning into mine, reading me, knowing my needs and my history and, it seemed, even my thoughts.

We’d just bent our knees and were about to take off together when Iggy yelled, “Wait!”

We all turned to him, instantly on the alert. “Fire,” he warned. “I smell smoke.”

“Smoke?” I glanced around, not seeing or smelling anything other than the undisturbed buildings and the clear, sunny day. “From where?”

Wordlessly, he pointed in the direction of the facility we were about to break into, and then the breeze changed and I smelled it, too: smoke. Lots of it.

Little did we know then that the 99% Plan was in effect… just a little bit ahead of schedule.

53

THE SMOKE LED us right to the burning building, which was eerily hushed, with only the crackling sound of dying flames, and no signs of life anywhere at first glance. No panicked refugees, no firefighters—just a red-hot shell.

When the fire had finally died down enough for us to safely explore the inside of the smoking facility, we stepped gingerly through the wreckage. Everything was horribly, deathly silent.

My intestines sank down to my shoes.

Marks from the fire had streaked the walls—or what remained of them—with gray and black. The stench of smoke permeated the dry air completely, scorched metal lay heaped where foundations used to be, and machinery that I recognized as mutant-testing equipment lay blackened and twisted in the rubble.