Max: A Maximum Ride Novel

by James Patterson

  “You have nice hair and really pretty eyes,” Angel went on earnestly.

  I rolled over a bit. “Yeah. Brown and brown.” Have I mentioned how much Fang loves red hair? I believe I have.

  “No, your hair has little sun streaks in it,” Angel informed me. “And your eyes are like — you know those chocolates we had in France? With the gooey stuff in the middle, with the alcohol in ’em except we didn’t know, and Gazzy ate a million and then barfed all night? Those chocolates?”

  As much as I had tried to suppress all memory of that incident, it rushed back to me in vivid Technicolor. “The color of my eyes is like barfed-up chocolate?” Despair settled over me. There was no hope.

  “No, the chocolates before they were barfed,” Angel clarified.

  So there you have it, the extent of my charms: brown hair and eyes like unbarfed chocolate. I’m a lucky girl.

  “Max,” said Angel. “You know Fang is the best guy ever. And he loves you. ’Cause you’re the best girl ever.”

  With anyone else, I could ask them how they know that and then discredit them. Not Angel. She knew because she’d seen it, in his mind.

  “We all love each other, Ange,” I said impatiently, hating this whole conversation.

  “No, not like this,” she went on relentlessly. “Fang loves you.”

  Here’s a little secret you might not have picked up on about me: I can’t stand gushy emotion. Hate crying. Hate feeling sad. Am not even too crazy about feeling happy. So all this — the vulnerability, the longing, the terror — I desperately wanted it to all go away forever. I wanted to cut it out of me like they’d cut out that chip. (See book three; I can’t keep explaining everything. If I’m gonna take the trouble to write this stuff down, the least you can do is read it.)

  But right now, I needed Angel to shut up.

  “Okay, maybe I’ll give him a break,” I said, rolling over and closing my eyes.

  “Maybe you should give him more than that,” Angel pressed.

  My eyes flared open as I didn’t dare to think what she might mean.

  “He could totally be your boyfriend,” she went on with annoying persistence. “You guys could get married. I could be like a junior bridesmaid. Total could be your flower dog.”

  “I’m only a kid!” I shrieked. “I can’t get married!”

  “You could in New Hampshire.”

  My mouth dropped open. How does she know this stuff? “Forget it! No one’s getting married!” I hissed. “Not in New Hampshire or anywhere else! Not in a box, not with a fox! Now go to sleep, before I kill you!”

  Oh yeah, like I got any sleep after that.

  7

  YOU’VE NEVER SEEN just how mega a megalopolis can be until you’ve seen Mexico City. I guess there might be bigger burgs in like China or something, but boy howdy, Mexico City seems endless.

  Anyway, the Bane of My Existence and I had agreed to one more air show, and of course it was the one in Mexico City, where Dr. Wonderful would be meeting us.

  So we were over a ginormous open-air stadium, the Estadio Azteca, which held about 114,000 people. Every seat was filled. We’d changed the choreography and order of stunts since the last show, so if anyone had made a plan to take us out, they’d have to rethink it. Around us, mile upon mile of densely packed buildings stretched as far as we could see, and we can see pretty dang far.

  “I need a scuba tank,” Nudge said, flying over to me. She was holding her nose with one hand. “And a face mask.” She gave a couple of coughs and shook her head, her eyes watering.

  “I assume you’re referring to the wee pollution problem?” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the wind and the multitudes cheering below. The people in the stadium were looking up to see us silhouetted against a thick gray sky. But it was not a cloudy day. The thing is, with nineteen million-plus people and four million-plus cars and a bunch of businesses making stuff, Mexico City is incredibly, horribly, nauseatingly polluted.

  Which was why the CSM wanted us to be there — to bring international attention to it. When Dr. Wonderful was prepping us for the air show, she’d told us that there had been half a million pollution-related hospital cases just in the past year.

  Now we were wondering if we were going to raise that number to half a million and seven.

  “I’m getting a headache,” Gazzy said, circling closer to me. We split apart in a six-pointed star, with Total in the middle, and the crowd below went crazy. Like a huge, rolling wave of sound, the chants came to us.

  “We have the power! The future is now! Kids rule!”

  I raised an eyebrow at Fang. “Kids rule?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t control what they quote from the blog,” he said. “What am I gonna say? ‘More power to grown-ups?’ I don’t think so.”

  “How many readers do you have now?” Fang had started a blog months ago, using our super-duper-contraband computer. He had his own fan clubs and everything. Girls sent him ridiculous e-mails about how wonderful he was, what a hero, etc. It was enough to turn your stomach.

  “About six hundred thousand log in pretty much every day,” Fang said, automatically scanning the airspace around us. He and I suddenly soared upward, facing each other, about two feet apart. The crowd below gasped, and I knew it looked impressive as all get-out.

  Then Iggy zoomed up to join us, and he, Fang, and I made a triangle, our wings moving in perfect order so that we didn’t whap each other on the upstroke. Total hovered way above us, like a star on top of a Christmas tree.

  A hundred yards below us, Nudge, Gazzy, and Angel were a triple stack of bird kids, centered one over the other, moving their wings in unison: everyone up, everyone down. At Gazzy’s signal, they all turned and started rocketing earthward, still precisely stacked.

  Fang, Iggy, Total, and I counted to ten, then angled downward also: it was time for us to land on the field. Supposedly they were going to give us some kind of award.

  “You’re national heroes,” Dr. Amazing had said earlier, pushing her, yes, red hair out of her eyes while Fang watched her with interest. “Not only here, but in other countries too. You guys are so young, but you’ve accomplished so much and exposed so much evil. Plus, you helped publicize the melting of the planet’s ice, and spoke to Congress. You’re amazing.”

  Who was she beaming at? Yes. Fang.

  Who, exactly, had gotten up the nerve to speak to Congress? That would be moi.

  But, judging from Brigid Dwyer’s unprofessional adoration, Fang alone had just saved the entire known world with one wing tied behind his back.

  It had been all I could do not to trip Brigid on her way out. Which was stupid, because why did I care? Never mind. Forget I asked.

  The field below — big enough for the World Cup, the Olympics, and anything else where 114,000 people suddenly needed to be at the same place at the same time — beckoned us. There was a line of uniformed security guards hired by the CSM ringing the perimeter to protect us.

  I saw Nudge, Gazzy, and Angel land flawlessly and wave at the crowd as a hundred thousand cameras flashed. Unfortunately, since a camera flash bears a striking resemblance to the flash a gun makes when it’s fired, by the time I reached the ground, I was so twitchy and pumped full of adrenaline that I felt like I might hurl.

  We joined the rest of the flock on the green turf and then all automatically circled, facing outward, as if we were six (and a half) cute little covered wagons warding off Indians who were inexplicably ticked off that we’d taken all their land and given them colds and killed most of them.

  The crowd was roaring too loudly for us to hear guns. Heck, we wouldn’t have been able to hear a chopper. It was, pretty much, the most nightmarish situation I could possibly imagine, without literally involving a dog crate.

  And you know what’s coming, right?

  Yeah. The actual nightmare part.

  8

  The setting: An impossibly big open stadium in impressive but noxious Mexico City.

 
The cast of characters: The flock, Total, Dr. Amazing, and some very nice Mexican officials who wanted to give us an award. Plus a TV crew.

  The plot: Just wait. It’s coming.

  “I hate this. Get me outta here,” I said to Fang, keeping a smile stuck to my face. We were waving to the crowd, so many camera flashes going off that I was sure I’d be blind in a minute.

  “This is not a good setup,” Fang agreed, looking around constantly.

  Total, Iggy, Gazzy, and Nudge were working the crowd like old hands, bowing and soaking up the applause. Gazzy was spreading his wings and doing little six-foot hops into the air, and each time the crowd roared even louder.

  Finally, one of the assembled officials tapped on a microphone located at the center of the stadium. Brigid Dwyer stood next to them, ready to give a speech about the CSM and what it was trying to accomplish worldwide.

  The official said something in Spanish, and the crowd cheered and clapped, chanting quotes from Fang’s blog. Then Brigid took the microphone and waited for relative quiet.

  “Buenos días, señors y señoras,” Brigid said, and people cheered. “Hoy nosotros —”

  Right then, a piercing scream soared above the crowd’s murmur and stopped Brigid cold. Gazzy saw them first: ninja-type thingies leaping over the upper ledge of the stadium and rappelling down to the field.

  “Heads up!” Fang shouted. We had a second to exchange glances, thinking the same thing: We hadn’t seen them on the roof, just minutes before. Where had they come from?

  “Up and away!” I yelled to the flock, then saw the problem: Brigid couldn’t fly out with us. We couldn’t leave her to the ninjas’ mercy, or lack thereof. We couldn’t abandon her and the rest of the people who had hosted us.

  The officials, Brigid, and the TV crew gazed openmouthed as at least sixty slim, dark figures hit the ground and headed for us. I sized up the situation in an instant: a hundred thousand people who might be injured or killed in crossfire; innocent people right here on the field who would only get in our way; the seven of us up against about sixty of whatever this new threat was.

  It was like old times.

  “Belay that!” I shouted. “Battle up!”

  As a maternal figure, I always try to keep the flock safe, of course. But I admit, it did my heart proud to see the instant blood-lust pop into Gazzy’s blue eyes and to see little Angel automatically tense up and get into fighting stance, ready to rip someone’s head off. They were just so — so dang adorable, sometimes.

  We were a tiny bit out of practice. I hadn’t taken anyone apart in several weeks. But once you’ve learned the nasty, street-fighting, no-holds-barred art of Max Kwon Do, you never really forget it.

  “Get ’em!” I shouted as the dark figures raced toward us. Liquid-fire adrenaline surged into my veins, making me jittery and lightning fast.

  As soon as one was within striking range, I jumped up and out, both feet forward. They connected heavily, slamming the New Threat in its middle. It doubled over but snapped upright quickly, its dark hood slipping back to reveal a weird, humanish face. Humanish except for the glowing green laserlike eyes.

  I landed, spun on one heel, and snapkicked backward as hard as I could. I caught it in the shoulder and heard a crunching, breaking sound.

  With its good arm, it swung at my head, much faster than a human could and with more force. I leaped backward just in time, feeling the barest brush of its knuckles against my cheek.

  A second one rushed up, followed by a third. One grabbed me from behind, tearing my jacket — my new jacket that my mom had given me. Brand-new, not from Goodwill or a Dumpster. He’d torn it.

  Now I was mad. A split-second glance revealed that the flock was doing what it did best: deconstructing things. No one needed help, so I balled my fists, put my head down, and went after my attackers.

  These skirmishes always seem to last much longer than they actually do. I felt like I was punching and kicking and swinging and whaling for two hours, but it was probably about six minutes or so. During that time, I figured out that these New Threat thingies had a couple vulnerable spots: If you brought both hands down in a chopping motion right on top of their heads, their heads actually split open into several metallic strips, like a sectioned orange. Okay, a really gross orange, but you get the idea.

  Another vulnerable spot: their trim little ankles. One good strong kick, and they snapped like balsa wood.

  In less than ten minutes, thanks to us and the hired security force, the grassy lawn looked like a combination of an army field hospital and an automobile chop shop. Brigid and the officials were white-faced, huddled together by the podium. A quick inventory of the flock revealed the usual bruises, bloody noses, and black eyes, but nothing serious.

  Fang came up to me, his face grim, his knuckles raw and bleeding.

  I knew what he was going to say. “Okay. No more air shows,” I said.

  9

  DR. DWYER AND THE CSM had arranged for a special safe house for us — actually five, four were decoys — and kept the real location a secret until we were in a car headed there.

  “Seeing battles is hard, if you’re not used to it,” Fang said, watching Brigid’s white face. She nodded tensely, struggling to maintain her cool. She hadn’t been hurt, but her clothes were spattered with blood — I’d been standing right next to her when I had happily discovered the New Threat’s orangey weakness.

  “It’s not a picnic even if you are used to it,” I said.

  “What were those things?” Iggy asked, rubbing his bruised and scraped knuckles.

  “Not sure,” I said. I’d been trying to figure that out myself. They hadn’t been Erasers, those wolf-human hybrids that had tried to kill us about once every hour for the last four years. They hadn’t been Flyboys, which were the flying, cyborg version of Erasers. They hadn’t been straight robots. They were roboty, but with a bit of flesh grown over their frames, and apparently didn’t fly. They hadn’t spoken, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t.

  “It’s a mystery,” I said, deciding to worry about it later. Right now I was hungry and a little shaky from the drop in adrenaline.

  I pushed my hair out of my eyes, and just then noticed that Dr. Brilliant’s hair was actually cut in a style, like on purpose. I’ve had my hair cut by an actual hairdresser exactly once in my life, and that was many, many battles ago.

  I felt like a truck driver next to Brigid Dwyer. A truck driver with bad hair, a black eye, dried blood around my nose, and ripped and bloody clothes. Not an unusual look for me, but all of a sudden, I felt — I don’t know. I don’t know what I felt.

  “Here we are,” said Brigid as we pulled into the driveway of a smallish stucco house. The houses were packed tightly together here, and the streets were full of dogs and cars, the yards strung with lines of clean laundry.

  I automatically scanned the area for possible hiding places, points of vulnerability, whether the windows were breakable, whether the trees would get in our way. Fang got out first, raked the area with his stare, and determined that it was safe.

  The rest of us piled out quickly and hurried to the back of the house. I felt tired and irritable and, worse, kept sensing Brigid looking at Fang. I just wanted to eat about three banana splits and then collapse.

  Warm yellow light spilled out a window, forming a slanted rectangle on the grass. Just as we reached the back door, it swung open. I stopped so suddenly that Angel bumped into me. I got on the balls of my feet, ready to leap into action if someone dangerous was behind that door.

  At first all I saw was a silhouette. At the same moment, a delicious, familiar scent wafted out into the warm night air.

  Chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven.

  The silhouette was my mom, Dr. Valencia Martinez, and she was smiling at me.

  And the world seemed loads better.

  10

  “MAN, I FEEL GREAT,” Gazzy said an hour later. He tipped back in his chair and patted his stomach, now full of
enchiladas, tacos, chips and salsa, and cookies. “Looove Mexico,” he crooned. “Looove Mexican food.”

  “It’s so good to see you again,” my mom said, kissing my cheek. Again.

  I beamed at her. “You too. And I haven’t seen Ella in ages.”

  “I’ve got so much to tell you,” my half sister said to me. She quickly pushed a couple tortilla chips into her mouth, her eyes wide. “We had a dance at my school!”

  My mom smiled at Ella, looking tired and proud. “Yes, she even gave up two hours with me to attend. Ella and I have been stuffing envelopes and making phone calls for the CSM in every spare minute.”

  For a second I was jealous — Ella had so much more of my mom, all the time, her whole life. Then I felt guilty. Ella deserved to have our mom, and it wasn’t her fault that I couldn’t. The fact was, my mom had had Ella in the normal way. I had been an egg donated to science and was fertilized in a test tube. Neither of us knew the other existed until this past year. And now, no matter how much we cared about each other, it was still too dangerous for me to live in one place for any length of time. Being with my mom would also mean putting her and Ella at risk. And I wouldn’t do it.

  Amazingly, I’m not that selfish. Yet.

  “You’ve been doing an incredible job for the CSM too, honey,” my mom said to me. “But I agree that the air shows must be canceled. There’s just no way to guarantee your safety.”

  Jeb Batchelder pulled out a chair and sat down, propping his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. “Has everyone had enough to eat?” he asked.

  I slowly let out a breath, not looking at him. I would never get used to seeing him again, after thinking he was dead for years. I would never accept that he was a good guy, after everything he’d done to me and the flock over the last — what was it now? Eight months? Time was so — stretchy, in my life.

  Somehow my mom trusted him. And I trusted my mom. But that was as far as it went, despite the fact that as far as I knew, he was my biological father, the other half of the test-tube cocktail that had produced me. But I never, ever thought of him as my father. Ever.