Rebels With a Cause

by James Patterson

  And then Lenard giggled—for a full five minutes.

  17

  Max, Siobhan, and Tisa raced out of the subway and headed over to Washington Square Park.

  Mr. Weinstock wasn’t there!

  “That’s where we usually meet,” said Max, gesturing toward an empty chess table mounted on an iron pedestal. No one was sitting on the benches on either side. Other tables were occupied. Games were being played. But Mr. Weinstock wasn’t one of the players.

  In the distance, Max saw the silhouette of two shady figures marching along the park’s paths. Their eyes were glued to the phones they held in their hands. Siobhan saw them, too.

  “It’s those same two blokes again,” she said. “The ones who chased Max and me across the campus.”

  “How’d they know where to find you guys?” asked Tisa.

  “Judging by the way they’re studying their phones,” whispered Max, “there must be an app for that.”

  “Do you think your Mr. Weinstock set us up?” asked Siobhan, balling her fists in anger. “Is he playing for the Corp team, too?”

  “Doubtful,” said Max.

  “What should we do?” asked Tisa.

  Max looked to the street. Saw a motorcycle leaning against the curb.

  Too bad she didn’t know how to start a motorcycle without a key. Plus, three people probably couldn’t fit on the one seat.

  Suddenly, a convertible screeched to a stop.

  “Max?” shouted Isabl. She, of course, was behind the wheel. She was an incredibly skilled driver. If Isabl didn’t work for the CMI, she could’ve done car stunts in Hollywood. Charl was riding shotgun. Literally. Chances were, he had some sort of concealed weapon up front in the passenger seat with him.

  Max was glad to see Charl and Isabl. On the other hand, she wasn’t so glad that Isabl had shouted her name because the two hit men from the Corp had heard it, too. They lowered their phones and came charging across the park.

  “Head for the convertible,” Max shouted at Siobhan and Tisa. “Go!”

  They took off running.

  Max quickly surveyed her surroundings.

  She recognized some of the other chess players. Including Squeegie, a guy with a nasty temper and a very short fuse.

  “Sorry about this, you guys,” she muttered as she ran along the tables swinging her suitcase and the flaps of her overcoat to knock off all the playing pieces she could. Pawns, kings, queens, rooks, bishops—they all went flying to the pavement.

  “Why, you little…!” shouted Squeegie.

  He and about a dozen other very serious, very angry chess players leaped up from their tables and started tearing after Max. She ran straight at the two bad guys coming at her from the opposite direction.

  The mob of angry chess players was running behind her. The two goons were running toward her. It was time to apply Newton’s third law of motion.

  When the two groups pursuing her were maybe three feet apart, Max ducked and darted sharply to the left.

  The chess players and team of Corp heavies did not.

  There was a collision, resulting in equal and opposite force being applied to the two colliding objects. In other words, people ended up on their butts.

  Max dashed up the sidewalk, tossed her suitcase into the backseat of the convertible, and climbed in with her friends.

  “We need to not be here!” she shouted.

  “Roger that,” said Isabl, slamming the gas pedal down to the floorboard.

  “Sorry we were late,” shouted Charl over the screaming engine as the convertible rocketed away from the park. “We thought you guys might be hungry. We stopped to grab food. It’s in the sack back there.…”

  “Where’s Mr. Weinstock?” asked Max.

  “Safe,” said Charl. “Ben took care of that, too.”

  Isabl slid the car into a screeching turn down Broadway.

  “Uh-oh,” said Tisa. She had craned around and was looking behind the fast-moving convertible.

  At a faster-moving motorcycle.

  One of the Corp guys, the one with the snarling tattoo on his neck, was only half a block behind them.

  Unlike Max, the man knew how to start a motorcycle without a key.

  18

  “He’s gaining on us,” shouted Siobhan, who’d also spun around to gawk at the crazed man on the motorcycle.

  Isabl bobbed and weaved the sporty convertible through the thick traffic clogging New York City’s main artery. The motorcycle was able to zig and zag and match her every move.

  “Isabl?” cried Max. “Do you have a mobile infrared transmitter?”

  “You mean a traffic signal pre-emptor?” said Charl. “Those are illegal.”

  “Not for emergency vehicles,” said Max. “And, if you ask me, this is an emergency.”

  “And this is a vehicle,” said Isabl. She reached down and grabbed a small black box mounted on suction cups. She slapped it against the windshield and flicked a switch. The box started whirring and clicking.

  “What the blazes is that?” shouted Siobhan as the convertible roared and screamed down Broadway, approaching a red light.

  “A twelve-volt-powered strobe light that can change traffic signals from red to green at a distance of fifteen hundred feet,” explained Max.

  “Get out,” said Tisa. “That’s impossible.”

  The light turned green.

  “Mobile infrared transmitters were invented more than twenty years ago,” explained Max as best she could over the rush of wind that sent her mop of curls bouncing like a wild clump of inflatable air dancers outside a used car lot. “MITs were created so emergency personnel in ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks could get where they needed to be faster.”

  Another light switched from red to green.

  “Isn’t science fun?” said Siobhan with a laugh.

  One by one, the traffic lights down Broadway obeyed the strobing commands of Isabl’s device.

  “All right,” said Max. “We have our uninterrupted forward momentum. Now we just have to use it to take care of this guy behind us.”

  “I have an idea,” said Charl, reaching into his black commando jacket.

  “We can’t shoot him, you fool eejit!” said Siobhan. “We’re surrounded by innocent civilians.”

  “We don’t need a gun or bullets,” said Max. “We have these!”

  She reached into the large paper sack from Burger King.

  “Cheeseburgers?” said Tisa.

  “Double Whoppers with cheese,” said Charl.

  “Perfect,” said Max. “Force equals mass times acceleration.”

  “You want me to accelerate?”

  “Nope. Just keep it steady.”

  Isabl kept the swerving to a minimum as the traffic lights strung across the Broadway intersections continued to change from red to green.

  “Unwrap your ammunition,” said Max, handing a Whopper to Tisa and Siobhan. “Remove the top bun. Line up your shot.”

  The motorcycle guy rocked his wrist and gave his whining engine all the gas it could guzzle.

  “Here he comes!” shouted Tisa. “He’s gaining on us.”

  “Wait for it,” Max urged calmly. “Wait for it.”

  The motorcycle was only ten feet behind the convertible. The rider reached down into his belt.

  “He has a weapon!” shrieked Tisa.

  “So do we!” shouted Max. “Fire at will!”

  The three sloppy cheeseburgers went flying backward.

  Two of the flying cheeseburgers were direct hits. They smacked the motorcycle man, who wasn’t wearing a helmet, right in his face. Their sticky all-beef patties became meaty blindfolds cheese-glued to his eyes. Not able to see where he was going, the motorcycle rider swerved into a skid and, sliding sideways, slammed into a fire hydrant, where he wiped out with a bounce and a rolling tumble.

  “His bike’s down but he’s up on his feet,” said Tisa, as the convertible continued to streak down Broadway. “He’s okay.”


  “So are we!” said Siobhan.

  “For now,” said Max. “They’ll come after us again. No place in New York is safe.”

  Charl turned around to face the three geniuses in the backseat. “And that’s why, the next time the Corp tries to grab you, you guys won’t be here.”

  19

  Isabl removed the traffic-signal switcher from the windshield as soon as the motorcycle was off the convertible’s tail.

  “No need to drive like a maniac anymore,” said Charl.

  “Yeah,” said Isabl, easing off the gas. “Too bad.”

  “So,” said Max, as the convertible cruised along the shoreline of Brooklyn. “If New York City isn’t safe for us anymore, where do we go?”

  “Ben has an idea,” said Charl.

  “What is it?” asked Max.

  “He’d rather tell you himself.”

  “Fine. Let’s give him a call.”

  “No need,” said Isabl. “He’s waiting for us.”

  “Where?”

  “Long Island. We should be there in thirty minutes. Faster if I use my little blinking box again…”

  “Isabl…” said Charl.

  “Fine. Like I said: We should be there in thirty minutes.”

  Half an hour later, the convertible passed a security checkpoint and pulled through the chain-link gate of a private airstrip. A sleek jet was sitting on the runway. A stretch limousine was parked beside it. There were two tents set up in the parking lot—the kind you’d see at a fancy outdoor party.

  “That’s Mr. Abercrombie’s newest, fastest jet,” said Charl.

  “What’s with the tents?” asked Siobhan.

  “Guess Ben wants to feed you guys, too,” said Isabl, nodding toward a server in a tuxedo carrying a silver tray filled with steaming food. The nearest tent, its side flaps open, was set up like an outdoor dining room.

  “Good,” said Tisa. “I’m starving. And we’re all out of cheeseburgers.”

  The door on the jet folded open and became a staircase. A few seconds later, Ben, the awkward fourteen-year-old billionaire who’d set up the Change Makers Institute, shuffled down the steps, his eyes lowered, as if he were studying his shoelaces.

  “That’s the benefactor?” whispered Tisa.

  “Yeah,” said Max. “His real name is Ben.”

  “Your fella’s a fine-lookin’ thing,” said Siobhan.

  “He’s not my fella,” said Max, her cheeks flushing nearly as red as her hair.

  Everybody piled out of the convertible. Tisa and Siobhan, who’d never met Ben, raced each other across the tarmac, each hoping to be the first to shake the benefactor’s hand. Max grinned and followed after them. Charl and Isabl headed into the tent, where they’d spied a huge urn of coffee.

  “Good evening, sir,” Tisa said to Ben. (She’d won the footrace.) “It is truly an honor to meet you.”

  She held out her hand. Ben stuffed both of his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. “Great.”

  “I’m Tisa.”

  “Yeah. I recognized you. We have photos. In the database.”

  “And I’m Siobhan, sir. Or should I call you Ben?”

  Ben shrugged. “I don’t know. Up to you.”

  Finally looking up, the benefactor peered between the two girls right in front of him and saw Max standing behind them. He smiled.

  “Hey, Max. Hungry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. You’re eating with me.” He gestured toward the smaller of the two catering tents. “Chef Henri has prepared dinner. For all of us. You like lobster rolls?”

  “Never had one,” said Max.

  “I love them,” said Ben. “Especially with a pickle and potato chips.” He turned to Tisa and Siobhan. “You guys are with Charl and Isabl over there.”

  “Ooh,” teased Siobhan. “You and Max are having yourselves a private little dinner date, eh?”

  “No,” said Ben. “We just need to talk. Discuss stuff.”

  “And eat lobster rolls,” said Tisa.

  “Right. They’re on your menu, too. Max?”

  Ben gestured toward the smaller tent, which looked like something you’d see set up for a sultan’s desert caravan. Inside, there was a crystal chandelier dangling from the center of the silky ceiling. The small table was covered with linen, shimmering silverware, and amazingly expensive–looking china.

  “Nice picnic,” said Max. “Most people just go with paper plates and plastic forks.”

  “Most people aren’t billionaires,” said Ben.

  “True.”

  “I hope I wasn’t rude to Tisa and Siobhan.”

  Max squeezed her thumb close to her index finger to indicate about an inch. “Little bit.”

  “Sorry about that. I’m not really a people person.”

  “I know. But—you are a person who likes to help people. That might be more important.”

  “Thank you.” He pulled off the shiny domed lid on a serving platter. “Lobster roll?”

  “Thanks.”

  Max and Ben both bit into the chunky lobster salad riding inside a soft, split-top hot dog bun.

  “Did you know,” said Ben, “that lobster was so plentiful in colonial times that it was only served to household servants and prisoners?”

  Max nodded. Of course she knew that. She and Ben were nerds. They knew all sorts of stuff nobody else really knew or cared about.

  “In the late 1800s,” said Max, “lobster was considered the poor person’s chicken. Boston baked beans cost fifty-three cents a pound. Lobster? Eleven cents a pound.”

  They both nodded and munched some more.

  “So, Max, you want to go to Ireland and help Siobhan?” said Ben.

  “Yes. Tisa does, too.”

  “Good. I’ve arranged a flight for you three. Plus Charl and Isabl. You’ll have my full financial support. Anything you need, just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Ben. This means a lot to us. To me.”

  Ben looked down at his plate and pushed his potato chips into a tidy pile.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Besides, it’s safer for you out of New York right now. And Max?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  Ben looked up from his plate and held Max’s gaze. “Everything.”

  20

  When Max and Ben finished their meal, they rejoined the others in the larger tent.

  “Um, Charl?” said Ben. “Isabl? Can you guys tell everybody the plan? Fill them in on the details and stuff? I, uh, need to leave.”

  “Are you taking that spiffy jet?” asked Siobhan.

  “No. That’s for you guys. I’ll, uh, take the limo. I have a business meeting in New York tomorrow. I might talk to some people at the UN, too. We’ll see. We’re working on plans for some major projects. Okay. Gotta go. Have fun in Ireland. Don’t kiss the Blarney Stone. It’s really a big rock. Rocks are dirty. You shouldn’t kiss dirt.”

  And, with that, Ben hurried off to the limousine where his driver stood ready to whisk him off to wherever he wanted to be whisked.

  “We’re going to Ireland?” Tisa asked Max.

  “Yep! You, me, Siobhan, Charl, and Isabl.”

  “Smashing,” said Siobhan. “Traveling with company makes a journey fly.”

  “So does a jet,” cracked Tisa.

  “Right you are.”

  Charl stood up to address the group. “We think—and Ben agrees—that this Irish mission couldn’t’ve come at a better time. It’ll keep Max off the Corp’s radar here in the states until we can plug the leak at CMI. Once we do that, we can move on to our next full-group project.”

  “There’s a leak?” said Siobhan.

  “We think so,” said Isabl. “They know too much about Max’s whereabouts—and not just today. Someone must be feeding them information.”

  “Probably that dodgy lady in Jerusalem,” said Siobhan. “You know, the stern one who was alw
ays looking at us funny.”

  “It isn’t Ms. Kaplan,” said Charl. “Or anybody else at HQ.”

  “They’ve all been cleared,” added Isabl. “Anyway, we’re coming with you guys. To fly the plane.”

  “And to provide protection,” added Charl. “We don’t think the Corp knows about our decision to extract Max, but we do know, through our own spies and informants, that they have invested heavily in the most sophisticated, technologically advanced, human tracker ever created. They’ve given it the code name LENARD AI.”

  “They’re using artificial intelligence to track Max?” said Tisa.

  Isabl nodded. “We think that’s how they knew you three would be in Washington Square Park. There wasn’t enough time for Max’s location to have been leaked. They must’ve fed their computer some excellent raw data. Probably accessed NYPD security cameras and ran their facial recognition software to isolate Max, track her movements, predict her routines.”

  “I did go visit Mr. Weinstock down in Washington Square Park at least once or twice a week,” admitted Max.

  “In high-stress situations?” asked Tisa.

  “Usually,” said Max. “Or when I just needed to blow off a little steam. I guess the Corp computer figured that out.”

  “Crikey,” said Siobhan. “I can’t believe they’ve been tracking you like that.”

  “Fortunately,” said Charl, “none of their data mining would indicate that you frequently visit Ireland.”

  “If it does,” said Max, “it’s not any kind of intelligence, artificial or otherwise. It’s just dumb. I’ve never been to Ireland.”

  “Exactly,” said Isabl. “And that’s why we think it’ll be a safe haven.”

  “Unless you drink the water in my village,” said Siobhan. “Then you won’t be so safe. You’ll be clutching your gut and running to the loo.”

  “The restroom?” said Max.

  Siobhan nodded. “That’s where I think the problem lies.”

  “In the bathroom?” said Tisa.

  “No. The water. Most of the illnesses have been gastrointestinal. You know—vomiting, diarrhea, cholera, dysentery…”