فصل 5

Chapter 5: A Small Village Forgotten by God

The Mexican town of Naco looked rustic—like the movie set of an old Western. The main street was lined with stucco-covered buildings: taquerias, ice cream shops, and, most noticeably, a farmacia, which was one of the largest buildings in the town. There were also a lot of skinny stray dogs running around in packs.

A couple of blocks from the border we passed the Cruz Roja—the Mexican Red Cross—which Scott told us had been set up there to help illegal immigrants who were caught and deported from the United States.

“Every year the border patrol catches more than three hundred thousand illegal immigrants attempting to enter the U.S.,” Scott said. “They return many of them here. Most go back to their homes, but not all of them.” After we passed what looked like a taco stand, Ostin asked, “Is anyone hungry besides me?” “I think we’re all hungry,” I said.

“I was serious about the burrito,” Tessa said. “Think we could find some decent Mexican food?” McKenna looked at her. “Are you kidding?”

“What? I just don’t want any more Chinese food. Especially swamp eel.” “There’s a restaurant across the street from the hotel,” Scott said. “But let’s check in first. Michael, open the glove box.” I reached down and opened it. Inside was a thick bundle of brightly colored bills. “Go ahead and take those. That’s a thousand pesos. In case any of you want to buy something.” “Whoa,” Jack said, leaning forward. “Mucho dinero.” “Don’t get too excited,” Scott said. “It’s only worth about sixty U.S. dollars.” * * *

A few minutes later, we reached the Naco Hotel. Scott parked the van near the front doors, and we all went inside. The hotel clerk was an older Mexican man with salt-and-pepper hair and a gray mustache.

“I need six rooms,” Scott said. “Do you have that many?” “Sí, señor. For how many nights?”

“Just for tonight,” he said.

The man looked at the screen of an aged computer. “That will be 7,286 pesos.” He brought out a calculator and typed in some numbers. “That’s four hundred and sixty American dollars. Will that be on a credit card?” “No, I’ll pay with cash,” Scott said, taking out his wallet. “You take dollars?” “Sí, señor.”

Scott laid out five one-hundred-dollar bills.

“I only have change in pesos,” the clerk said.

“That’s all right,” Scott said. “We can always use pesos.” The man figured out the change on his calculator and gave it to Scott. Then he unhooked six brass keys from the wall behind him and set them on the counter.

Scott turned back to us. “We’re going to sleep two in a room, so buddy up.” Ostin looked over at me, and I nodded.

“Is the taqueria across the street still open?” Scott asked the man.

“For all of you to eat?”

“Yes.”

“Sí. I will call the owner and he will open. He is my amigo.” Scott said to us, “Everyone grab a key and put your things in your rooms; then we’ll meet across the street at that restaurant.” As I took our key, Taylor touched my arm. “What floor are you guys on?” “Three.”

“We’re on the main floor. We’ll wait for you.” The hotel had an elevator, but it was tiny, so Ostin and I just took the stairs. We were in room 327, a small, rectangular room with one window and two beds covered with sun-bleached chocolate-brown bedspreads.

“I’ll take that one,” Ostin said, throwing his bag onto the bed closest to the door. “If you don’t care.” “I don’t. Let’s go eat.”

We locked our door, then went downstairs, where Taylor and McKenna were waiting for us. The four of us crossed the wide street to Miguel’s Taqueria.

The restaurant was old, but fairly clean. Three tables were already set with utensils, tortillas, hot salsa, and iced bottles of pineapple and strawberry Mexican soda pop. Everyone was eating flour tortillas and tortilla chips with guacamole and bean dip. Taylor, McKenna, Ostin, and I sat down at the table with Scott. There was a black lava rock bowl in the center of the table piled high with fresh guacamole. Scott pushed a woven basket of tortillas toward us.

“These are fresh. They just cooked them for us.” “I love homemade tortillas,” Ostin said. He rolled up a tortilla, dipped it into the guacamole, then took a big bite. “That’s better Mexican than Idaho has.” “You think?” Zeus said sarcastically. “Maybe it’s because we’re in Mexico?” “Idaho has excellent Mexican food,” Ostin said. “We have lots of Mexicans living there.” “Everyone, look over your menus,” Scott said. “Lillia will be back in a minute to take our orders.” “Who?” Taylor asked.

“The owner’s wife,” Abigail said.

The menu was printed in both Spanish and English, though the English translations were pretty funny. There was pig-spit. (I assume they meant pig roasted on a spit.) Roasted rabbi. (Rabbit?) And Jack’s favorite, “The water served here was passed by the owner.” No comment.

I was really hungry and ordered a combo plate with two shredded beef tacos, a chile relleno, and a side serving of rice and refried beans.

Taylor ordered the same but with only one taco. Less than twenty minutes later Lillia brought out our meals. While we were eating, Scott said, “Naco’s really an interesting town.” “By ‘interesting’ do you mean ‘lame’ or ‘ghetto’?” Tessa said.

Scott grinned. “Maybe not as interesting as it used to be, but it has history. Its nickname was, ‘Un pueblo chico, olvidado de Dios.’ ” “A small village forgotten by God,” Ostin translated.

“That about sums it up,” Tessa said.

“Naco is where the longest sustained battle of the Mexican Revolution took place. Any old building here still has bullet holes. The hotel we’re staying at used to advertise that it has thirty-inch-thick mud walls that are bulletproof.” “That’s how to advertise a resort,” Tessa said. “ ’You probably won’t be killed until you go outside.’ ” “For entertainment, U.S. citizens used to line the border to watch the fighting. The Mexicans were careful not to shoot over the border, because they didn’t want America getting involved in the war.” “Now, there’s a wholesome family activity,” Tessa said. “Let’s go down to the border and watch them kill each other.” “Speaking of bullets,” I said, “let’s talk about tomorrow.” Scott groaned a little. “As I said, there’re not going to be any bullets or fighting. If we see any sign of the Elgen, we turn back.” “Yeah, I heard you,” I said.

Taylor looked at me with a worried expression. She knew I wanted to fight.

Scott continued. “I asked the hotel clerk if he’d seen any Americans wearing black or purple uniforms. He said he hadn’t, but he did tell me that there had been some explosions down south, then some smoke for several days. He thought that either the Mexican Army was conducting war games or there was a raid on a drug cartel. Of course he didn’t know anything about the ranch.” “Did you ask if he saw any other Americans?” I asked.

“I asked if your mother or Ostin’s parents had stayed at the hotel. He didn’t remember them, and he couldn’t find their names on the guest register.” “If they came this way, I doubt they’d use their real names,” Taylor said.

“No, they wouldn’t,” Scott said. “And to escape the Elgen, they might have gone west or even south.” The idea of my mother fleeing for her life made me start ticking. Taylor put her hand on my arm to calm me.

“What time are we leaving in the morning?” McKenna asked.

“The ranch is a two-hour drive from here, so I think we should leave around four. We’ll be coming in from the east on an old mining road that will give us some cover. With Ian’s help, we should be able to see them before they see us.” “If they’re still there,” Ostin said. “I’m betting they’re not.” “We can hope,” Scott said.

We finished our dinners, with some churros and an order of flan for dessert. Scott spoke to us again before we left the restaurant.

“Remember, we’re leaving at four, so get some rest and be in the lobby ready to go no later than five minutes to the hour.” “Do we need our luggage?” Abigail asked.

“No. If all goes well, we’ll be back tomorrow night, then head back the next morning. So get some rest.” Everyone walked back to the hotel. Taylor and I were the last to leave the taqueria, and she took my hand as we walked outside. It was dark except for a nearly full moon that lit the sky.

“You didn’t eat very much,” I said.

“My stomach hurts.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor or something.” “It’s probably just stress.” She looked at me. “You’re the one I’m worried about.” I didn’t say anything. It felt like my brain and heart were tied up together in knots. We walked slowly, taking in the cool night air. Neither of us spoke for a while. A brindled dog ran toward us, growling. I began sparking, but Taylor just reached out her hand, and he suddenly stopped, then wandered away.

“It’s cool how you can do that to animals.” “They’re a little harder than humans,” she said. “I think it’s because they act more on instinct than thought. Thoughts are easier to control. At least for me.” I didn’t reply. These days I didn’t feel like I had any control over my own thoughts, let alone someone else’s. After a few minutes Taylor said, “What are you thinking?” “I was just thinking that it’s hard to believe that’s the same moon we were looking at in Taiwan just a few days ago.” “Same moon, different world.” She sighed. “Just imagine what she’s seen.” “The moon is the earth’s witness,” I said.

She smiled sadly. “That’s poetic.”

For a moment we were both silent. Then I said, “You were right. There is no going back.” “There never was,” she said. After a moment she leaned into me and we kissed. Suddenly I felt a current of electricity flowing through our mouths, and Taylor leaned back. “Wow. Your kisses are electric.” “That’s what all the girls say,” I said.

She grinned. “You already told me that I’m the only girl you’ve ever kissed.” “It’s true.”

“That’s still hard for me to believe,” she said.

“I think my Tourette’s scared them.”

“Or maybe you just thought it did.”

“Maybe,” I said.

We kissed again. Then Taylor said, “Tomorrow starts early. We’d better get some sleep.” We turned and walked back to the hotel. When we entered the lobby, Ostin, McKenna, and Nichelle were sitting on vinyl couches near the front door playing cards.

“You guys want in?” McKenna asked. “We’re playing hearts.” “No, thanks,” I said. “We’re going to bed.” “You guys should too,” Taylor said. “Tomorrow could be crazy.” “We’ll just play one more hand,” McKenna said.

Taylor asked, “Would you like me to stay with you for a while, or do you want to be alone?” I shook my head. “I don’t want to be alone.” “I don’t want to leave you alone,” she said.

We headed upstairs to my room. I unlocked the door, and we went in. I lay back on my bed, and Taylor lay down next to me. “I’m so worried about you,” she said again. “Can I hold you?” I nodded. “I’ll try not to shock you this time.” She put her arms around me. “Don’t be afraid. Remember what your mother always said, ‘Things have a way of working out.’ ” Hearing this made me angry. “My mother’s dead. So things didn’t really work out.” “You don’t know that, Michael,” she said quietly. “At least not yet.” Neither of us said anything for a while. Then Taylor said, “If it’s true about your mother, what will you do?” “If Hatch killed my mother, I’m going to hunt him down.” Taylor thought for a moment, then said, “Whatever you want.” “I didn’t mean you.”

She raised herself up on one elbow. “What are you saying?” “I’m just saying you don’t need to come with me.” “Is that what you want?”

“None of this is what I want. I’d just rather not see you die because of me.” “Maybe I’d rather die than never see you again.” “Why?”

“You’re asking why? After all we’ve been through, you still don’t know I love you?” “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just upset.”

“I know. Let’s not talk, okay?”

She pulled me into her again, and for the next ten minutes we just lay together in silence. Taylor had just fallen asleep when someone knocked. I carefully undraped her arms from around me, then got up and opened the door. It was Ostin.

“Sorry, you have the key.” He stepped inside. “Taylor’s here.” “Yeah,” I said.

“Where’s McKenna?” Taylor asked sleepily.

“She went back to your room. She was tired.” “Do you want me to leave?” Taylor asked.

“No, you’re good,” Ostin said.

I lay back on the bed, and this time I held her. In just a few minutes, Taylor fell asleep again. After a half hour or so, I looked over at Ostin. His eyes were wide open. “I can’t sleep,” I whispered.

“Me neither. Let’s see if we can get something on TV.” “Taylor’s sleeping,” I said.

“I’ll keep the volume low.”

The television was ancient—the kind with an antenna on top. Not surprisingly, the picture came in fuzzy. Ostin adjusted the antennas, which made the picture a little better, but not by much. Then he flipped through about a dozen channels, most of which were in Spanish. He finally stopped on a show called Gilligan’s Island. It was an American show, but Spanish had been dubbed in over their voices. I had seen the show in English—I had watched it on reruns—but it was funnier in Spanish.

After it, there were other old American shows, one called Hogan’s Heroes, the next called The Wild Wild West.

By the time the third show came on, Ostin was asleep. I looked at my watch. It was half past twelve. We would be meeting downstairs in just three and a half hours.

I carefully let Taylor go, then got up and turned off the television. It was strange that turning on the TV hadn’t woken Taylor, but turning it off did. As I was about to leave the room, Taylor said, “Michael?” I turned back. “Yeah.”

“Is it time to get up?”

“No. It’s only twelve thirty.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out for a walk. I can’t sleep.”

She rubbed her eyes. “Do you want me to come with you?” “No. Get some sleep.”

“Okay.” She rolled back over. I grabbed the room key, stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, and then walked downstairs to the lobby. There was now a young Mexican woman at the front desk. I nodded as I walked past.

“Buenas noches,” she said.

“Yeah, buenas noches,” I replied, which is about all I remembered from eighth-grade Spanish.

I walked out into the warm night air. The small town was asleep, and the only sound was that of crickets and the occasional howl of a dog or coyote. I looked around, then walked out to the main road and back toward the U.S. border.

Even though there were no streetlamps, the moon was bright enough to see where I was going. Normally I would have been worried that someone might notice my glow, but I didn’t care about that right now. The truth was, I didn’t care much about anything. My mind was too preoccupied by other emotions. In six hours I’d know the truth about my mother. I was already in so much pain that I couldn’t even imagine how the truth would affect me. What if I found her body? I didn’t know if I could live with that.

I walked about three blocks from the hotel, turning at a road sign that read CALLE HILDAGO near some kind of weird monument in the center of the road—a stucco and concrete slab adorned with the plaster bust of a man wearing a bow tie. Several old pickup trucks were parked up against the curb, and as I walked around them, I saw a group of young Mexican men. A gang. They immediately started walking toward me.

“Güero!” one of them shouted.

I counted seven guys, all a little older than me. Three of them carried bottles of beer, and two of them were probably drunk, as they were wobbling a little. Three of them wore white tank tops, and one wore a T-shirt that read: I got caught trying to cross

the border, and all I got was

this lousy T-shirt

Three had no shirts at all, exposing myriad gang tattoos that covered their arms and backs. The one who seemed to be the leader, the tallest of the group, said, “¿Qué estás haciendo en nuestra ciudad?” The man next to him with a bottle said, “Está caminando en nuestra calle.” I looked back and forth between them. “I don’t speak Spanish.” I didn’t know whether they understood me or not, but they all laughed. The tall man nodded. “No worry, gringo. I speak English. Bad news for you. We will take your money. And your watch.” “I’m not giving you anything,” I said. “Just leave me alone.” I turned away from them.

“¿Qué dijo?”

“Dijo déjame en paz.”

As I was walking away from them, an empty beer bottle hit me on the side of my head. Fortunately, it wasn’t a direct hit, or it probably would have knocked me out. Instead, it caught me in the back of my jaw, cutting the skin beneath my ear. I spun around. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to fry them all to ashes. “Who threw that?” I shouted.

They looked at one another, coolly, smiling. Then the shortest of them motioned to himself with both hands. “Lo hice yo, güero. Ven por mí.” I didn’t know what he said, but he wore a big, stupid grin. Then I noticed that he was blinking wildly, imitating my facial tics. I wanted to melt his face.

“You have five seconds to run away,” I said. I thought about what Spanish I knew and said, “Cinco secondi vámonos!” They all burst out laughing. Then two of the guys pulled out switchblades. The one closest to me said, “Vamos a cortar ese güero.” “My friends do not like you, gringo,” the tall one said. “They want to cut you.” The gang fanned out, forming a near circle around me. “. . . And then we take your money.” The small guy with the knife was now behind me, walking toward me.

“Times up,” I said. I spun around and pulsed, blasting the little dude so hard that his feet left the ground. He slammed into an adobe wall, and plaster fell around him as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

“Bet that hurt,” I said. Then, as I turned back around, something bizarre happened to me—something that had never happened before. Electricity completely encompassed me in a brilliant, bluish-green light. It was almost as if I had become one of my lightning balls, and the sound of electricity sizzled like a hundred frying pans of bacon. I looked down at my arms and couldn’t see my flesh, only the brilliant glow of electricity. When I looked back up, the gang was just staring at me like I was a ghost. Actually, I was something much stranger.

I spread out my arms and pulsed. The force blew out from me in a shock wave more than fifty feet in diameter. When I looked around, all the gang members were lying on their backs. Most of them weren’t moving. The tall guy was still conscious, staring at me in fear. As I started toward him, he pulled out a gun.

“Diablo,” he said, pointing his gun at me.

I shook my head as I walked toward him. “You really don’t want to do that,” I said. “It will just make me angrier.” My eyes narrowed as I raised my hand in front of me. “And I am already really, really angry.” I was so electric that I could actually see waves of electromagnetism blurring the air in front of me. The guy fired six times, and the bullets flew around me, ricocheting against cars and buildings. One of the bullets hit one of his buddies. When he had used all his bullets, I said, “I warned you.” I blasted him so hard, his clothes caught on fire.

Then I looked around. All of the gang members were still unconscious, or pretending to be, except for one—the guy with the border-crossing T-shirt. He had gotten to his feet and now raised a knife at me, though he seemed to be having trouble holding it steady.

“If that’s your plan, amigo, you’re gonna need a bigger knife,” I said. He looked so pathetic, I shook my head. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you never bring a knife to a lightning fight?” I walked toward him. “Let me show you something.” I produced a lightning ball about the size of a volleyball. “Mucho interesting, sí?” He just stared in fear. “No, señor.”

“Now I’m ‘señor,’ ” I said. “But I made it especially for you. Catch.” I lobbed it to him. He weakly raised his hands to block it. It exploded on contact with his flesh, knocking him out with the force.

I walked to his side and pushed him over with my foot. “You think you can go around threatening innocent people? Maybe you’ll think twice next time.” I reached down and picked up the guy’s knife, folded it back, and put it into my pocket as a souvenir, then started back to the hotel. Only then did I really feel the sting of my gash. Blood was trickling down my jaw and had soaked my collar.

As I walked into the lobby, I put my hand over my cut to cover it from the woman who was still at the front desk. She was staring at me.

“Buenas noches,” I said.

“Buenas noches,” she repeated with a frightened expression.

I ran back upstairs. I entered my room as quietly as I could, but Taylor still woke.

“Michael?”

“Go back to sleep,” I said.

She watched me as I walked to the bathroom. I turned on the bathroom light, then soaked a towel with cold water and put it against my face.

“Michael, what happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

Then Ostin woke. “Is it time to go?”

“It’s time to go back to sleep,” I said.

“What’s up?” Ostin asked. “Besides us.”

Taylor got up and walked toward me. “Michael, what happened?” she asked again.

“Some loser threw a beer bottle at me.”

She looked at me with a peculiar gaze. “I meant to your arms.” I looked down. “What the . . .” There was a strange reddish fern-leaf-like pattern on my arms.

“Holy moly,” Ostin said. “Those are Lichtenberg figures.” “They’re what?” Taylor asked.

I tried to wipe the marks off with my towel, but they appeared to be permanent. Like tattoos. “What is it?” “They’re called Lichtenberg figures or lightning trees. They appear with extremely high voltages. I’ve seen pictures of scars like that on lightning strike victims.” “Will they come off?” Taylor asked.

“No,” Ostin said. “They’re scars. Michael, did you just have a super-big surge?” “Yes. When the gang attacked me. It was like I had become an electric ball.” “Gang?” Taylor said. “What gang?”

Ostin walked over to examine my markings. “Wow. They look kind of cool.” “Do they hurt?” Taylor asked.

“No. I didn’t even feel it happen.”

After a moment Taylor said, “Well, I’m sure your jaw hurts. It’s swelling up. We need to get some ice on it. Ostin, there’s an ice machine at the end of the hall. Would you fill up that bucket?” “On it.” Ostin grabbed the ice bucket from the dresser and left the room, while Taylor soaked a washcloth in cold water from the sink. I just stared at my arms. Was this really permanent?

When Ostin returned, Taylor dumped some of the ice onto the towel and rolled it up. As she held the cloth to my face, she suddenly closed her eyes and grimaced. “Oh, my . . .” She was watching the replay of my attack. She looked into my eyes. “Did any of them die?” “I don’t know,” I said.

“You know they’re going to tell others,” Ostin said.

“I don’t care,” I said.

He frowned. “You will when they come after us.” “I pity anyone who comes after us,” I said angrily. “I’ll take down this whole country if I have to.” “Michael,” Taylor said. “You need to calm down. You’re really upset.” “I wonder why,” I said sardonically. “Maybe because I was just attacked by a gang that was planning to stab me to death.” “You have every reason to be upset for that, but that’s not why you’re upset.” She looked me in the eyes. “They didn’t kill your mother.” “I don’t care.”

“You need to care. You need to stay in control.” She pulled back the blood-soaked cloth to examine my wound. “It’s not that deep. Ostin, go down to the front desk and see if you can find a bandage.” “You got it.” He walked back out.

Taylor rinsed the blood from the washcloth, put more ice in it, and held it against my jaw. I just kept looking at my arms.

Ostin returned a few minutes later with a box of off-brand Band-Aids. “This is all they had.” “It will take a few of them,” Taylor said. She dabbed the cloth around my wound again, then applied three different bandages. Then she got a fresh washcloth and soaked it in water, wrapped it around more ice, and gave it to me. “Keep this on your face. Now you better get some sleep. We have to leave in two hours.” She kissed me on my other cheek. “I’m going back to my room. Get some rest.” “Thank you,” I said. After she left, I took the switchblade out of my pocket and tossed it on the floor. I turned out the lights and got back into bed, holding the cloth against my cheek.

“Are you okay?” Ostin asked.

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither,” he said. “Good night.”

“Night.”

It seemed like just a few seconds after I’d shut my eyes that I woke to the room’s phone ringing. The wet, bloodstained washcloth was lying on the other side of the bed, soaking and staining the sheets.

Ostin grabbed the phone. “All right,” he said groggily. He hung up. “It’s Scott. He says to meet downstairs in fifteen minutes.” We all arrived at the van about the same time. Scott was holding open a large pink box of Mexican pastries—where he’d found an open bakery at four in the morning was beyond me. As I walked toward him, he stared at my bandaged jaw. “What happened?” “Some guys tried to mug him,” Taylor said, walking up behind me. “They hit him with a bottle.” Scott looked at me nervously. “What did you do to them?” “Invited them up for churros,” I said angrily. “What do you think I did to them?” “Mexican barbecue,” Zeus said. “Wish I had been there.” “Me too,” Jack said. “I would have loved to help out.” “Trust me, he didn’t need any help,” Taylor said.

Jack grinned. “Still would have been fun to watch.” Suddenly Abigail gasped. “Michael, what happened to your arms?” Everyone looked at me.

“They’re lightning burns,” Ostin said.

“Lichtenberg figures,” Zeus said.

“How did you know that?” Ostin asked. I’m sure he was disappointed that someone besides him knew what they were called.

“Because I’ve given them to people,” Zeus said. “It’s like my calling card.” “What people?” Taylor asked.

Zeus frowned. “GPs—Hatch’s guinea pigs—mostly.” “Sorry I asked,” Taylor said.

“It’s my past,” Zeus said. “It is what it is.” “I don’t get it,” Jack said, still staring at my arm. “What are they?” “They’re scars made by the diffusion of electricity through his skin,” Ostin said. “Lichtenberg figures were discovered in 1777 by a German scientist named Georg Christoph Lichtenberg. He built a machine to generate high-voltage static electricity, then recorded the resulting patterns it made by sprinkling powder onto a nonconducting surface. Afterward, he pressed blank sheets of paper onto these patterns. It’s how he discovered the basic principle of xerography and today’s laser printers.” “You asked,” Tessa said to Jack.

“Do they hurt?” Abigail asked.

“No. I didn’t even feel it happen.”

“It looks cool,” Nichelle said. “Really cool. Maybe I’ll tattoo myself like that when we get back to civilization.” “It’s like a battle marking,” Jack said. “Like the way Maori warriors tattooed themselves before going to war. I think I’ll do it too.” Everyone kept staring at me until I finally said, “All right, quit looking at me. Let’s go.” “You heard him,” Scott said. “Everyone into the van. Grab a pastry if you want one.” I passed on the food. We all piled into the vehicle. Taylor, McKenna, Ostin, and I crowded into the backseat. I must have been ticking a lot, because Taylor put her hand on my face. “Michael, you can lie against me if you want. You need sleep.” I lay my head on Taylor’s shoulder, and she ran her fingers through my hair until I fell asleep. I didn’t wake until about two hours later when we pulled off the freeway onto a dirt road.

“Where are we?” I asked, lifting my head.

“Still Mexico,” Ostin said.

“We’re about a half hour from the ranch,” Taylor said.

“Ian, keep your eyes open,” Scott said. “Let me know if you see anyone. And keep your eyes open for land mines.” “I can blow them,” I said. “If I have to.”

“We don’t want to blow them,” Scott said. “If the Elgen are still around, they’ll hear it.” “Why do you think they’re still around?” Jack asked. “That’s like robbing a bank and then hanging around until the police arrive.” “It only makes sense if your real target isn’t the bank but the police,” Ostin said.

“Exactly,” Scott said. “You know better than anyone that Hatch doesn’t give up easily. You escaped the Elgen in Taiwan, so they might assume you’ll be returning to the ranch. They may be waiting. The Elgen love traps.” “The Elgen love traps like spiders love webs,” Ostin said.

For the first time I understood exactly why Scott had been so cautious. He was right. There was a very good chance we were walking into a trap. But trap or not, if I saw them, I was going to fight.