It’s only when he sees the Dreamliner taking off that he begins to worry. What are the chances that Lassiter’s on that plane? Then he realizes that the riot squad isn’t just tranq’ing and yanking—they’re going against procedure, loading the mob into the transport trucks conscious. If Lassiter gets loaded into a truck before Nelson can get to him, it’s over.

Now he’s worried. He moves closer to the riot roundup, pulling out binoculars, scanning the faces. A gaggle of scared teenagers. No Lassiter. Sure, he might be in the swarm, but if he is, Nelson can’t spot him. He puts down the binoculars.

“Crap!”

He knows that with every passing second his chances get slimmer. Around him, kids who were either too slow to get there or smart enough to stay away from the corralled mob race in all directions to escape. Some get tranq’d as they run, but the farther they are away from the main action, the better their chances.

Up ahead Nelson sees the dark silhouette of one smaller kid struggling to carry an older tranq’d kid on his back—reminding Nelson of the way ants will carry off their wounded. But apparently this kid has better sense than an ant, because he gives up, drops the bigger kid in the dust, and takes off into the shadows.

Nelson almost doesn’t check the dropped kid. He almost walks on past, because he doesn’t want to miss a single face running by, but Nelson is nothing if not thorough. He grabs the unconscious the kid by the hair, lifts his head out of the dirt, and practically yells with triumphant surprise. It’s him! It’s Lassiter! Brought to him like a gift, right in his path!

Nelson wastes no time. He hefts him onto his back, gets his bearings, and weaves through the aircraft, heading toward his waiting van. As he crosses an outer aisle, he’s spotted by another Juvey.

“Forget him,” the cop says. “Leave him for Sanitation and Transport. Our orders are to take out the bolters.” And to emphasize his point, he fires at a girl bolting between two fighter jets, tranqing her into the dust.

“Special orders on this one,” Nelson tells him, trying to get past, but the other cop won’t yield.

“Why? Is he the one who’s been starting the fires in town?”

“Yeah,” Nelson says. “He’s the one.”

Then behind them, three kids try to break for the outer aisles, and their attempted escape pulls the cop’s attention long enough for Nelson to get past him.

The farther from the main aisle, the fewer AWOLs, and the fewer cops. Transport trucks are already here on the outskirts, gathering whatever tranq’d kids they find before moving into the high-density zone. The San & Tran workers treat the fallen kids with much more care than the Juvies, zipping them into padded transport bags—constrictive sleeping bags in either powder blue or pink that cover everything but their faces, so that their precious parts are protected in transit.

Nelson reaches his van, dumps Connor in the back, and drives out the way he came, heading toward the north gate, knowing he’s not in the clear yet.

As he nears the gate, there’s a small showing of Juvey squad cars—as if any of the AWOLs will be stupid enough to try to get out through the main gate. They stop Nelson, and he flashes a stolen badge. “Orders to take this van to HQ. It’s being impounded as evidence.”

“What, are you kidding me? The whole damn place is being impounded as evidence! They couldn’t wait for a tow truck?”

“When can they wait for anything?”

The cop shakes his head. “Incredible!” And he waves Nelson through.

As Nelson leaves the Graveyard behind, he turns on the radio, surfs until he finds a song he knows, and sings with rare joy.

Divan, his black market dealer, will pay a fortune—and the dollar signs Nelson now sees will soon be seen through the Akron AWOL’s eyes. That’s the real reward, far more important than the cash. Nelson doesn’t even remember what this kid’s eyes are like, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever their color, whatever their acuity, they’ll be the last pair Nelson will ever need. They will be perfect!

He’s still thinking of Connor’s eyes when he hears the high-pitched blast of a tranq pistol and feels a sudden sharp pain in his leg, then a second, then a third.

His hands, suddenly lead-heavy, fall from the steering wheel, and with his last bit of strength, he forces his head to turn so he can see his attacker.

Rising from behind him in the van is Lev, wearing a smile as big as the desert around them.

“Tranq’d by your own gun,” Lev says. “How pathetic.”

71 - Lev

Nelson had used Lev to help him find Connor—and now Lev has returned the favor. With so many Juvies, and so many riot police, getting anyone out of the Graveyard would be a miracle. And then Lev realized that, at least for the moment, Nelson was his greatest ally. Both Nelson and Lev had the same objective: get Connor away from the Juvies and out of the Graveyard alive. So Lev carried an unconscious Connor right into Nelson’s path. Lev risked exposing his identity, but with so many kids running, and the only lights from headlights and spotlights, it was easy to keep his face in shadows, then drop Connor and run, letting Nelson do the hard work of getting Connor out.

While Nelson carried Connor off, Lev raced ahead and slipped into his van, keeping low—hoping that Nelson would be distracted by the events around him and euphoric enough at his catch to never notice that Lev was hiding in the backseat.

Now, half a mile from the Graveyard, Nelson slumps in the driver’s seat, unconscious, and Lev hurries to take the wheel, keeping the truck from flying off the road. Then, pushing Nelson aside, he stomps on the brakes, and the van comes to a halt.

Only one thing left to do.

Leaving the van, Lev doubles back on foot to the gate. From his position on the floor of the van, he hadn’t been able to see how many Juvies were at the gate. Now, as he gets close, he sees there are only a handful—all the rest are in the battle zone. The scant chaparral of the desert doesn’t provide enough cover to hide him, but he has to get closer.

He told the kid at the gate to get Miracolina and take her someplace safe. The kid said he would do it, but Lev has to be sure.

There’s a squad car right in front of the spot where Miracolina had been, and a Juvey-cop leans against it, talking on his radio. The moment the Juvey-cop looks away, Lev darts behind the car, keeping low, and checks behind the dry bushes.

She’s not there.

He breathes a silent sigh of relief, then turns and hurries back to the van. Once there, he pulls Nelson out and leaves him unconscious in a ditch. Then Lev does his best to drive the van down the narrow two-lane road—which is much different from driving a Jeep off-road, across open desert. How stupid would it be, he thinks, if, after all this, Connor and I both die in a car accident because I don’t know how to drive? He can only thank God that the road is straight.

For once he’s batting a thousand, and although he knows he may never see Miracolina again—and that she may, in the end, submit herself for tithing—he knows that he’s done everything within his power to save her. To free her.

Be safe, Miracolina, he says to himself, hoping that by saying it, he can make it true, never knowing that the kid at the gate was only interested in saving himself, and that Miracolina was still unconscious just a few feet away from where Lev was searching . . . because he didn’t think to look in the backseat of the squad car.

72 - Starkey

“Well, Starkey, what do we do now?”

“If you ask me one more time, I’ll rip your freaking head off.”

Bam storms away in frustration.

“At least we got out of there!” Starkey yells after her. “We’re probably the only ones who did!”

Although it’s not going to mean much if they crash.

Kids sit in groups on the floor of the seatless cabin, some of them crying at the ordeal they’ve been put through and the friends left behind.

“Suck it up!” he yells at them. “We’re storks—we’re better than that.” Then he holds up his crushed hand, which is now so swollen and purple it barely resembles a hand at all. “Do you see me crying?” This war wound, he realizes, has already become a symbol of his power and a talisman of respect.

The whimpers subside, but not entirely. The truth is, in spite of the morphine swiped from the medical jet, his hand still aches too much to have patience for anything or anybody.

“Where are we going?” someone asks.

“A better place,” Starkey says, then realizes that’s what they say when you die.

He storms to the cockpit, and storks clear out of his way. Trace sits at the controls with no copilot, and Starkey begins with a threat.

“If you as much as touch that radio . . .”

Trace looks at him, disgusted, then back to the control panel. “Just because you’re the one leading these kids, it doesn’t mean I want them to be unwound. I haven’t, nor will I notify anyone.”

“Good. Tell me the plan. Tell me what you schemed up with Connor.”

Trace grips the controls to maintain stability as they hit a patch of turbulence. More whimpers from the cabin. Once the turbulence subsides, Trace says, “We’ll be over Mexican airspace in a few minutes, which buys us time, because our military can’t pursue without permission, and theirs won’t until they see us as a threat. Next we fly within a mile of another jet headed north, switch signatures, and when that other jet hits American airspace, they’ll think it’s us.”

“We can do that?”

Trace doesn’t even answer the question. “The plan was to double back into the U.S. and land in an abandoned airfield in the Anza-Borrego Desert, east of San Diego—but there’s a problem with the landing gear.”

Starkey already knows this. They all felt the collision as the plane smashed the truck in its path. Everyone heard something rip loose. There’s no question that there’s damage, but it’s impossible to know how much. All they have is an idiot-light on the control panel that says LANDING GEAR FAILURE.

“So what do we do about it?”

“We die.” Trace lets the thought linger for a moment, then says, “I can try to set us down in a body of water. I’m thinking the Salton Sea.”

“In Utah?”

“No, that’s the Great Salt Lake, moron. The Salton Sea is a huge dead lake south of Palm Springs. There’s a town there that’s the asshole of the armpit of the world. You’d fit right in.”

Starkey snarls at him, then decides he’s not worth it. “How long?”

“I have to find a passing jet and do the signature switch first. Figure an hour and a half till we’re there.”

“Fine, I’ll tell the others.” He turns to go, then pauses at the cockpit door, looking back at Trace. “And if you call me moron one more time, I’ll blow your brains out.”

Trace turns to him and smiles. “Then you can land this plane . . . moron.”

73 - Risa

Risa sits in a network studio dressing room, staring at the monitor. The late-night news show on which she and Cam are about to appear has just reported some breaking news: a crackdown on a massive AWOL hideout in Arizona. None other than the airplane graveyard. Kids are already being shipped to harvest camps.