UnWholly (Unwind Dystology #2)(113)



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 * 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.

“It is believed that these same AWOL Unwinds are responsible for a rampage of violence in the city of Tucson,” says the anchorman. “The Juvenile Authority hopes this raid will allow the citizens of Tucson to rest easy once more.”

How could this happen? After all the horrific things Risa has done for the past two months to prevent this raid—to keep Connor and Hayden and everyone there safe—the Juvies raided anyway. Maybe it was always going to happen, and Roberta’s bargain was a lie from the beginning. How could Risa have been so stupid as to trust anything that woman said?

The assistant stage manager pokes his head in the door. “Three minutes, Miss Ward.”

Risa never considered herself a violent girl. Sure, she’s always been more than able to defend herself, but she was never the kind of girl to initiate or enjoy brutality. Yet in this moment, she knows she would kill Roberta if she had the means to do it.

Then she realizes she doesn’t have to. In less than three minutes Risa will be broadcasting live to a national audience. She doesn’t have to kill Roberta. She can unwind her. . . .

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