Anne took a breath and sat back, keeping her eyes on me. “So you see, we consider you important. We’d like to know everything about you. But more important, if the stories are true, then our entire country’s safety could be at stake—if your so-called family were to get into the wrong hands. You don’t know your own power.”
She let that sink in for a moment, then smiled ruefully. “How about we make a trade? You give us a chance to learn about you—in nonpainful, noninvasive ways—and we’ll give Nick the best medical care available and the rest of you a safe place to stay. You can rest up, eat, Nick can get better, and then you can decide what to do from there.”
I felt like a starving mouse staring at a huge hunk of cheese.
Set right in the middle of an enormous, Max-sized trap.
I put a look of polite disinterest on my face. “And I believe that this is all straight up because . . .”
“It would be great if I could offer you guarantees, Max,” said Anne. “But I can’t—not anything that you would believe. I mean, come on.” She shrugged. “A written contract? My word of honor? A really sincere promise from the head of the FBI?”
We both laughed. Those wacky agents.
“It’s just—you don’t have a lot of choices here, Max. Not right now. I’m sorry.”
I stared at the tabletop and thought. The horrible thing was, she was right. With Fang in such bad shape, she had us over a barrel. The best thing I could do was accept her offer of shelter and care for Fang, bide my time, and work out an escape later. Silently I swore a whole lot. Then I looked up.
“Well, say I accepted. Where’s this safe place you’re dangling in front of me?”
She looked at me. If she was surprised that I was going along with it, she didn’t show it.
“My house,” she said.
16
Fang came out of surgery almost two hours later. I was waiting outside the OR, wound tighter than a rubber ball.
The doctor I’d talked to came out, still in his green scrubs. I wanted to grab the front
of his shirt, throw him against a wall, get some answers. But I’m trying to outgrow that kind of thing.
“Ah, yes, Max, is it?”
“Yeah. Max it is.” I waited tensely. If the unthinkable had happened, I’d snag the kids and make a run for it.
“Your brother Nick—it was a little dicey for a while. We gave him several units of blood substitute, and it brought his blood pressure up to a safe range.”
My hands were clenching and unclenching. It was all I could do to stand there and focus on the words.
“He didn’t go into cardiac arrest,” the doctor said. “We were able to patch up his side, stop all the hemorrhaging. A main artery had been hit, and one of his . . . air sacs.”
“So what’s he like now?” I forced my breathing to calm, tried to shut down my fight-or-flight response. Which in my case is, you know, literal.
“He’s holding steady,” the doctor said, looking tired and amazed. “If nothing goes wrong, he should be okay. He needs to take it easy for maybe three weeks.”
Which meant probably about six days, given our incredibly fast healing and regenerative strengths.
But jeez. Six days was a long time.
“Can I see him?”
“Not till he comes out of recovery,” the doctor said. “Maybe another forty minutes. Now, I’m hoping you can fill me in on some physiological stuff. I noticed—”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Anne Walker, coming up behind me.
“I mean, I wanted to know—,” the doctor began, looking at me.
“I’m sorry,” said Anne. “These kids are tired and need to rest. One of my colleagues can answer any questions you might have.”