“I’m a savant when it comes to character judgment,” he tells her. “For instance, most people wouldn’t see anything in you besides attitude and a need for stronger deodorant, but I think you can handle the storks almost as well as Connor handled the Graveyard.”

Bam gives him a halfhearted glare. “Can you ever give a compliment without also making it an insult?”

“No,” he admits. “Not possible. It’s the essence of my charm.”

Bam turns to restack some of the weapons piled in the room, and Hayden helps her, checking to make sure that they are all unloaded and safeties are in place. Can’t be too careful when it comes to deadly automatic firepower.

Bam pauses for a moment, looking at the weapons piled before them. “There’s no question that power blew out Starkey’s brain,” Bam says, “but what he did . . . it wasn’t all bad. We have more than five hundred kids who would have been unwound, and that doesn’t even count the nonstorks we freed from those harvest camps.”

Although Hayden isn’t big on apologetics for tyrants, he offers her the benefit of a shrug. “Maybe in the big picture the end justifies the means, and maybe not. All I know for sure is that no one else is going to be hanged, shot, or otherwise executed for Mason Starkey’s version of justice. And don’t forget we just prevented a major massacre of innocent kids.”

“Who will now be unwound on schedule,” Bam reminds him.

“But not by us.”

Several storks come into the storeroom to deposit their weapons. Bam thanks them, and they hurry out, relieved to make the guns someone else’s problem. The plan is to keep only enough weapons for defense, should defense be needed. The rest will be left behind when they leave the power plant—and they’ll have to leave soon. Once the bigwigs in the applause department know that Starkey is gone, it’s anyone’s guess what they’ll do. Perhaps descend from the skies in a mass of unmarked helicopters and snuff them all. Hayden wouldn’t put it past them.

“I’ve pegged Garson DeGrutte as my second-in-command, since you’ve made it clear you don’t want the position,” Bam says.

“You’re kidding me!”

“He was a nuisance under Starkey, but he respects authority and follows orders. With Starkey out of the picture, I think he’ll be an asset. And besides, we’ve got to keep him busy now that Abigail broke up with him.”

Hayden laughs. “Shucking corn can kill any relationship.” Then he finds himself getting uncharacteristically serious. “So what’s next?” he asks, because his plan for the Stork Brigade only went so far as Starkey’s removal.

“I have storks working on finding us somewhere safe,” Bam tells him. “There are lots of places to hide. We’ll find one, hunker down, and make it work.”

“I wish you luck,” Hayden tells her.

She eyes him with the old suspicion. “You’re not coming with us?”

Hayden presents her with an overexaggerated sigh. “As much as I would enjoy being éminence gris to your striking figurehead, it’s time I left for greener pastures. Actually, I’ve been considering setting out with a small crew of my own and reestablishing my broadcast radio show, since the podcasts keep being squelched by the Juvenile Authority a few hours after I post them.”

Bam laughs at that. “Hayden, your broadcast never reached beyond the Graveyard, and even then, no one was listening but you.”

“Yes, I do love to hear myself talk—but I think I can get a wider audience with the help of Jeevan and a few choice members of a special-ops team. We’ll be the Verbal Strike Force. VSF, for short, because initials are always much more impressive.”

Bam shakes her head. “You’re an odd bird, Hayden.”

“This coming from a stork named Bambi.”

Bam offers him a genuine smile. Something he’s rarely seen. “Call me that again,” she says, “and I’ll deck you.”

30 • Starkey

It’s night when he regains consciousness. The tranqs stole the whole day from him. He’s shivering from a mild but constant rain and is near hypothermia, but he forces clarity to his thoughts. He knows his actions now are crucial if he’s going to overcome this new dire circumstance. He borrows heat from his burning emotions to drag warmth into his body. The adrenaline of anger.

One would think that to be dethroned—to be torn from power—would bring unbearable humiliation . . . but not to Mason Michael Starkey. Perhaps because the core of his being has taken on a potent yin-yang of ambition swirled into righteous indignation. Those driving forces have become the essence of who he is, and they leave no room for humiliation. All Starkey can feel is fury at the betrayal, and a burning desire to reclaim the leadership that is rightfully his. The leadership he has earned. Treason is the highest crime of any culture, and he is determined to make the traitors pay.

He will lead the storks once more. Maybe not today, but soon. He’ll have to bide his time. He has the money and the power of the clapper movement behind him, and he knows how to contact them, so he is not without hope, or friends. Dandrich gave him a phone number to use in case of emergency, and he can think of no emergency greater than this.

But first things first. Right now, he’s got to get himself out of the cold. He must find some sort of shelter. In his darkest moments, he never dreamed he’d be thrust back into basic survival mode again. They’ve taken everything away from me, he thinks, but he strangles the thought before it can take hold. He despises those who feel sorry for themselves. He will not stoop so low.