Thomas decided not to tell the others about the message from Newt. He didn’t see what possible purpose
it could serve. It was time to move on, and he did so with a coldness that he didn’t know he had.
They spent two nights in the Berg, resting up and talking plans. None of them knew much about the city
or had any solid connections. Their conversations always returned to Gally and the Right Arm. The Right
Arm wanted to stop WICKED. And if it was true that WICKED might begin the Trials all over again with
new Immunes, then Thomas and his friends had the same goals as the Right Arm.
Gally. They had to go back to Gally.
On the morning of the third day after their run-in with Newt, Thomas showered, then joined the others
for a quick meal. It was obvious how anxious everyone was to get moving after two days of sitting
around. The plan was to go to Gally’s apartment and start from there. There’d been a little worry about
what Newt had told them—that some Cranks were planning to break out of the Palace and go to Denver—
but there’d been no sign of them from the air.
Once they were ready, Thomas and the others gathered at the hatch door.
“Let me do the talking again,” Jorge said.
Brenda nodded. “And when we get in, we’ll find a cab.”
“Fine,” Minho muttered. “Let’s quit this shuck yapping and go.”
Thomas couldn’t have said it better himself. Movement was the only thing that would deaden the
despair he felt about Newt and his dreadful note.
Jorge pressed a button and the huge ramp of the cargo door started to pivot downward. The door had
only opened halfway when they saw three people standing just outside the Berg. By the time the bottom
edge thumped the ground, Thomas had realized that they weren’t there with a welcome banner.
Two men. One woman. Wearing the same metallic protective masks as Red Shirt back in the coffee
shop. The men held pistols and the lady had a Launcher. Their faces were dirt-smeared and sweaty, and
some of their clothes had been torn, as if they’d had to fight their way through an army to get there.
Thomas could only hope it was security being extra cautious.
“What is this?” Jorge asked.
“Shut your mouth, Munie,” one of the guys said, his mechanized voice making his words all the more
sinister. “Now step down here nice and easy, or you won’t like what happens. Don’t. Try. Anything.”
Thomas looked past their assailants and was shocked to see that both gates leading into Denver were
standing wide open and two people lay lifeless in the narrow alley leading to the city.
Jorge was the first to respond. “You start firing that thing, hermano, and we’ll be on top of you like
stink on dookie. You may get one of us, but we’ll get all three of you punks.”
Thomas knew it was an empty threat.
“We’ve got nothing to lose,” the man replied. “Give it your best shot. I’m pretty confident I’ll nail two
of you before anybody takes a single step.” He lifted his gun a couple of inches and aimed at Jorge’s face.
“Fair enough,” Jorge muttered, and put his hands in the air. “You win for now.”
Minho groaned. “You are one tough slinthead.” But he raised his hands, too. “You guys better not drop
your guard. That’s all I’m saying.”
Thomas knew they had no choice but to go along. He put up his hands and was the first to walk down
the ramp. The others followed right behind, and they were led around to the back of the Berg, where an
old beat-up van waited, the engine rumbling. A lady in a protective mask sat at the steering wheel, and
two others holding Launchers sat on the bench seat behind her.
One of the men opened the side door, then gestured inside with a nod of the head. “In you go. One
wrong move and bullets start flying. Like I said, we’ve got nothing to lose. And I can think of a lot worse
things than the world with one or two less Munies in it.”
Thomas climbed into the back of the van, all the time working at their odds. Six versus six, he thought.
But they had weapons.
“Who’s paying you to steal Immunes?” he asked as his friends clambered in to sit beside him. He
wanted someone to confirm what Teresa had told Gally, that Munies were being rounded up and sold.
Nobody responded.
The three people who’d greeted them at the Berg got into the van and closed the doors. Then they aimed
their weapons toward the back.
“There’s a pile of black hoods in the corner,” the lead guy said. “Put them on. And it won’t sit well
with me if I catch you peeking during the ride. We like to keep our secrets nice and safe.”
Thomas sighed—arguing would be pointless. He grabbed one of the hoods and slipped it over his head.
All he saw was darkness as the van lurched into motion with a roar of the engine.
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