The Gift by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

actually being transferred today, but we intercepted their arrival,
     as planned.
    The Lab Boss steps in close to Wisty and me. His breath smells like something I haven’t whiffed in ages but that is all too
     familiar: alcohol. Strictly forbidden by the New Order. “Your first assignment, Harmons, is to supervise the lab for a few
     minutes. Nature calls, you know!” He laughs inanely. “You of course know how the Command Pipe works, correct?”
    “Absolutely, sir,” I say, even though Wisty and I don’t have a clue.
    He presses the whistling instrument into my hands and turns to the rest of the group.
    “Squads!”
he shouts as if everyone here is deaf. “If productivity doesn’t
increase by ten percent
in my absence, you’ll
all
be sent to the
Office of Electrical Corrective Punishments!
”
    And, leaving us with that happy image of shock treatments and Lord knows what else, he disappears through the lab’s double
     doors.
    “Did he just put us in control of this entire lab?” Wisty cocks her head and whispers to me.
    “Looks that way. But I’m not sure what that gets us.”
    “And these kids are all controlled by that pitch pipe?”
    “Like border collies, I guess,” I say, remembering the headbanging little girl.
    “Only it couldn’t be
that
easy, could it?”
    I look down at the pipe, wipe off the bully’s slimy saliva on my sleeve, and blow in it full force like a referee on a basketball
     court.
    The entire roomful of bodies freezes and, almost in slow motion, every single kid collapses to the floor. No, no, no, no,
no. What have I done?

Chapter 20

    Whit
    “OH MY GOD, Whit. Are they —? Are they —?” Wisty is suddenly stuttering. I toss her the pitch pipe and run to the nearest fallen boy
     to check his pulse.
    “Alive,” I tell her, relief rushing over me. “But we’re
all
dead if the Lab Boss comes back now. You’ve always been the musical one, Wist—you try it. Quick!”
    She takes the pitch pipe and methodically plays a bunch of different scales across the three octaves in the instrument’s range.
     After about a half dozen of them—
Holy frijoles
—every single one of the squad members is looking at us transfixed. But at least they’re alive.
    “Say something,” whispers Wisty. “Give them a command.”
    “Stand up!” I bellow.
    There’s not even a pause. We stare dumbfounded as an entire room of kids gets up off the floor—and then starts
bouncing
in place. The weirdest part is… they’re all
smiling
as they bounce.
    “Wow,” I say. It suddenly occurs to me that this is probably the most fun-resembling thing they’ve done in recent memory.
     That’s my best guess anyway.
    Wisty has to blow a couple of dozen notes just to get them to stop. In the process we manage to figure out that one note equals
     one command.
    I’m getting anxious. “Sydney, the boss has just taken the longest wizzer ever, and he’s gonna be back in seconds.” Spy rule
     #1: Remain in character at all times. “Let’s do this thing!”
    My sister quickly plays about six scales and, pointing at me, yells, “Follow this guy!” And I take off out the lab door.
    We burst into the hallway, with Wisty bringing up the rear of our sickly white-smocked platoon.
    The only problem is that not twenty yards down the hall, coming back from his relief mission, is the Lab Boss.
    “Stop, stop all of you! Stop in the name of The One —”
    Without missing a beat, I charge forward—it’s a Hail Mary move. I deliver a devastating right shoulder to the guy’s solar
     plexus, sending him sprawling onto the institutional linoleum, where, before he can cover himself, he’s promptly trampled
     by twenty-four groups of underage slave lab workers.
    My head feels as if it’s about to split open from theoverpowered alarms that have somehow been set off and are now screaming from every corner. The hall’s gone entirely dark except
     for emergency strobe lights.
    As we clamber toward the basement stairwell,