Toys by James Patterson Page B

furiously up, and came out in the middle of a landscaped median full
     of tulips, roses, exotic grasses, and hybrid cherry trees in full bloom.
    The city’s ground traffic was heavy as usual, moving at a crawl—about thirty-five miles per hour.
    It was just slow enough for me to sprint after the most anonymous-looking service vehicle I saw, grab hold of its rear bumper,
     then tuck myself down between the rear wheels, hopefully hidden from overhead police scanners.
    In a matter of a few seconds, I had disappeared into the flood of vehicles flowing in and out of New Lake City.
    As in the theme song from that old movie—one of the James Bond films, I believe—“nobody does it better.”

Chapter 27
    STILL PLAYING THE superhero in my head—it just might help me survive—I jumped off the service vehicle as it slowed for its
     destination, a distribution center on the edges of an infamous human slum on the south side of town. I smelled the humans
     before I actually saw one. No wonder they were called skunks.
    Humans aren’t the most fashion-savvy creatures on the planet, but even so, I figured I would stand out in my singed hospital
     gown. To avoid attracting too much attention, I stayed in alleyways and shadows, scouting for food, shelter, and, yes, clothes
     to replace the johnny.
    It was a depressingly poor and bombed-out area of town, and there weren’t a lot of inviting spaces around. Mostly it was a
     long row of metal-sided buildings, shuttered loading docks, and gritty, litter-strewed sidewalks.
    I’d gone maybe a half mile in the direction of what looked to be a human neighborhood when I rounded a corner and saw a group
     of jeering Betas—named so by Elite sociologists because they behaved like lawless young male wolves, living lives of opportunistic
     violence on the edge of the pack. The dangerous human thugs were armed with knives and clubs and were clearly not on their
     way to help out at an area soup kitchen.
    They’d surrounded a girl—she couldn’t have been much more than sixteen years old, and she looked very pregnant. As they shoved
     her back and forth, her pale, tattered skirt billowed up around her waist. She was screaming at the top of her voice: “Nooo,
     my baby!”
    It was against my Agency training to put myself at risk for a human, but the girl was clearly in trouble. I had to help her
     if I possibly could. But could I?
    “Nice dress, man,” said the lead Beta as I approached the punks.
    His friends stopped molesting the girl long enough to size me up and then pull a couple of knives from their belts.
    “See anything you like?” I offered up a human-style wisecrack. “Maybe
I
do.”
    “Watch it, pretty boy,” said the leader, a bull-shouldered hulk with a scarred face and a broken nose.
    “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” I said.
    “We’ll dance with you all right—till you’re bleedin’ out of places you’ve never bleeded before.”
    “Sounds like fun,” I told him. “Will it hurt? I like pain.”
    His buddies had stepped away from the terrified girl andwere gathering around me now. The girl took off running down a nearby alleyway. Not even so much as a thank-you.
    “Yeah,” the lead trog went on, clearly pleased with himself. “Why don’t we do some
slam-
dancing? We stand in a circle like this, and you get
slammed.
”
    “Or,” I said, not to be outdone in my knowledge of retro human dances, “we could
break-
dance. You know, you try to lay a hand on me, and I
break
your ugly heads?”
    His grin widened and then disappeared into an expression of stone-cold seriousness. “Kill ’im, boys. Rip ’im up.”
    It so happened that I was already having a very bad day and had some serious aggression to work out. In fact, the hardest
     part would be checking my fury so that I didn’t overdo it and end up coming out of this fight without any usable clothes from
     this rat pack.
    Of course,
usable
is a relative term. After I’d won the street fight—in