Michael Vey: The Prisoner of Cell 25 (Book 1)

We arrived in Pasadena a little after noon. I was asleep in the backseat of the Camaro, lying across Ostin. I woke when we stopped for gas and to change drivers. Wade’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked like he was about to pass out. He stumbled into the gas station to use the bathroom.

“Where are we?” I asked Jack.

“We’re in Pasadena,” he said. “I need the school’s address.”

“I’ve got it.” I handed Jack the brochure, then got out of the car and stretched. The California air was moist and warm and, in spite of my worries, it felt good. I looked in the back window and saw that Ostin was still snoring, so I went inside the gas station. I got two bottles of strawberry-flavored milk and a box of doughnuts. I knew Ostin would be hungry when he awoke.

By the time I returned to the car Wade had climbed in the back and already fallen asleep. I sat in the front.

“Wade was pretty tired,” I said to Jack.

“Yeah, he was. We would have been here sooner but he stopped in Lancaster and slept for four hours.” Jack started the car. “Are you ready?”

I was blinking pretty hard. “No. Probably never will be. Let’s go.”

Jack smiled. “Nice.”

Pasadena was lush and green with palm trees everywhere. I was eight when my mother and I moved from California, and I hadn’t been back since. The city seemed foreign to me.

“Take Colorado Boulevard to South Allen,” I said. “Then turn right.”

Jack followed my directions and in a few minutes we were on Allen Avenue. “That’s the place,” I said. “It looks just like the picture. Except for the prison fence.”

Jack parked the car at a gas station about a half block from the school. “Wade, wake up,” he said.

“Who…”

“We’re here.”

Ostin woke as well and started searching for his glasses. He had fallen asleep wearing them, and I had picked them up off the car floor.

“Here you go,” I said, handing them to him.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“The school,” I said.

Ostin looked out at the building. “That’s a school?”

“Looks more like a prison than a school,” Wade said groggily.

“How are we going to get inside?” Ostin asked. “The fence is at least twelve feet high and there’s barbed wire.”

“And the entrance is guarded,” Wade added.

“Getting in is not going to be easy,” Ostin said. I think he meant “possible” instead of “easy.”

Jack shook his head. “He’s right, man. What are you going to do?”

I looked out at the building for a few more moments, then I sighed. “Well, it’s not your problem. You got us here.” I reached into my pocket and took out the rest of the money. “Here’s the rest.”

Jack took it without counting. “Thanks. Good luck.”

“C’mon, Ostin,” I said.

As we were climbing out of the car, Jack said, “Look.”

I turned back toward the building. A white food-service truck was passing through the gate. “Get back inside, I have an idea.”

We climbed back in and Jack started up the Camaro.

“What’s your idea?” I asked.

He put on his sunglasses, then pulled out into the street. “We’re going to borrow that van.”

“Borrow?” Ostin said.

“This is life and death, right?” Jack asked.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

We followed the van at a distance for about six miles, until it pulled into a parking lot, where there was a fleet of identical vans. Two men climbed out of the van and walked to the building. As soon as the men were out of sight Jack parked a couple stalls from the van. “Wade, follow us in the car.” He looked at Ostin and me. “Let’s go.”

Jack, Ostin, and I ran, slightly stooped, to the van. I figured we’d have to break the window to get in, but the van was unlocked and we quickly climbed in. Jack checked on top of the visor, then in the ashtray for a spare key but didn’t find one. He pulled out a pocketknife, reached under the dash, and began sorting through wires. It only took a few minutes for him to hotwire the car. “These old vans are easy picking,” he said.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” I asked.

“I’m not a car thief, if you’re wondering. My old man’s a mechanic.”

“I wasn’t wondering,” I said. “Just impressed.”

Jack drove out of the lot without drawing any attention. There was a CB radio mounted below the dashboard. Jack reached down and switched it on. “Better keep it on,” he said. “So we know when they discover the van’s missing.”

Ostin was sitting in the back of the van with a bunch of metal trays stacked on a trolley. He lifted a lid. “Hmm. Chicken cordon bleu,” he said.

“Don’t steal food,” I said.

“We just stole their van,” Ostin said. “I don’t think they’ll care about a few leftovers. Besides, it might be my last meal.”

“He’s got a point,” Jack said. “If they don’t let us in the gate, we’re screwed.”

“What’s our story?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” Jack said.

“I doubt they’re expecting the food-service people back so soon. We better have a story.”

“I’ve got one,” Ostin said. “Tell them we left a stack of trays with chicken cordon bleu in the kitchen and it will stink up the place if we don’t get it back.”

“Not bad,” I said. “I wonder if we’ll need ID.” I began looking around the van for paperwork or a badge but didn’t find anything. “Nothing. All we’ve got is the story.”

“We can make it work,” Jack said.

Ostin said, “Hey, look at these.” In a back compartment there was a stack of white food-service smocks and a sack of paper serving hats. “Uniforms.”

Ostin lifted the smocks and hats out of the drawer and handed one to Jack and me. Even the smallest smock looked like a dress on me, but I put it on anyway. We drove back to the gas station parking lot, where Wade hopped out of the Camaro. I climbed in back and Wade got into the front seat of the van.

“Put these on,” Jack said, handing Wade a smock and hat.

“Sweet,” Wade said.

We circled the block and headed for the school. “Ready for this?” Jack asked.

“Yeah,” I said from the back.

Jack pulled into the driveway and slowly up to the guard shack. The guard, a stern, powerful-looking man in a navy blue security uniform, wore a gun at his hip. “What’s up?”

Jack looked surprisingly calm. “Sorry, we left a couple trays of blue chicken in the kitchen.”

The guard squinted. “What?”

“You know, blue chicken, delicious from the oven but give it an hour out of the refrigerator and it’s going to be stinkin’ to high heaven. Stink up the kitchen, the dining area, the whole building. That blue chicken is stinky. Whoo. Diaper stinky.”

The guard looked at him for a moment, then grinned. “All right. Go get your stinky chicken.”

“Thanks.”

The gate opened and we drove through.

“Blue chicken?” Ostin said. “It’s chicken cordon bleu.”

“Whatever,” Jack said. “It worked.”

He drove around the side of the building. We weren’t exactly sure where to go, but there was only one open garage. In the back of it there was a door guarded by a man with a gun.

“Whoa,” I said. “We’ve got another guard.”

“Worse,” Ostin said. “See that plate by the door? It’s a magnetic switch. It’s like my dad’s office: You can’t get anywhere without a card. No card, no entry. You better find something.”

Wade looked through the glove compartment. “Nothing,” he said.

“What do I do?” Jack asked. “Pull in?”

“We have to now,” I said, “or they’ll know something’s up.”

“Maybe we could offer the guy some food,” Ostin said.

“Do you ever think of anything else?” Wade asked.

“Wait,” I said, “he might be onto something. We’ll carry the trays in and ask the guy to open the door for us.”

Ostin sneered at Wade.

“Whatever we’re doing,” Jack said, “we better do it fast. ’Cause we’re here.”