Masterminds by Gordon Korman Page A

twice as scared as we are.
    The three of us start down the Fellowship hill toward the chimneys of the Plastics Works. It’s a moonless night, so dark that when you step away from somebody, the face disappears almost immediately. We might as well be in deep space.
    The factory is absolutely still—a shadow that could just as easily be a small mountain as a building. There are only a handful of lights, none of them much brighter than a bug zapper. Considering this is supposed to be a major manufacturing corporation, it sure looks like nobody’s home.
    We don’t see the perimeter fence until we’re almost upon it. It’s eight feet high, and seems even higher in the darkness. We begin to circle the property, looking for a way in. At last, we arrive at the electronic gate. Three traffic cone trucks are parked on the roadway just inside.
    â€œThere could be others,” Tori suggests. “You know, out of town making deliveries.”
    â€œYou guys want to see Hector’s blood?” Malik offers.
    â€œWe’ll take your word for it,” I decide.
    As far as I know, no kid has ever been inside the Plastics Works. The plant is off-limits except to employees, and there are no open houses or take-your-children-to-workdays. That’s what makes the next step so difficult. Once past that gate, there’s no pleading innocence or playing dumb. Everybody knows it’s forbidden territory. Worse, the plant is Purple People Eater country. We may make fun of their big teeth and photosynthesis, but nobody wants to tangle with them.
    The gate is a little shorter than the fence—perhaps seven feet. Climbing over it feels like passing a point of no return. When we jump to the ground, the impact of our shoes on the gravel resounds like fireworks, and we scramble to the dirt path as quickly as we can.
    Another crunch—a footstep? Is somebody there? A hand squeezes my wrist. It’s Tori, her face ghostly white.
    I count silently—ten seconds, then twenty.
    â€œFalse alarm,” I whisper.
    We scamper toward the building itself, taking a quick inventory of all doors and windows. Our plan is simple: Find a window, look inside. Are they making traffic cones? What else are they doing? If we can’t see anything in the first window, we move on to the next, and so on.
    But the closer we get, the more it becomes apparent that the windows are a lot farther up than they appear from the road. There’s no way we could boost one of ushigh enough to get a look in there, not even standing on each other’s shoulders. And anyway, we’re not circus performers.
    There’s a loading bay, but the heavy folding door is padlocked shut.
    â€œWhat about this?” suggests Malik. He reaches for the handle of the only other way in on this side of the building, a metal door marked Keep Out.
    â€œFreeze!” Tori rasps.
    â€œI doubt it’s open,” I put in.
    Tori points to the top corner of the doorframe. Two tiny strands of color run from the brick into the metal. “It’s wired for an alarm. There might even be a sensor on the knob itself.”
    We stare at her. Where did that come from? I mean, I’m grateful that she saved us from a potential mistake, but how did she see it? People don’t even lock their doors in Serenity. What gave Tori the eagle eyes to spot an inch and a half of alarm wire?
    â€œWe can’t touch anything,” I decide.
    â€œGreat,” grumbles Malik. “So we risked a heap of trouble to come here and do what? Nothing.”
    None of us has an answer for that. We’re standing there like idiots, when the noise reaches us—a softelectric motor. The thought of Purple People Eaters jolts us into action. There’s only one place to go—a low stand of shrubbery against the wall of the factory. We practically trample each other, scrambling into shelter just as a golf cart makes the turn around the corner of the factory