They heard a faint electronic double-chirp, like a calendar reminder, from deep in Shade’s backpack. Both boys paused, waiting to hear if anyone outside came running. No one did.
“My tablet,” whispered Shade. “It’s still on the library Wi-Fi.”
Winston heard Shade undo his backpack’s zipper. “Dude,” he said with equal caution, “this is not the time for YouTube.”
The moment of total silence told Winston that Shade was probably rolling his eyes.
After so long in complete darkness, the tablet lighting up was like igniting a flare. The screen illuminated the beaver on Shade’s sweatshirt and cast long shadows up his face. Shade squinted and turned the backlight level way down. He drew a set of ear buds from one pocket, shoved one speaker into his left ear, and held out the other side for Winston.
In the tablet’s glow, Winston examined the ceiling of their small space, trying to make sure that the device wasn’t casting any light outside. Fortunately, the dark walls and thick dust absorbed just about everything, as if they were stuck in a musty black hole.
“I really don’t need to watch your little sister,” Winston said, “and now isn’t the time for—”
Shade cut him off. “My sisters are all at school.” He turned the screen so Winston could see it better, revealing the Shack’s security dashboard app, which in turn displayed a young man in a suit and sunglasses standing next to Shade’s mother on the Tagaloas’ back patio. “This guy is not.”
Their Wi-Fi bandwidth in the library basement’s hidden cubby registered only three bars, so the scene appeared more jerky and pixelated than it should have. Still, the feed from the Shack’s dome camera looked decent. Winston could make out a man of probably no more than thirty, clean-shaven, with dark pants, white polo shirt, and a decidedly nervous shifting from one foot to the other. Winston recognized him as Smith, the second agent from this morning’s frantic run. Beside him, Mrs. Tagaloa stood with her cell phone held out at arm’s length. She seemed to be taking a selfie with the guy.
“What on earth is she doing?” whispered Winston.
In reply, Shade tapped an icon, turning on the combined streams from the back yard’s three microphones.
“—thousand thirteen,” said the man. “On behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I, Vernon Smith, release the Tagaloas from any liability from injury that may result upon my…examination of the property’s yard or tree house.”
“It’s the Shack, doofus, not a tree house,” muttered Shade.
His mom started to lower her phone, then put it back up. “And for the record,” she said, her tone unusually agitated, “there is no way that my son has done anything illegal or terrorist-y. Neither has Winston. They’re good boys.”
“Ma’am,” said Agent Smith wearily. “May I?”
“Fine!” She lowered the camera and faced the man. The top of her head barely reached his chin. “I just don’t know where you get all of these crazy accusations. There’s going to be a perfectly good explanation.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure there is. Meanwhile, we have footage of your son aiding and abetting a boy with suspected ties to a wanted terrorist, a boy who is in possession of a radioactive device. Also, that boy fled from two federal agents this morning.”
Winston snickered. “And fled a lot faster than you, boss.”
Shade gave him a quick fist bump.
“Now, may I proceed?” asked Smith.
Mrs. Tagaloa took a step back and gestured at the Shack. “If you want, but I warned you.”
Smith strode from the patio onto the thick summer grass. He took half a dozen confident steps before reaching the red string line pulled taut over the turf, then paused before it, considering.
Shade brought up a menu of controls along the bottom of his screen and carefully rested his fingertips above the glass like a concert pianist preparing to launch into a recital. “All right, Captain Crunch,” he growled. “Let’s dance.”
Glancing from the screen to Shade’s narrowed eyes, Winston asked, “Captain Crunch?”
“Whatever.”
Smith took a tall step over the red string, but his next step froze in place as a stern, robotic voice called out from the tree house, “Proximity alert detected. Three seconds to password authorize.”
Winston felt the chuckle rumble deep in Shade’s chest.
Smith glanced about, trying to locate the speakers. When that failed, he looked over his shoulder at Mrs. Tagaloa. “What’s the password?” he asked, his voice considerably higher than a moment before.
Mrs. Tagaloa shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t invade my son’s privacy.”
Turning back toward the Shack, Smith blurted out the default answer of all English-speaking noobs. “Password!”
A flat electronic buzz informed him that this probably wasn’t the correct answer.
“One-two-three-four!” he called, hoping for a simple PIN.
Another buzz of failure.
“This guy thinks I’m a moron,” whispered Shade.
“You should write him a complaint letter,” said Winston. “Tell him you’re offended.”
The FBI agent hunched his shoulders and started to take a step, then reconsidered.
“Time elapsed,” announced the Shack’s security system. “Defenses engaged.”
Shade studied the split screen before him, the map of his arsenal on the left and the dome camera’s live view on the right.
“You could let the system handle it,” suggested Winston. “It worked when we tested it on your sisters.”
A competitive sneer signaled Shade’s dismissal of the idea.
Smith started to take another step toward the tree house. Shade’s fingers waited over three possible options, waiting for the agent to commit. As if sensing a trap, though, Smith took three quick steps to the left.
“Bravo-2,” said Shade, and his right index finger hit one rectangular red icon.
They heard two shots — pop-pop!
Smith only had time to register the sound coming from the dense willow branches above him, then something struck him in the left shoulder. Half a second later, another something hit his left jaw and exploded. He recoiled, instinctively raising his hands against the stinging pain. Only once he stopped his sideways stumble did he put a hand to his shoulder and discover that he’d been tagged with royal-blue paint.
“Ohhh!” rasped Shade, bouncing with glee in the darkness. “Pwned!”
“Are you OK?” called Mrs. Tagaloa. “I’m sorry. I did warn you.”
Smith stood there, his breath coming in shallow heaves, his hands clenched shut to hide how badly they were shaking.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Much more slowly this time, Smith took another step toward the tree house. The bark dust surrounding the structure waited about twenty feet before him. The smartest thing the agent could do would be to make a dash for it.
He tried. Arm raised against more paint balls, half-hunching, Smith took one long launching step forward, landed, and tripped as his foot sank into the foot-deep hole under the turf. Shade activated Charlie-1 just as the agent’s face hit the ground.
They heard another pair of cracks, sounding over the electronic distance like those little gunpowder-packed Pop-It fireworks that kids throw onto sidewalks. Winston could only make out a pair of small blurs several inches in front of Smith’s head. The agent had barely lifted his face from the grass when both blurs exploded into much larger blurs of green paint that instantly splattered across his face, the side of his head, and down much of his back.
The boys rocked in place and bit their lips. Winston wrapped an arm around Shade’s shoulders and shook him hard enough to nearly dislodge the tablet from his lap.
“Soak it in warm water, then scrub with dishwashing soap!” called Mrs. Tagaloa. “Trust me!”
Smith pushed himself up to his knees and tried to wipe the paint from his eyes with his shoulders, which were equally splattered. He wiped his ha
nds through the turf, trying to clean his fingers, then cleared his eyes.
“That stuff stings, too,” whispered Shade.
Back on his knees, Smith was only ten feet from the bark dust. He stayed in a crawl, moving only a few inches at a time. The agent kept his head down to protect against fire from above and explored the thick grass before him with side-to-side sweeping motions. Sure enough he found booby trap Charlie-5 about a foot before the bark dust. The little green peg barely poked above the dirt, almost completely obscured by the turf. Shade could have simply activated it then and there, but he showed a little mercy.
Winston raised an eyebrow at his friend, who shrugged.
“Those bouncing paint pockets aren’t cheap,” Shade said. “Besides, once this joker finishes, they’re just going to cut power to the property and send in a SWAT team.”
Winston knew better than to ask where Shade got his tactical data. Ultimately, there was little difference between the Internet, movies, and Shade’s own imagination as an information source.
Smith carefully went around the trap and reached the line of half-buried 2x4 boards that separated the lawn from the bark-dusted area under the Shack. Smith huddled an arm’s length away from the rope ladder dangling from the hole in the tree house’s wraparound deck. The agent stood and took one shaky stride toward the ladder. Nothing happened.
“Pressure pads?” asked Winston.
Shade shook his head. “Disabled them last week, dang it.”
At this point, the dome camera pointed almost directly down on Smith’s head, so Shade switched to the wide-angle camera mounted under the eaves over the back patio. This didn’t offer as much detail on Smith, but it would suffice.
Gingerly, the agent reached out and pinched one of the rope rungs between his thumb and index finger. When nothing happened, he gave it a slight tug, unable to keep from cringing.
“When we get out of this mess,” said Shade, “I’m putting this on YouTube and getting like a gazillion ad revenue clicks.”
“After conversion, that’s about fourteen bucks,” said Winston. “Go for it.”
Smith placed one foot on the first rung above the ground and set his weight on it. Shade waited just long enough for the man to think all was clear, then he tapped another icon.
“Psst!” blared a gravelly voice from the dome camera’s speaker. In their hiding spot, Shade mouthed the words along with the audio. “Avast there! It be too late to alter course, mateys. Hold on tight with both hands, if you please. There be squalls ahead!”
Smith once again glanced back at Mrs. Tagaloa. “Isn’t that from the old Pirates of the Caribbean ride?”
“Maybe!” she answered. “Is that the kind of thing friends of terrorists do?”
Winston said, “I love your mom.”
Smith visibly straightened at the rebuke. He put his other foot on the next rung, committing all his weight. Nothing shot him. Nothing clicked, broke, or blew up.
The agent climbed another rung. The ladder swayed freely as his weight shifted, rocking him back and forth. Another seven or eight rungs remained to the deck.
“Now?” asked Winston.
Shade’s fingertips hovered. His eyes were large and unblinking as he stared at Smith on the screen.
The man reached for the next rung and took another step, clearly gaining confidence. He reached up again, began to lift himself to the next rung, and then Shade tapped the Delta-1 icon.
Smith’s body instantly stiffened. His left foot remained free in the air and twitched. They heard him make a short choking noise. No comical sizzling sound or whiff of smoke from his ears followed, but Smith couldn’t control his muscles. His back arched, and his body quivered as hundreds of amps poured through his palms.
After a couple of seconds, Shade cut off the countermeasure. Smith’s body peeled away from the ladder, hands first. His back hit the bark dust, then his skull bounced off the ground like a rubber ball.
“Infinite pwnage!” crowed Shade.
After a moment, though, the boys fell silent and still as they realized that the agent’s body wasn’t moving.
16
Library Liberation
Agent Smith lost consciousness for twenty-three seconds, which was enough time for Shade’s mom to progress through four I-told-you-sos, two bouts of pacing, and a mercifully brief lecture on unwarranted government invasion of privacy. Winston watched as she slid her phone from her pocket, unsure if he wanted her to call 911 or not. He didn’t want Smith or anyone else to die, but he also knew that the more people who got dragged into this mess, the worse it would get.
“What do we do?” whispered Shade with a clearly audible edge of panic.
Winston had no idea, but as Mrs. Tagaloa started to tap at her screen, Agent Smith groaned and tried to roll onto one side.
Both boys exhaled with relief, and Shade’s mom lowered her phone.
“As I was saying,” she continued, “this is what comes from abuse of power. Do you believe in karma, Agent Smith?”
The man groaned again and gingerly touched one hand to the back of his head, checking for blood. His fingers came away blue, and he mumbled, “Great.”
On impulse, Winston said, “Put me on speaker.”
“What?” Shade drew the tablet deeper into his lap, hugging it tighter. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe. Humor me.”
Shade shook his head, but he pressed an on-screen microphone icon and raised the tablet to Winston’s face.
Winston leaned in and, enunciating as clearly as he could while still whispering, said, “Agent Smith, this is Winston Chase.”
Smith’s head turned from side to side, but he quickly surmised that the voice was coming from a speaker mounted to the Shack’s underbelly.
Mrs. Tagaloa, having not just been knocked unconscious, responded more quickly. “Winston? Is Shade with you? Is he OK?”
Shade flicked the tablet’s edge back to his mouth. “Yes, Mom, I’m fine.”
Her head tilted to the sky, and she exhaled deeply. “Oh, thank God...but your father is going to kill you.”
Winston pulled the tablet back to himself. “Agent Smith, the Tagaloas have done nothing wrong. Neither have I, for that matter. I’m not a terrorist.”
Smith forced himself to sit up. “Why are you running? And—” He flapped a hand, indicating the Shack and lawn. “Why all this? Why’d you attack me?”
“We didn’t attack you! Shade put all that stuff in because of his sisters. You just…blundered into it.”
“What’s in your backpack?”
Winston’s mind churned through various answers. He didn’t want to give out the truth, but he also knew he needed to give Smith something solid. The man seemed honest. Maybe he could help them.
“It’s not a weapon or anything like that,” he said. “It’s something my dad left to me.”
Smith gingerly got to his feet, careful to stand in the same spot. “Winston, the FBI wouldn’t be interested in some ordinary family heirloom.”
“Bledsoe is not regular FBI. He’s not what you think.”
“What is he?”
“He’s…” The word resurfaced in Winston’s memory from his mom’s description. “Damaged. He’s the one you should worry about.”
“OK.” Smith hunched his shoulders and rubbed at his neck. “OK. Winston, I’m willing to hear you out, but you need to come in and talk with me. Will you do that?”
Winston met Shade’s gaze over the tablet’s glow. He couldn’t tell what his friend wanted. If he did go in, would Shade be allowed to return home? Maybe Smith could help them. If they worked out a place where Winston could chat safely with Smith, perhaps he could turn the tables on Bledsoe. Did Smith have that sort of influence? Or perhaps there was a way to use Smith to get out of here, then slip away and be on his own. Wasn’t that the smartest, safest way?
“Maybe,” Winston said. “But how do I know—”
Without warning, Shade reached up and cut their con
nection. The video feeds went black.
Winston almost kicked Shade. “Dude!”
Shade pointed at Winston’s chest. “No, you dude. That guy was going to tell you whatever you wanted to hear to get you to turn yourself over. This is why I watch cop shows. Know your enemy, man.”
“Not cool,” muttered Winston, even though he knew Shade was probably right. He dropped his earbud into Shade’s lap and stood.
“You’re welcome,” Shade whispered.
The silence that grew between them seemed thicker than before. While Shade stowed his tablet back in his pack, Winston felt along the walls. They were rough and pointy. No gaps or passages lead away from their little space. The thought of secret passages crossed Winston’s mind, but he discarded it. The library had opened in 1913, and the place wasn’t exactly some old, haunted Victorian mansion. If the building contained a hidden dungeon, they were already in it.
“I’m sure Alyssa will give you another chance,” whispered Shade. “You shouldn’t worry about it.”
At first, the random subject change confused Winston. Then he realized that Shade was trying to get them back on safe, comfortable ground.
“I wasn’t worrying about it. But now that you’ve mentioned it, I’ll start worrying about that, too.”
“No, I’m saying you don’t need to worry. She’d been planning on asking you out for a while. I think she was just waiting until after the robotics competition.”
“Wait. What makes you think that?”
“June,” whispered Shade. “She told me Alyssa was going to ask you to the Sadie Hawkins dance last year, but she chickened out. June thinks you’re a total freak, and that’s always kept Alyssa from approaching you.”
Winston Chase- The Complete Trilogy Page 17
