Ends of the Earth

by Bruce Hale

  “Bugger that,” said Wyatt, and he screamed, “Help! Somebody, help!” at the top of his lungs.

  The spy spat a curse and advanced on him.

  Cinnabar aimed a snap kick at the hand holding the blackjack. Hatchet Face moved at the last second, and the blow glanced off his forearm.

  “You’ll pay for that, girl!” the man snarled.

  Hatchet Face still gripped the lead-weighted weapon, and now he swung viciously at Cinnabar’s head, driving her back. She stumbled against one of the bins and went down.

  As Hatchet Face pursued Cinnabar, Wyatt whirled to face Dead Eyes, who was stalking him, wielding a wicked-looking knife. Before the man could grab him, Wyatt kicked out at his bony knee. Jackie Chan he wasn’t, but he managed to connect with a calf.

  Dead Eyes didn’t make a sound. He bared his teeth, recovered, and executed a spinning back kick that made Wyatt feel like a woolly mammoth had stomped his chest. He fell to the rough concrete, dazed.

  The LOTUS agent stood over him, brandishing the weapon. “When you have a knife, people are supposed to listen to you,” he groused, half to himself. “What’s wrong with kids today?”

  “Poor role models, I presume,” said a new voice, like steel wrapped in velvet.

  Wyatt blinked.

  A third man—tall, lean, and immaculately dressed—now stood behind Dead Eyes. Past him, Hatchet Face lay slumped, unconscious, against a trash bin. Before Dead Eyes could react, the newcomer had karate-chopped his neck and wrenched his knife hand behind his back, causing him to drop the weapon.

  As the LOTUS agent struggled, the tall man calmly drew a yellow-and-black Taser from his trench-coat pocket and zapped him at point-blank range. The man sank to the ground, twitching like a landed flounder.

  “I—uh, oh. Wow,” said Wyatt.

  “You’re welcome,” said Simon Segredo.

  IF ANY ROOM in the LOTUS mansion was likely to contain valuable secrets, like the location of Max’s friends, it was the comfortable study that served as Mrs. Frost’s office. As far as Max could tell, there were only two problems with accessing those secrets: one, finding a time when the LOTUS chief would be away from her office; and two, breaking into the blasted place.

  During his brief time at the mansion, Max had wandered every hall, every open room, checking the security measures as inconspicuously as possible. The office presented a challenge. Two cameras covered the hallway outside it, and the door boasted a biometric, keypad-controlled lock. Plus, three guards randomly patrolled the house at all hours, so you never knew when they might come down that corridor.

  The ceilings were solid, so you couldn’t break in from above, the windows were barred, and the heating vents were too narrow to accommodate a person, even one as slim as Max. Not so much as a cockroach could sneak in undetected.

  No, as far as Max could tell, the office security had only one weak link: the bathroom. A chance remark from the butler, Leathers, had revealed that the study shared a bathroom with the neighboring second-floor room.

  Vespa’s bedroom.

  Now the only problem was how to sneak through the bedroom of someone he hated, in order to break into the office of someone he despised. Yep, life here at LOTUS was all just unicorns and rainbows, Max reflected. What a family.

  Speaking of families, he’d managed to delay writing Mrs. Frost’s adoption statement, claiming that he needed time to think before making such a major decision. The move had bought him a day or two, but the calculating scrutiny in the woman’s icy eyes told Max that this delay came with an expiration date.

  He planned to be long gone by then.

  And when it came to fleeing, Max really didn’t want to leave LOTUS HQ empty-handed. He couldn’t head blindly off into the city; he needed some line on where to find his friends—maybe even his missing father.

  And if he could steal a couple of secrets that might hurt or hinder LOTUS, so much the better.

  The opportunity to snoop arrived sooner than he’d anticipated, at dinner that same night. The meal took place in the enormous formal dining room, a chamber dripping with crystal chandeliers, gilt mirrors, and all manner of fussy antique furniture. Despite that clutter, the room was still large enough to accommodate an entire family of waltzing elephants, a symphony orchestra, and an aardvark.

  Max sat with Vespa, Mrs. Frost, and her assistant, a man named Bozzini, at a table designed to hold thirty. Servers, including the crusty old butler Leathers, bustled in and out bearing platters and tureens. Given all the fuss, it could’ve been a state dinner for diplomats, rather than a casual evening at home with murderous friends and family.

  It was so different from the chaotic camaraderie of dinners at Merry Sunshine Orphanage. People laughing, arguing, the dog begging for food, Tremaine throwing dinner rolls to Rashid. That was a family meal. With a pang as sharp as a blade, Max missed Hantai Annie Wong. Her gruff manner concealed a huge heart—unlike Mrs. Frost, whose polite demeanor concealed a heart the size of a pomegranate seed.

  Working his way through a slice of apricot-stuffed lamb shoulder, Max monitored Mrs. Frost’s conversation. Unsurprisingly, it was all about work.

  “They’ve agreed to your demand,” said Bozzini, reading from his computer tablet. He was a lipless, olive-skinned man with all the sparkle, humor, and excitability of a bowl of lukewarm linguine.

  “Excellent,” said Mrs. Frost. “And when will it be ready?”

  “Mr. Rook says”—Bozzini consulted the tablet again—“tomorrow afternoon.”

  Max’s ears perked up at the mention of the mind-control device’s inventor, Addison’s father.

  “He’s weak and sentimental,” Mrs. Frost said, patting her lips with a linen napkin. “I knew our little ploy would work.”

  The sweet lamb turned bitter in his mouth and Max swallowed uncomfortably. Caring about a kidnapped son made someone weak? Mrs. Frost had about as much maternal feeling as a hammerhead shark.

  “Have a team standing by to make the trade.”

  The assistant inclined his head. “Already done, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Frost’s lips pursed in a tiny smile. “Such efficiency.”

  “I live to serve.”

  Max glanced up from his plate to find Vespa mouthing “I live to serve” behind her napkin. She rolled her eyes at her aunt’s exchange, and Max suppressed a snort of laughter. He had to remind himself that he loathed her.

  Still, this tidbit was news. LOTUS would possess a working mind-control device by tomorrow night, and the S.P.I.E.S. team needed to know about it. Perhaps while snooping for his friends’ location, Max might uncover LOTUS’s intentions. Which made it all the more important for Max to get a look inside that office and—

  “You’re finished?” asked a voice from behind. Max started, then glanced up to find a young woman, part Asian like himself, with her hand extended.

  He nodded. The server cleared away the lamb and replaced it with a plate of asparagus in vinaigrette sauce. Oh, yum.

  “Don’t you like asparagus?” asked Mrs. Frost.

  “Love it,” he said. “Nearly as much as brussels sprouts and haggis, combined.”

  Max was just starting to puzzle over how he could get Vespa and Mrs. Frost out of the house at the same time. Start a fire? Flood the bathrooms? Invent a shoe sale? Then he finally caught a break.

  “Vespa, dear,” said the woman, “don’t forget our little errand after dinner. Time to pick up our new pet.”

  With a smirk, Max wondered whether that pet would be a pit viper or a piranha. His money was on the piranha.

  “Do I have to go?” Vespa asked.

  Mrs. Frost’s lips thinned into a white slash. “You know better than to waste my time with such questions.”

  The blond girl sighed. “Yes, Auntie. I’ll be ready.”

  Max kept his gaze down, focused on cutting his asparagus. How perfect. And he didn’t even need to set anything ablaze.

  An hour later, Max sat in his third-floor bedroom, pretending
to read a book, with his back to the surveillance camera hidden in his alarm clock. When he’d first discovered the camera, he considered destroying it, but then he realized it was better to have surveillance you knew about than surveillance you didn’t.

  Either way, Max knew he was living under a microscope, and he was good and sick of it.

  The purr of a car engine caught his attention. He rose and peeked out the window. Illuminated by a floodlight, Mrs. Frost and Vespa were crossing the gravel below toward an idling Mercedes SUV with a trailer hooked to the back. Max revised his guess about the pet from piranha to alligator. Did LOTUS buy nothing but high-end luxury cars, he wondered, or had Mrs. Frost worked out some sort of endorsement deal? He could almost see the ad: The automotive choice of evil spies for over thirty years.

  He waited until the vehicle had motored off, then pocketed a couple of useful items and headed out the bedroom door. The hallway was quiet, the ivory carpeting as deep and plush as God’s own bathrobe.

  Making his way to the edge of the staircase, Max stopped and listened to determine if the coast was clear. He’d brought along a handheld video game as a cover, and as he waited, he started to play.

  A good thing he did too. Because no sooner had he booted up a game than Humphrey Wall’s close-cropped brown dome appeared below him, rising as the man climbed the steps. When he saw Max, he stopped abruptly.

  “Oi, what you doing?” said the agent, his hand resting on the butt of a pistol at his waist.

  “Dancing the hoochie-koo with the Queen Mum,” said Max. “What’s it look like?”

  Humphrey’s legs spread wide, and his lip curled. “Don’t push me, boy.”

  “Or what? You’ll shoot me for playing a video game?” said Max.

  “You don’t wanna know what I’d do.” His voice was as hard and flat as stale peanut brittle.

  Max feigned a yawn. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t.”

  “Hmph.” The agent glared at him a moment longer, seething. Then, since playing Grand Theft Auto wasn’t on his list of approved reasons for killing someone, Humphrey brushed past and swaggered off down the hallway, growling, “Keep your nose clean.”

  “Sure. Got a hankie?”

  Max silently released his held breath. Keeping up the bored-teenager act, he ambled casually down the stairs. He knew that the mansion bristled with more cameras than the red carpet on Oscars Night, and that his movements were likely being recorded. Heart hammering, he proceeded to the first floor. What he needed was a mild distraction—nothing too extreme—for Humphrey and the other roaming security guards.

  His feet found their way down to the kitchen. Pausing in the doorway, Max scanned the gleaming, oak-floored room, packed with enough Sub-Zero freezers, groaning pantries, and high-tech culinary equipment to supply a dozen reality-show cooking competitions. His gaze traveled down the counter and landed on a toaster that looked like it could control a space shuttle mission.

  Hmm…

  Max smiled. A burned English muffin, a blaring smoke alarm, and voilà—instant distraction.

  He dug the bread out of the pantry, cranked the toaster setting to nuclear fusion level, and popped in the muffin. Shielding his next move with his body, Max then nudged the food processor’s handle over to hold the toaster’s lever down.

  A woman’s voice spoke. “Still hungry?”

  Max nearly jumped out of his skin. With a superhuman effort at casualness, he turned, still blocking the rigged toaster with his body. “Er, yes. I’ve never been keen on eating lamb. Bad for the environment, you know.”

  “What, do lambs pollute?”

  It was the part-Asian server from dinner, bearing an empty glass and a plate with the remains of her own meal.

  “Pollute? Er, no,” said Max. “It’s, um, the global footprint?” He had no clue what he was talking about.

  “Cattle are bigger than lambs,” said the woman. “Wouldn’t they leave bigger footprints, then?” A wry smile played at her lips as she scraped her leftovers into the garbage disposal.

  “Er…”

  The silence stretched like the waistband of some ancient gym shorts. Max fidgeted while she flipped the disposal’s switch and wiped the glossy countertop with a dish towel, his mind focused on the rigged toaster behind him. Did he smell burned toast already?

  “I’ve got a high metabolism as well,” said Max. “I scoff food like I’ve got a hollow stomach.” Then, realizing how foolish that sounded, he forced a laugh and added, “Um, I guess we all do. Otherwise the food would have no place to go.”

  The server glanced up at him with a look that said, Who is this git? No wry smile this time.

  More long seconds ticked by. Finally, she finished up and turned to go. Max offered a breezy “Great talk—see you around, then” as the woman headed out the door shaking her head.

  He waited as long as he dared, making sure she was truly gone. The burned-toast smell intensified.

  Then he sauntered out of the kitchen, tapping away at his video game and whistling under his breath. By the time the distant blare of the smoke alarm began, he was just reaching the second floor. Max dodged into the nearest open room and waited until he heard footsteps clomping down the stairs.

  From here, Max knew, he would need to be particularly sneaky. He fished a laser pointer from his pocket and switched it on, holding the object atop the game player. Then he strolled into the corridor, angling the device so that it pointed up at the juncture where the ceiling met the wall—where the surveillance cameras clung.

  Max kept his face angled downward over the game, but his eyes up. When he rounded the corner into the stretch of hallway where Mrs. Frost’s study lay, he made sure to give both cameras a full blast of infrared laser pointer.

  They didn’t beep or emit smoke or do anything to indicate that they were disabled. Still, Max trusted crafty Mr. Stones, who had taught him this trick. He pocketed the pointer and worked the doorknob, slipping into Vespa’s darkened bedroom.

  The scent of tropical flowers, strong and sweet, enveloped him—Vespa’s scent. It reminded him of her smooth skin, her toffee-brown eyes, her tumble of blond hair…Max shook his head. Why was he thinking of this now? With an effort, he concentrated on the task at hand.

  Like a beacon, the golden glow of a night-light guided him into the bathroom. No cameras here, as far as he could tell. Max had to trust that Mrs. Frost wouldn’t let the guards spy on her own niece in the loo. He tried the door that connected to Mrs. Frost’s office.

  Locked, of course. He pulled out his picks and went to work.

  After five minutes of dedicated effort, the knob turned and the door swung open. His stomach flipped like a trained seal. Moving lightly on the balls of his feet, Max made his way into the heart of LOTUS’s operations, Mrs. Frost’s inner sanctum.

  AS EVIL HEADQUARTERS WENT, Mrs. Frost’s was right up there with the best of them—if your idea of evil headquarters was a posh accountant’s office. The broad maple desk held a high-end computer, a green-shaded lamp, a sleek telephone, a nearly empty in-box, and a pair of crouching lion statuettes carved in onyx. The bookshelves bulged with scads of leather-bound volumes that simply screamed “technical and boring.” Cherry-colored embers glowed in the fireplace.

  All in all, it looked less like the sort of place where you’d hire an assassin, and more like the sort of place where your rich uncle Cedric would get his taxes done.

  But Max knew that the office, like Mrs. Frost herself, hid its true nature beneath a sophisticated veneer. He sifted through the reports in the in-box. Nothing relevant. His gaze snagged on a flyer for some kind of circus, and he thought, Does Mrs. Frost have a thing for clowns? He tried to log on to the computer. Password protected. Not for the first time, Max wished that he possessed Wyatt’s techno skills—or that he could just pick up the computer and shake it until all the secrets spilled out.

  He prowled the room, snooping behind books and paintings. Nothing—not even a cobweb. Max gritted his teet
h. No filing cabinets graced the tidy chamber, no handy maps highlighted his friends’ whereabouts. The desk itself had only two drawers—one containing stationery, and the other office supplies. Not so much as a camera pen or an eraser bomb to be seen.

  Max clasped his hands on top of his head and pivoted slowly, surveying the room. What was he missing? This was it, the nerve center of LOTUS’s operations, the heart of its evil domain. So why wasn’t there more…evil spy stuff?

  On an impulse, he reached out and lifted one of the lion statues, hoping to uncover a secret stash, microfilm taped to its bottom—anything, really. What happened next made up for all his frustration.

  For the statue didn’t lift; it folded back on a hinge. And when it did, something creaked behind him. Max spun to see a whole section of the floor slide away into the baseboard, revealing a spiral staircase that trailed down into dimness.

  Hairs stood up on the back of his neck and his breath came faster.

  “Now that’s more like it,” he muttered. Pulling a tiny LED flashlight from his jeans, he flicked it on and descended the steps. When his head was level with the floor, Max hesitated. Should he leave the passageway open like this? What if someone should visit the office above while he was exploring down below?

  Then his light picked out a switch on the center post of the stairs, several steps lower. When Max flipped it, the floor slid back into place above him. LOTUS, it seemed, had very courteously thought of everything.

  He continued along the metal steps, following the cone of illumination thrown by his flashlight. As he proceeded down and down, below what must’ve been the ground floor, the thought struck him: What, they couldn’t afford elevators? But before long, the tight cylinder of the staircase opened into a wider space, and he had reached the bottom.

  Splashing his light about the place, Max gave a low whistle. Now, this was an evil lair to end all evil lairs.

  Brushed-steel floors stretched farther than his beam could reach. Rows of open-fronted lockers to his left contained an array of weapons and espionage equipment impressive enough to make the Pentagon revise its Christmas list. Max saw all manner of rifles and pistols, as well as nets, Kevlar vests, ninja throwing stars, laser weapons, grenade launchers, flashbangs, and devices he couldn’t begin to puzzle out. One locker even held what appeared to be a personal jet pack.