Ends of the Earth

by Bruce Hale

  After several days of living on the run, she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed being with her own people. Cinnabar half stumbled, breaking into a sprint as they got closer.

  Mr. V pointed at her, saying something as three other heads swung her way: Rashid, Tremaine, and Nikki Knucks. All three grinned, even Nikki, and then Cinnabar found herself swept up in Tremaine’s warm, licorice-scented embrace.

  “Give a brother a hug!” cried the teak-skinned boy.

  The next few moments were a whirl of embraces and back thumping and overlapping greetings. When Cinnabar and Wyatt stood back from their fellow orphans, Mr. Vazquez was finally able to slip in a coherent word.

  “My friends,” he said, “I am so very glad to see you. We feared the worst.”

  “We experienced the worst,” said Wyatt. “Try surviving on Twix and stale break-room biscuits for a couple days.”

  “Not like you couldn’t stand to drop a few pounds,” Nikki teased, poking his belly.

  For once, her taunts didn’t rattle Wyatt. “Aw, I missed you too, Nikki,” he said mock-sweetly, drawing hoots from the two older boys. Nikki blushed to match her red hair and scowled like an Easter Island statue.

  “Where have you been?” asked solemn Rashid.

  “Hunting for Max,” said Cinnabar. “LOTUS captured him after the raid.”

  Tremaine winced. He could usually be counted on for a joke and a smile, but now his face wore a troubled expression. “Hantai Annie is missing, and Miss Moorthy, too,” he said. “Dunno what became of Mr. Dobasch. Sad days, sister.”

  “So let’s go get them all back,” said Cinnabar. “Starting with Max.”

  Mr. V nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Really? Just like that?”

  “Of course.”

  “But…” She frowned. “I thought you’d try to talk us out of such a dangerous mission.”

  “Normally, I would.” Mr. V’s handsome face, more like a tango instructor’s than a computer expert’s, seemed drawn and tired. “But you don’t know the whole story.”

  Wyatt and Cinnabar traded a look. “What do you mean?” asked Wyatt.

  “While we were out stealing the mind-control thingumabob,” said Tremaine bitterly, “LOTUS was busy burning down Merry Sunshine Orphanage.”

  “What?!” cried Cinnabar and Wyatt together.

  An iron fist crushed Cinnabar’s heart. She had trouble catching a breath. “My sister!” She grabbed Mr. Vazquez’s arm. “What happened to Jazz?”

  “And Mr. Stones?” asked Wyatt. “The other kids?”

  The teacher patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Mr. Stones and Madame Chiffre got everyone out in time. They sent a message—they’re hiding out somewhere safe.”

  Cinnabar reeled. Her sister was safe, and Merry Sunshine was…gone. A strange cocktail of relief, regret, and cold rage surged through her veins. Jaw clenched, she snarled, “They’ll pay. Those ratbags won’t get away with it.”

  “Ratbags?” said a familiar voice. Cinnabar spun to see the massive bulk of the traitor Alfred Styx looming over her. He smiled a sharklike smile. “Now is that any way to talk about an old friend?”

  WYATT GAPED. The last time he’d seen Styx, the big man had been chasing them down a hall at LOTUS HQ, brandishing an assault rifle. Now here he stood, larger than life, wrapped in a navy-blue trench coat and sporting a crew cut so sharp it could shave the ink off a newspaper. Wyatt stepped back, instantly on the alert.

  “Tired of the tucker at LOTUS?” he asked nervously. “Looking to rejoin your old mates?”

  “After I was so well treated at S.P.I.E.S.?” Styx made a sour grin, like someone who bites down on a chocolate truffle only to discover earwax inside. “Not bloody likely,” he growled. He swiveled his blocky head to the left and whistled sharply between his teeth.

  At the signal, four LOTUS agents in dark suits materialized as if conjured by a magician, encircling the orphans and their teacher.

  Styx plunged a meaty paw into his overcoat pocket, poking the object inside against the fabric and pointing it at Cinnabar. As Mr. V made a move toward his own weapon, the big man said, “Ah-ah-ah. Think twice, Vazquez. Hantai Annie would never forgive you for making me spill orphans’ blood.”

  Cinnabar blanched, and the other kids froze. Wyatt’s heart hammered like a thrash-metal drum solo.

  Mr. V’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

  “You don’t know what I’d do,” rasped Styx. “And neither do I. So let’s not find out.”

  Wyatt glanced left and right. Now would be a really bonzer time for Simon Segredo to make an appearance. But the dapper spy was nowhere in sight.

  “How’d you find us?” asked Cinnabar.

  Styx snorted. “Think you’re the only one who remembers the old procedures? I’ve been checking the ‘Pets for Sale’ section of that Web site ever since we took down your safe house. Hacking your e-mails was child’s play.”

  “Let the children go,” said Mr. Vazquez. “I’ll come along quietly.”

  Styx shook his thick head. “Mrs. Frost wouldn’t approve.”

  “She doesn’t let you think for yourself?” Wyatt asked, half surprised at his own audacity. “Got you on a pretty tight leash, then?”

  Styx’s face clenched like a fist. “The old witch doesn’t appreciate what she has. But she will.”

  “Aww, you’re not feeling the love?” Nikki needled him.

  “Seems that happens a lot with you, eh, Styxie?” Wyatt said. He wasn’t sure why, but keeping Styx annoyed and distracted seemed like a good strategy.

  The big man snarled like a rabid grizzly bear. “Enough!”

  Wyatt flinched, rethinking his strategy.

  “You, don’t call me Styxie,” the enormous spy snapped, jabbing a finger at Wyatt. His glare swept over the rest of the group. “You lot, come with us. March!”

  Wyatt, torn between fear and bravado, caught Cinnabar’s eye. She glanced at his pocket and gave him the tiniest of nods, reminding him of the useful items that Mr. Segredo had slipped them. He nodded back.

  Cinnabar folded her arms. “And what if we won’t go with you? Would you really shoot down a bunch of unarmed orphans in public?”

  “Don’t push him,” said Rashid. “I don’t want to know.”

  Styx clamped one of his huge hands around Cinnabar’s arm. His pale face was mottled with anger, like a bruised apple. “Button your lip, missy. Or I’ll button it for you.”

  A female LOTUS agent stepped up beside him, looking like a Rottweiler in a pantsuit. “The car’s waiting,” she said, indicating the gray Mercedes van idling at the edge of the square despite angry honks from other vehicles. “Let’s not have a scene.”

  Styx grunted. He yanked Cinnabar along as he trundled toward the van, and the other LOTUS spies herded the group of teens.

  “No, by all means,” Cinnabar said, her voice growing louder, “let’s have a scene. Let’s have one right now!”

  And with that, she tugged Mr. Segredo’s bulky yellow-and-black pistol from her overcoat and Tased Styx in the spot where a man would least like to be Tased.

  “Wooaugh!” With a wordless cry, the huge spy folded at the waist and crumpled to the pavement, twitching and jerking.

  Wyatt pulled his hands from his pockets, brandishing a smoke bomb in each. “Mind your eyes!” he cried to his fellow orphans.

  Foomf! Billows of bluish smoke engulfed the group as the bombs hit the pavement. Nearby tourists shouted in alarm and scrambled away.

  “Fire!” Wyatt yelled, fanning their panic. “Run!”

  “Follow me!” cried Cinnabar.

  Between the sulfurous smoke and the tears in his eyes, Wyatt had trouble telling one blurry figure from the next, but he found Nikki and shoved her toward Cinnabar. When he went to search for Rashid, Rottweiler Woman seized his arm in a death grip.

  “Gotcha!” she snarled. “You rotten little—”

  Wyatt whipped a canister of pepper spr
ay from his overcoat, spritzing it right into whatever insult waited on the tip of her tongue. Down went Rottweiler Woman, coughing and gagging. He stumbled after Cinnabar and Nikki, pushing past the freaked-out tourists and another incapacitated LOTUS spy.

  A gunshot barked in the confusion, and someone cried out.

  Once past the smoke cloud, Wyatt spotted Mr. Vazquez supporting a wounded Rashid, hustling along one edge of the square. The rest of the orphans were just ahead of them. Wyatt hurried to catch up.

  Then he noticed the Mercedes van gliding along the curb behind them, like a tiger shark trailing a school of fish.

  “Look out!” he cried.

  Cinnabar and Tremaine glanced back, dismay etched across their faces. They picked up the pace, but the vehicle was closing the gap.

  The van’s curbside window was down. Wyatt swatted at his coat pockets, fumbling for another smoke bomb…there! He wasn’t the world’s greatest cricket player—okay, possibly the world’s worst—so he’d have to get close.

  Sprinting toward the van, he managed to work the grenade free. Over the hubbub in the square, it sounded like the shadowy driver was shouting something. Wyatt cocked his arm.

  At that moment, a stray beam of streetlight caught the man’s face—the thin lips, the long jaw. Simon Segredo! And just as the grenade left Wyatt’s hand, he heard Max’s father’s words: “Get in the van, you moppets!”

  An hour later, after a chilly ride with all the windows down and multiple apologies from Wyatt, they returned to Mr. Vazquez’s Chinatown hideout to regroup. Along the way, they dropped Rashid at the hospital. His shoulder wound was painful but not critical, and Mr. V promised to come back soon to stay with him.

  The teens and the two adults spread out in the living room of the shabby flat over the Soon Fatt restaurant. Time to enjoy their takeout meal and see whether the eatery lived up to its name.

  “This is—mmmf—so yummo,” Wyatt mumbled, assaulting a plateful of lemon chicken-y bliss. He felt like he hadn’t had a decent meal in donkey’s years.

  “Keep your hands and arms well back, ladies and gents,” said Nikki. “The rare Tasmanian warthog has been known to munch stray fingers.”

  “Ha-ha,” said Wyatt. But with his full mouth, it sounded more like “hng-hng.”

  Mr. Segredo wiped his lips on a napkin. “First things first. Before we begin this reckless and possibly suicidal mission, we’ll need all the help we can get. Where’s the rest of your group?”

  Mr. V set down his chopsticks. “Stones, Madame Chiffre, and the other students are back in our town, not far from the orphanage—or what’s left of it.” He grimaced.

  “And how many are reliable operatives?”

  Mr. Vazquez gave an expressive shrug. “Stones, for certain. Chiffre, Catarina…maybe Jazz.”

  “If my sister’s up for it,” said Cinnabar. Her expression put the issue in serious doubt. Wyatt knew Jazz was still dealing with the psychological aftereffects of being imprisoned by LOTUS. He shuddered in sympathy.

  Max’s father rose and began to pace the long room—just like Max did when he was working through something, Wyatt noticed. “We’ll need to scout the place more thoroughly,” Mr. Segredo mused. “Maybe Stones can cover for you while you’re with Rashid. What about Hantai Annie?”

  Mr. Vazquez shook his head. “In the wind. I can’t raise her on mobile phone or any of our other contact methods. I’m afraid…”

  The teens’ chopsticks slowed to a halt, an even truer sign of their emotional state than the glum expressions on their faces.

  “She’s out there somewhere,” said Wyatt staunchly. “Takes more than a little midnight raid to knock our Annie out of the action.” But his optimism was as hollow as a lead pipe and the chicken felt like a gluey lump in his gut.

  Max’s father glanced out the window at the neon-tinged night, then turned to the group. He clasped his hands behind his back like a general surveying his troops. “So what are our assets?”

  Mr. Vazquez made a wry face. “A couple of weapons, that laptop”—he indicated the computer on a side table—“and the clothes on our back. You?”

  “My deadly wit, a gear bag full of all the goodies I could muster, and my trusty Beretta,” said Max’s father. “If Stones joins us, we’ve got six agents, four of them kids. That’s on our side of the equation.”

  “And on the other side?” Wyatt asked.

  “The latest security equipment, oodles of cash, enough weapons to arm several militias, squadrons of crack agents, and total ruthlessness—in short, all the might and majesty of LOTUS in their own stronghold.”

  “Cho!” Tremaine chuckled. “Frost won’t stand a chance, mon.”

  MAX’S HEART threatened to pound its way out of his chest like a Rock’em Sock’em Robot. He froze, pinned in place by Vespa’s stare.

  “What are you doing in my toilet?” she said, standing in the doorway to her bathroom. One hand rested on her sweater-clad chest and her eyes were wide, though she didn’t seem scared, merely surprised.

  “I, er,” Max said. Involuntarily, he glanced back the way he’d come, at the door that led to Mrs. Frost’s office, then caught himself.

  Vespa’s lips parted. “You went in there?” she breathed.

  As Max saw it, he had two choices: lie like a broken watch and hope she believed it, or tell the truth and hope she didn’t expose him. Given their history, he chose the lie.

  “I had to talk,” Max said, feigning embarrassment. “I, er, felt bad about how I’ve been treating you, so I came in here to wait, and—”

  She arched an eyebrow. “To wait in my loo?”

  “Er, no. In your bedroom. And then I…”

  Vespa cocked her head. “Have you stalked many girls?”

  Max blushed and looked away. “No. Never.”

  “Sneaking into someone’s bedroom when they’re away? Stalker move,” she said, the ghost of a smile playing about her lips. “I won’t say I’m not flattered, but…”

  Vespa stepped in so close, Max could feel her breath on his face. He noticed flecks of gold in her brown eyes, and in a rush of guilty feeling, that gold reminded him of Cinnabar’s eyes.

  “Uh,” he said. His cheeks felt warm.

  “You and I both know the truth,” she whispered.

  “We—” Max’s voice broke. “We do?”

  She nodded, and Max felt like he was standing in a garden, the smell of flowers was so strong. “You broke into my aunt’s office to spy on her,” she breathed.

  “That’s ridic—” His denial died off when Vespa laid her index finger on his lips. He’d never met a girl who did that before.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “My room is bugged. If we whisper, they’ll just think we’re having an intimate conversation. In my bedroom.”

  Max’s cheeks grew warm. “I—I’m not spying on your aunt,” he whispered, trying to stay focused.

  “For a good spy, you’re a terrible liar,” said Vespa. “But don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret.”

  Max stared into those big brown eyes. A whirlpool of feelings coursed through him—doubt, hope, worry, relief, and something else he couldn’t put a name to.

  “Max, I’m your friend.”

  “Friends don’t betray each other,” he spat, before he could stop himself.

  She winced. “They don’t. What happened before won’t happen again. I promise.”

  Max’s lips pursed. Could he really trust her? At this point, he had no choice but to pretend he could. He nodded.

  A relieved smile lit her face like sudden sunshine. “Good. Now play along with me. I don’t know if she’s got cameras in my room, but I know there’s a bug or two.”

  “Okay,” said Max.

  “You’re so fresh!” Vespa’s voice grew louder and she assumed a flirty tone. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  Max followed her back into the bedroom. He tried for a suave attitude. “Believe it, baby.”

  They both grimaced at his clumsy atte
mpt to be Joe Smooth.

  But Vespa kept up their cover. She giggled. “That’s enough out of you! Better scoot before my aunt finds out.”

  “Later, then,” said Max, reaching for the knob. With the door half open, he veered back to make some parting comment. But the impact of two warm lips on his cheek left him stunned.

  “For the cameras,” Vespa murmured.

  “Uh,” said Max. And he stumbled from the room into the hallway.

  “There you are,” said Humphrey, rounding the corner. His gaze flicked over Max’s shoulder, then back to his face, and he grinned wolfishly. “Lover boy.”

  Max looked around. Vespa was shutting the door, and she blew him a kiss.

  “That’s me,” said Max. “Lover boy.”

  Humphrey shook his head, chuckling. “The guv’nor won’t be pleased when she hears of your shenanigans.”

  “Don’t tell?” Max pleaded.

  “Boy,” said the agent, “ain’t no secrets in this place.”

  Max crossed and uncrossed his arms, thinking of what he’d actually been up to. For the sake of his mission and his life, he sincerely hoped Humphrey’s statement wasn’t true.

  Later that night, as he tossed and turned, waiting for sleep, all Max could think of was escaping from LOTUS by any means necessary. (Well, that, and the touch of Vespa’s lips on his cheek.) Maybe he was disappointing Hantai Annie by not continuing as a double agent, but he just couldn’t—not with the threat of Mrs. Frost’s adoption hanging over him. No, he had to escape at the first opportunity.

  He’d take one more stab at searching the hidden command center for information on his friends’ whereabouts, and if that failed, well, he’d simply have to bolt. Maybe Max could avoid cops, LOTUS, and truant officers long enough to find his friends and warn them that LOTUS was plotting against the government. Maybe not. But at least he wouldn’t be sitting around on his behind, waiting for the ax to fall.

  That decision made, he drifted at last into an uneasy slumber.