by Bruce Hale
Wyatt froze.
“Who’re you?” the agent demanded.
“I, uh. That is, I…” Wyatt stammered.
“Santini!” Shovel Chin called. “Intruder!” And he rushed forward, raising his powerful hands.
Wyatt scrambled backward. Colliding with the side table, he tumbled to the floor amid a shower of table lamp, hot tea, and magazines. “Help!” he squawked, belatedly.
Shovel Chin pounced, and Wyatt rolled at the last second, narrowly missing being pinned.
“Freeze!” shouted Mr. Segredo.
The LOTUS agent twisted like a cat. He grabbed Wyatt’s shoulders, hauled him to his feet, and wrapped an arm around his neck, using him as a shield.
“Let him go!” Max’s father commanded. He stood in the hallway with arms extended and weapon aimed straight at the enemy spy.
Wyatt heard a metallic snick from behind, and felt something cold and sharp prick his neck. He shrank away as far as he could, making a strangled sound.
“How ’bout you drop your pistol instead, and I take you in to Mrs. Frost, you poxy double agent?” Shovel Chin snarled.
Wyatt’s mind raced. What to do? Tremaine was still upstairs, and the girls were out in the van. He had no weapon, and the slightest twitch might get his throat slit. Several self-defense moves ran through his head, but if Shovel Chin jerked the wrong way, it was bye-bye, Wyatt.
He froze, too scared to try anything.
“What’s it gonna be?” the LOTUS agent said.
Mr. Segredo grimaced. Then he slowly lowered his gun, saying, “Easy. Don’t hurt him.”
“Set it on the floor and kick it over here. That’s right.” Shovel Chin gave a nasty chuckle. “And to think that Roscoe Yamada got the best of the great superspy Simon Segredo.” He laughed again, and Wyatt got a full dose of onion breath.
Mr. Segredo had placed the gun on the floor, but suddenly he glanced past the LOTUS agent’s shoulder.
“Oh, that’s rich,” said Yamada. “You think I’ll fall for don’t-look-behind-you, the oldest trick in the—”
CRASH! Something shattered close behind Wyatt. The impact drove the LOTUS agent’s chin into Wyatt’s head like a hammer, while bits of ceramic whatsit showered around them. The man grunted, his grip loosened, and then…
KITSSH! A second impact, this one not quite so messy. The agent’s body sagged against Wyatt, and both of them collapsed to the floor, Wyatt underneath. Yamada’s body blocked Wyatt’s field of vision.
“Couldn’t let you boys have all the fun,” Cinnabar said, from somewhere behind and above.
“Yeah,” Nikki seconded. “What kind of sexist rubbish is that, anyway—girls wait in the car while boys take action? Girl spies are just as good as boy spies.”
Wyatt agreed with them wholeheartedly. He struggled out from underneath the unconscious agent in time to see an incredible sight: Cinnabar and Nikki exchanging a triumphant fist bump. In their other hands, one held the remains of a table lamp; the other, a heavy vase.
Mr. Segredo knelt and helped Wyatt to stand. “Are you all right?” he asked, concern carved into the lines of his face.
Wyatt nodded. He rubbed his head. “Ow,” he said.
Tremaine walked past them, opened the second hallway door, and addressed the others with a grin. “Well, kiss me neck!” he whooped. “Christmas came early.”
The rest of the group crowded around the doorway and peered inside. It was like a Spies “R” Us store jammed into a closet—orderly shelves of smoke bombs, weapons, flashbangs, handcuffs, communications devices, disguises, and surveillance equipment, all sitting there waiting for them.
A grin split Wyatt’s face. “If this is Christmas,” he said, “someone’s been a really good boy.”
IN THE END, Max was surprised at how easy it was to create—a few common household products, some spices from the pantry to disguise the taste, and voilà—a stew fit to give serious intestinal disturbance to a houseful of bad guys. It was so easy, Max thought he just might have to appear on Celebrity Spy Cook-off (if he’d actually been a celebrity, and if there had been such a show).
In fact, the hardest part was getting the cook, Mrs. Cheeseworthy, away from her station long enough for him to do the deed.
“Och, lad,” she said, brushing back a stray curl with her forearm as she stirred the massive pot of smoked haddock chowder. “Don’t hover. I’m trying to work here.”
Max leaned against the massive chopping block, watching her. “Sorry, but I’ve always had an interest in cooking,” he lied. “This is fascinating.”
He watched the servers come and go with cutlery, napkins, and plates, setting the long table in the formal dining room. The pilfered spice jar dug into his hip, from the pocket where he’d stashed it. Max crossed, then uncrossed his arms. Time was running short—if he didn’t spike the stew in the next five minutes, the diners would arrive and it’d be too late.
But Mrs. Cheeseworthy wouldn’t budge. She remained as steadfast as a dieter staring down a chocolate cake.
Should he detonate a smoke bomb at the far end of the kitchen? No, too easy to identify, especially for a spy’s cook. Set a grease fire? Even worse. Pacing around the food prep island, idly tapping a rhythm on the counter, he even considered pretending to hear someone calling for Mrs. Cheeseworthy. Rubbish idea—she’d never buy it.
So how…?
Purely by accident, his hand brushed the uncorked bottle of wine that had been set out to cool, or breathe, or do whatever wine did. The bottle toppled, falling to the floor with a thud. Pale liquid glugged out onto the floor in a rapidly widening puddle.
“Oh!” said Max, and he didn’t have to fake his surprise. “I’m so clumsy.”
He cast about the kitchen in a helpless fashion, pretending to search for a dish towel. Snatching up a linen place mat, he made as if to mop up the spill.
“Wait a wee bit,” said Mrs. Cheeseworthy, rushing to rescue it from his hands. “Ye’re a bull in a china shop. Let me do it.”
Max hid a smile as she went to snag a towel from a rack. Slipping the spice jar into his hand, he stepped over to the stove. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll stir this for you.”
He waited until she’d squatted down to deal with the mess, then dumped in the spices in with one hand and the chemicals with the other. A powdery white residue floated on the surface, but as Max stirred the wooden spoon about, it soon blended in.
He bent over the pot, which was big enough to boil a baby hippo, and took a deep whiff. No strange odors, just fish stew aroma.
“Mmm, smells great,” he said.
Mrs. Cheeseworthy dumped the sodden dishcloth in the sink and reclaimed her spoon, elbowing him aside. “Ye’ve done enough damage for now. Get out of my kitchen. Scat!” As Max headed for the swinging door, she added, “And tell Mr. Leathers to bring out some more Pinot Grigio.”
“Right-o,” said Max, with a backward wave. “Sorry again.”
He had to dodge around the skinny brunette server, who burst through the door exactly as he reached it.
“Beg pardon,” she murmured, gaze averted.
As Max pushed through into the dining room, he felt a brief pang to think that Mrs. Cheeseworthy might land in trouble for his little stunt. She seemed like a nice enough woman, for someone who cooked the enemy’s chowder. Max shoved that thought aside. He couldn’t afford sympathy right now.
The butler, Leathers, was igniting the candlesticks with a wandlike lighter when Max entered.
“The cook says to put out another bottle of Piggo Gigolo,” said Max.
The old man’s eyebrows slowly climbed his forehead, like a pair of caterpillars on a mountain expedition. “Perhaps she meant Pinot Grigio.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Max.
Within a handful of minutes, the other diners had arrived. Mrs. Frost glided in with Ebelskeever and Bozzini in tow, all three sharing conspiratorial smiles.
“—traded the brat, so the team should be back soon with the missin
g piece,” the secretary was saying. “All the important ones are in town, and with the device operational, we—” He broke off when he noticed Max at the table. Max wished he could’ve heard more.
“Ah, young Segredo,” said Mrs. Frost. “I trust you had a pleasant morning.”
“Absolutely lovely,” said Max. “Even took a stroll around the grounds.” He was under no illusions—he knew Styx had ratted on him—but the thought of what was about to happen to Frost and company gave him a bubbly feeling inside, like a shaken-up bottle of ginger ale.
Then Vespa sat down across the table, and some of his bubbles went flat. She didn’t deserve to suffer through what the rest of the crew was about to experience, but Max couldn’t warn her without giving away his plans.
“Hi, Max,” she said, with a hopeful smile.
“Vespa,” he responded.
The servers bustled into the room carrying a loaf of fresh, crusty bread, a bean casserole, and a bowl of green salad. They served the diners while Mrs. Frost and her assistants turned their conversation to innocuous matters.
Max dug in, as he knew he wouldn’t be eating the fish stew. Like scratching a persistent itch in the back of his mind, he wondered again about Hantai Annie, whether she was creeping about the grounds even now. Reluctantly, he tugged his thoughts back on track. Whether she was or wasn’t here, he needed to keep to his plan.
Right on cue, the stew arrived, and the servers ladled out generous portions into bowls. Max had to admit, it smelled heavenly.
“Now, that’s got a kick to it,” said Ebelskeever, after tasting a spoonful. “Old Cheeseworthy’s finally spicing up her act.”
Mrs. Frost took a ladylike sip and nodded her approval.
Max did his best not to stare as the others tucked into their chowder. In fact, he even pretended to take a few bites himself, making the appropriate yummy sounds. Several minutes passed, and Max was beginning to wonder whether he’d added enough chemicals to have any effect.
His heart shrank. Would he have to come up with a new way to sidetrack the LOTUS crew?
“What’s wrong?” asked Vespa. “Don’t you like the chowder?”
Max gave a start. “Er, I’ve never been keen on fish,” he said. “It’s so…fishy.”
And just then, someone’s stomach made a loud, complaining noise, like the growl of an angry Chihuahua.
Ebelskeever’s brow knotted, and his swarthy face turned pale. “Huh,” he said.
“What is it, Ronnie?” asked Mrs. Frost, patting her lips with a napkin.
“I feel a bit…dodgy.”
On the other side of Mrs. Frost, Bozzini mopped his brow. “Too much hot sauce, if you ask me.”
Ebelskeever’s gut snarled like a wounded wolverine. “I, uh, think I’m…” He leaned forward suddenly, clapping his hand over his mouth. “Hu-unch! Beg pardon.”
Gripping his belly, the big man lurched out of his seat and stumbled away from the table, headed for the nearest bathroom.
“Poor chap,” said Bozzini, snickering. “Must have caught a bug or something.” Clearly he relished Ebelskeever’s discomfort, and he forked some salad into his mouth with relish.
Another stomach complained, quickly answered by a second growl. An expression of distress crossed Vespa’s lovely face.
“That’s—ooh,” she groaned. “I think I caught it too….”
Vespa stood, bent at the waist with thighs clamped together. “I’ll just…” She nodded toward the doorway and toddled off.
Mrs. Frost’s sharp gaze went from Bozzini to Max. “What in the world?”
Belatedly, Max realized he should be showing symptoms too. “Ugh,” he groaned, folding forward. “I feel funny.”
“How unu—” Mrs. Frost began, until she interrupted herself with a distinctly unladylike belch. An expression of outrage crossed her face, as if her body were an underling who had disobeyed her and would soon face the consequences.
“I…later,” said Max. He rose and, imitating Vespa, hurried from the room.
Just outside, he peered back through a crack in the door at Bozzini and Frost. LOTUS’s chief was sweating profusely. Her face sported the greenish tinge of an unripe avocado. But Bozzini? Her assistant buttered a slice of bread without a care in the world.
Was the man superhuman? Would Max have to find another method to distract him? He kept watching, eye glued to the crack.
“Would you be so kind as to pass the—” Bozzini began. But he never finished. Instead of words, a brownish liquid exploded from his mouth, spraying across the table with a blarrrgh!
Mrs. Frost’s lips puckered tighter than a miser’s purse strings. Then, through her infuriated expression, she vomited up her lunch with an answering blarrrgh!
Only a petty person would take delight in the suffering of others. Max grinned from ear to ear. He hustled away before his dining companions could spot him, keeping up his I’m-so-queasy charade for any cameras that might be watching.
According to Mrs. Cheeseworthy, the rest of the crew ate at the same time as their leaders, except for the guard on the front gate, who took his lunch a half hour later, when his relief arrived. That left Max with something like thirty minutes to duck down into the secret chamber, locate intel on his friends’ whereabouts, and make his getaway.
It would be tight, no question.
Max had to make sure the rest of the agents were out of commission. Still nursing his pretend stomachache, he hurried toward the wing where the hired hands ate their meals. He rounded a corner. Down the hall, burly Humphrey was pounding on a door, distress scrawled all over his face.
“Lemme in, mate!” he cried. “Urgent business.” But the door didn’t open.
As the agent bent double and ralphed into a potted ficus tree, Max smirked and made for the stairs. He shook his head, thinking, I really need to work on my compassion skills. But that was pretty far down on his to-do list.
Charging up the steps two at a time, Max abandoned any pretense at stealth. He had no illusions—they’d tumble to his trick with or without the closed-circuit footage. Right now speed was of the essence.
He strode to Vespa’s door and gave it a few quick raps, just to be sure. No answer. Once inside, Max rushed into the bathroom—just like someone who was authentically sick from the stew, if anyone was watching. Here was the real test: Had Vespa told her aunt about his breaking into her office? If so, the connecting door from the shared bathroom would almost certainly boast new, stronger protection.
All was well. After a brief round of lock picking, the door swung open to reveal the murky office interior.
The first thing that hit Max was the odor. It no longer smelled solely of furniture polish and old books, but of buttered popcorn, raw meat, and a deeper, muskier scent. Had the impeccable Mrs. Frost left some food in here to spoil?
Max crept through the dimness toward the desk, but he paused when a strange chuffing sound came from somewhere to his right. The heating duct, perhaps? The noise continued. Max could only make out indistinct shapes in the shadowy room, so he switched on his pocket flashlight and shone it about.
Paintings…bookshelves…wall…And then the light skittered past a broad patch of white with black stripes surrounding two reflective blue circles. The chuffing sound repeated, and Max’s confused brain said, Uh, boss, was that a tiger?
He swung the flashlight beam back, just as a low rumble like a tsunami sucking back from a beach filled the room.
All the tiny hairs on Max’s neck and arms stood up.
It was a tiger.
And it was staring straight at him.
“AUGH!” An involuntary shout burst from Max at the sight of the massive white tiger crouching by the office door. He scurried backward until his legs bumped against the desk.
The big cat rose and stalked forward on its huge paws, each one bigger than Max’s head. Its eerie blue eyes were unwavering.
Max’s insides turned to water. His brain roiled with questions, impulses, and utter m
ind-rending panic. A tiger. A tiger?! What the heck was a big cat doing roaming around Mrs. Frost’s office?
A deeper growl rumbled from the creature’s throat.
Max’s next thought: And how the heck do I escape without becoming tiger kibble? The predator stood between him and the office door, and it was closer to the bathroom door as well.
Max didn’t rate his chances of outrunning a jungle cat, so that left only one way to go: down. He fumbled behind him on the desktop, never taking his eyes off the beast. It had paused, but it was watching him with absolute fascination, like a famished castaway eyeing a Happy Meal.
At last, Max’s hand found the lion statuette and pushed on it. As before, a section of the floor slid back, and from the corner of his eye, Max could see the steps leading down to the secret control room. His sanctuary.
He held out a palm toward the predator and edged around the desk.
“Good kitty cat?” he said.
The tiger’s muscles bunched, and its tail lashed back and forth. Max vaguely recalled from some nature documentary that this was a sign of aggression.
Uh-oh.
His brain knew that one should never make abrupt movements around predators. But his body had a mind of its own. Max bolted across the few feet separating him from the passageway just as the tiger sprang. Its colossal bulk sailed through the air. Max dove onto the stairs head-first, narrowly avoiding the creature’s pounce.
Tucking in his head and arms, Max rolled down the tight cylinder of steps like a whacked-out pinball, blowing past the convenient switch that would’ve shut the portal behind him. After hitting every step on the way down, he landed with a whump on the steel floor.
Although aching and bruised everywhere, Max could tell he’d been lucky. Running his hands quickly across his body, he discovered he hadn’t broken anything.
A growl reverberated from the top of the stairs. The hatch!
Lurching to his feet, Max played the flashlight over the wall, hunting for a button that would shut the portal. He spotted a bank of toggle switches on a nearby wall and dove for it, slamming his hand down on all of them.
