by Bruce Hale
Shhhrick! His jacket sleeve tore, yanking him off course. Wyatt thumped against the brick wall and tumbled clumsily into the bushes.
“All right?” she whispered.
He crunched through the shrubbery to her side, plucking at his bottom. “This spandex is riding up my bum, but otherwise, yeah—I’m aces.”
About thirty seconds later, the lanky form of Simon Segredo flew over the wall, looking like nothing so much as a too-tall Olympic gymnast. He executed a flip and even stuck the landing.
“Stone the crows,” Wyatt muttered, eyes wide.
“Show-off,” whispered Cinnabar.
Sizing up the situation in a glance, Max’s father led them along the edge of the lawn at a slow jog, approaching the mansion obliquely. Two-thirds of the way there, he paused in the cover of an overhanging tree.
Cinnabar tapped his shoulder and indicated the rambling structure ahead. “A dumb question,” she said. “How do you know which of those sixty-something rooms we’ll find Max in?”
Mr. Segredo’s teeth gleamed in the faint moonlight. “GPS,” he said.
“No way,” said Wyatt. “You had a tracker on Max and they didn’t catch it?”
“Not for two whole days,” said the spy. “Last I saw, he was staying in a third-floor room, in the nearest wing of the house.”
Wyatt beamed. “Same way I found him last time Max got himself into LOTUS HQ.” He turned to Cinnabar. “Remember, Cinn?”
She patted his shoulder. “Memory lane later. Rescue now.”
“Too right.”
Mr. Segredo unzipped a small gear bag and passed each of them a metal canister. “You know your targets. Hurry now, and don’t get spotted.”
“Good-o,” said Wyatt. “Where do we meet?”
Max’s father pointed. “That corner, soon as you can. Now go!”
The three of them split up, one for each wing of the grand estate. Cinnabar marveled anew at how easily Wyatt had hacked the mansion’s floor plan and heating-system schematics. She shook her head admiringly. That boy had mad computer skills. Too bad he turned into a drooling idiot around pretty girls.
Each wing possessed its own heat pump, and each heat pump, Wyatt discovered, had an air intake vent that was accessible from outside the house. Cinnabar located her target behind a low hedge. Squatting beside it, she fished the smoke grenade from her jacket pocket. With a quick jerk, she pulled the ignition ring and lobbed the cylinder into the vent.
Billows of bluish smoke trailed behind it as the bomb disappeared. Cinnabar grinned. Hot times in LOTUS HQ.
She made for their rendezvous, sticking to the shadows in case any of the residents happened to glance outside. As she passed a room that was lit up like a diorama, a scowling, apelike man loomed at the window, a sudden apparition.
Ebelskeever!
Cinnabar tucked into a crouch and held her breath. Had he spotted her?
Her heart thudded and it felt like ants were crawling on the inside of her skin. Seconds ticked past. She didn’t dare move, but she had to know. As slowly as a winter thaw, she uncurled enough to raise her eyes to the window. The burly man stood there still, dark eyes peering unseeing into the night, and mouth working as he spoke with someone in the room.
Then, a muffled yell. Ebelskeever’s face registered alarm, and he spun away, disappearing from view. The smoke must’ve begun to emerge from the heating vents.
Staying low, Cinnabar dashed to the meeting spot. Wyatt was already waiting, shifting from foot to foot, and Mr. Segredo arrived right after her.
“Let’s move,” he said. “We’ve got ten to fifteen minutes, tops. If we hit trouble, Blue Team won’t be coming to the rescue—they’re only for distraction.”
“So let’s not get in trouble,” said Cinnabar.
Mr. Segredo sent them each a searching look, then stuck out his hand, palm down. “For Max,” he said.
Cinnabar and Wyatt stacked their hands on top of his. “For Max,” they echoed.
When a wide-eyed LOTUS agent burst through the nearby side door, they quickly stunned him, hid the unconscious man in the bushes, and slipped inside the mansion.
ALARMS WAILED like heartbroken robots. Billows of blue-gray curled from heating vents. Voices shouted back and forth, and the acrid smell of smoke stained the air.
Wyatt’s heart throbbed like that techno music Cinnabar’s sister fancied, but he didn’t much feel like dancing. He hustled down the hall behind the others, gripping a pistol in his sweaty palm. It didn’t matter that the gun was loaded with beanbag rounds; what worried him was the mission.
Truth is, he was rubbish at this operational stuff. Give him a computer, a gizmo, or an electrical system and he was a regular legend—none better. But all this creeping about, shooting, and karate-kick stuff made him feel like the last kid chosen for the football team—clumsy, out of place, and ill prepared.
He hoped he wouldn’t let Max down.
Mr. Segredo led them along the brightly lit hall, Taser in one hand, pistol in the other. They hurried past empty illuminated rooms that appeared to be a stage set for a play called Rich People’s Lives Are Better Than Yours (minus the smoke, of course). Wyatt had never seen such posh decor, such luxurious furniture—except maybe at the other LOTUS HQ he’d invaded. Say what you might about the enemy, they could decorate a mean house.
Two women dressed in black-and-silver spandex uniforms hurried down the hall from the other direction. Wyatt tensed, then he realized why Max’s father had insisted they wear the togs they’d discovered in the LOTUS safe house.
“Where’s the fire?” asked the lead agent, a blond woman with the broad shoulders of a professional swimmer.
“We can’t find it,” said Mr. Segredo, taking a couple of steps aside. “Have you tried the boiler room?”
The darker woman’s gaze took in his weapons and the two teens accompanying him. She frowned. “Since when do we hire kids?”
“It’s a recent thing,” said Wyatt. “New internship program.”
Still confused, the women looked between the tall agent and his charges. Blond Swimmer’s hand unconsciously moved toward the holster strapped under her arm.
Cinnabar poured on the charm. “I can’t believe how lucky I am to be an intern,” she gushed. “All I want is to be a top agent, like you two.”
Their attention focused on Cinn. To one side, Wyatt noticed Mr. Segredo readying his weapons. His stomach knotted; he really didn’t want to see bloodshed.
“Me too,” Wyatt added, forcing a hero-worshiping grin. “Stuff a duck and strike me bloody handsome! I’m happier than a tick on a fat dog!”
“Is English his second language?” the darker agent asked Cinnabar.
“We’re not sure what his first one is,” she replied.
Blond Swimmer rolled her eyes and waved them forward. “Get on with you. This is an emergency, not a guided tour.”
“Come along, kids,” said Mr. Segredo.
“Ta, then.” Wyatt ducked his head in thanks.
“And keep an eye out for the fire source,” the other woman called after them as the S.P.I.E.S. team continued on their way.
Soon they reached an intersection where their smaller corridor met the main one, and Mr. Segredo’s steps slowed.
“We go right,” said Wyatt, consulting his smartphone. “According to the floor plan, the stairs are that way.”
With a curt nod, the tall spy strode down the right-hand hall. They had nearly reached the staircase, when a bulky, muscular figure emerged from a side room.
“Ebelskeever,” said Max’s father.
“Segredo,” said the LOTUS agent. His shoulders flexed.
For a millisecond, they froze, wolfish grins on their faces.
As Mr. Segredo raised his pistol, Ebelskeever moved with startling swiftness. He struck the Beretta from the tall spy’s grip and seized the hand that held the Taser, slamming it against the wall. The weapon fell to the carpet.
The two agents grappled, swaying. I
n a judo throw, Mr. Segredo tossed the bigger man over his hip, but before he could recover his weapons, Ebelskeever landed lightly and aimed a sweep kick at him. Max’s father dodged. When the LOTUS agent reached for the Taser, Mr. Segredo blasted a roundhouse kick at his head, driving him back.
Although Ebelskeever was larger and heavier, they seemed evenly matched in skill. The men raged up and down the corridor, punching and kicking. Snatching up the Taser, Wyatt tried to pass it to Mr. Segredo, but Max’s father couldn’t look away from the other man for even a split second. Cinnabar balanced on the balls of her feet, seeking an opening to join the attack on the enemy spy.
“Find the asset,” Mr. Segredo snapped. “Go!”
Wyatt hesitated, then jammed the Taser into his belt and yanked on Cinn’s sleeve. Reluctantly, she came away, and both of them dashed for the stairs. Up and up they pounded, footfalls whispering like secrets on the plush ivory carpet.
At the third floor, Cinnabar took the lead. Closed doors lined the wide, quiet corridor.
“Which one?” she asked.
“Fourth door…on the left…I think,” Wyatt panted.
Cinnabar tried the knob. The door swung open to reveal a small sitting room, as empty as a gambler’s bank account.
“Wyatt…”
“Or was it…third door…on the right?” he wondered aloud, planting his hands on his knees and wheezing. He really had to start exercising more often. Or at all.
Cinnabar threw up her hands. “You mean you don’t know where he is?”
Wyatt shrugged. “A GPS isn’t…all that accurate.”
“And you waited until now to mention it?”
Hands still resting on his knees, Wyatt swung his head, examining the nearby doors. Among those he could see, only one of them boasted a newly installed dead bolt on the outside.
“There.” He pointed.
With a soft cry, Cinnabar rushed to the door. By the time Wyatt joined her, she’d already broken out her picks and was working on the dead bolt.
“Hurry,” said Wyatt helpfully. He glanced down the corridor. They were still alone. So far.
“You want this to go faster?” Cinnabar said around the pick between her teeth. “Tackle that second lock.”
“On it,” said Wyatt. He broke out his own set of tools and began tinkering with the doorknob.
“Who’s there?” came a faint voice from the other side of the door.
Cinnabar pressed her cheek to the wood. “Max, it’s me—Cinnabar.”
“And Wyatt,” Wyatt added. “Come to spring you, mate.”
“Brilliant!” Max sounded relieved. “Get me out of here!”
“Happy to,” said Cinnabar, “if you’ll stop distracting us.”
“Oh, right,” said Max. “Sorry.” After a pause, he added, “Do hurry, though.”
Wyatt and Cinnabar focused on their work, and in another few minutes, the locks clicked open. Turning the knob, Cinnabar hurried into Max’s arms for a fierce hug. This went on for several heartbeats longer than was comfortable for Wyatt to watch, so he shuffled his feet and studied the carpet.
“You came for me,” Max said at last, stepping free of the embrace and looking from one friend to the other. His eyes shone, and he gripped Wyatt around the top of the shoulders in a manly clinch.
“Well, yeah,” said Wyatt. “Didn’t want you to have all the fun.”
“But how—?”
“Let’s go.” Placing a hand on each of their backs, Cinnabar propelled them into the hall. “It’s a long story. And in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the bad guys’ house.”
They jogged for the staircase. “But how did you get in?” asked Max. “And why are you dressed like that?”
“We met your dad, we raided a safe house, he made a plan, we broke in,” said Wyatt as the trio scrambled downstairs.
“Huh,” Cinnabar mused. “I guess it’s not that long of a story.”
They hit the second-floor landing and pressed on, ever downward, the thick carpet swallowing their footsteps.
“Wait, my father’s here?” said Max.
“Too right he is,” said Wyatt. “We left him fighting Ebelskeever, and—”
Max seized Wyatt’s arm, yanking him to a stop. “Where?”
“First floor,” said Wyatt.
“And he’s fighting Ebelskeever?” Max raked a hand through his hair. “Do we have any weapons?”
Wyatt struggled to tug the Taser out of his belt. “There’s this, for starters.” Max accepted the weapon and pushed ahead.
Cinnabar caught at Max’s shoulder. “He told us to get you out,” she said. “We should go.”
An unreadable expression crossed his face. “Not without my dad.”
Wyatt noticed that it was the first time Max had referred to his father as “dad.” He wondered if it meant anything.
“Your father wants you out of here,” said Cinnabar.
“And what, I just leave him behind? I didn’t notice you abandoning your sister when things got tough.”
Cinnabar sized up their friend, her lips clamped tightly. She nodded once. “Okay. We’ll take a quick peek around.”
When the little group reached the ground floor, Cinnabar and Wyatt headed left, toward where they’d left the combatants.
The hallway was deserted.
“Not good,” said Wyatt.
In fact, now that he noticed it, the whole place was quiet. Too quiet. No more wailing smoke alarms, no more shouting agents.
“Where is he?” Max asked.
“Dunno.” Cinnabar reversed direction and headed back toward where they’d entered the mansion. “Come on, we don’t have time to look.”
“Wait,” Wyatt said. “We should take a different way out.”
Cinnabar put her hands on her hips. “Don’t be daft.”
“No, listen to me,” said Wyatt, surprised at how forceful he was being. “By now, they know we caused the smoke, and they know where we broke in. They’ll be expecting us to use the same route. Won’t they?”
He could read his friends’ faces, almost as if he were reading their thoughts. Wyatt’s the tech guy—what does he know about operations?
Max shook his head. “Wyatt, I have to find my dad.”
“Too late,” said Cinnabar, planting her feet in a wide stance. “We need to take the escape route we know.”
Wyatt’s jaw clenched. Ten minutes into their rescue, and already things were falling apart.
Sudden heat rose from his gut, as if he’d just chugged a lava milk shake and it didn’t want to stay down. These were supposed to be his friends. Why wouldn’t they listen to him? Why did they always treat him like a total dill?
“Fine!” he roared. “Find your own way out.” And he whirled and stomped off down the hallway, the image of their stunned faces seared into his mind.
Wyatt’s skin buzzed. His brain churned. He couldn’t believe he’d done that; he also couldn’t believe he’d waited so long to do it. It felt liberating; it felt awful. Finally, after a minute, he could resist no longer. He glanced back for his friends.
They hadn’t followed.
Doubt washed over him. Had he been too harsh? Or worse, had his idea been a bad one?
Around the corner, footsteps scuffed against the carpet. Rough voices echoed. Slipping into the nearest room, Wyatt closed the door nearly all the way, and peered through the crack.
Two hard-faced men in midnight-blue suits raced past. Their voices reached him like words blown from a speeding car.
“—trying to steal the device?” one was asking.
“They couldn’t,” the other replied. “It just got here. Still, we have to…”
After they’d gone, Wyatt peeked outside. If those two agents were chasing Max and Cinnabar, he had to do something. He couldn’t let LOTUS take his friends, no matter how pigheaded they were acting.
Wyatt crept along the hallway after the two spies, hugging the wall and prepared to duck into hiding at any time. When
he reached the intersection they’d passed on their way into the mansion, he sank to the carpet and peered around the corner.
Good thing he did, too.
Because what Wyatt saw left him as dazed as a stunned mullet.
IF MAX SEGREDO had been asked to list the least favorite moments of his life so far, this particular moment would definitely rank among the top five.
His father, Simon Segredo, stood battered and bleeding in handcuffs, surrounded by LOTUS agents. More of these very same agents leveled large, no-nonsense guns at Max and Cinnabar. And off to one side, beaming like she’d just been handed the keys to the city and a brand-new Rolls-Royce, stood none other than Mrs. Frost.
“Well, well,” she cooed. “Such a touching scene. Father and son, back together again.”
Eyes as steely as a boxful of knives, Simon Segredo met her gaze. “Let him go,” he said.
Ebelskeever sniggered, a sound like a grizzly bear choking on a ham bone. “Seems to me, you’re in no position to make demands, mate,” he said, giving the last word a sarcastic twist. Max was pleased to note the big goon’s bruised face and right eye swelling shut. His father had clearly given Ebelskeever as good as he’d gotten.
Simon ignored the man. “Max served his purpose,” he told Mrs. Frost. “He brought me here. Now let them go.”
The LOTUS chief tugged on her sleeves with an amused smile. “Just when things are getting interesting? I think not.”
An ache clutched Max’s heart at the beaten expression his father tried to hide. No matter what Simon might have done in the past, no matter how mixed up Max’s feelings about him, the man’s pain was impossible to ignore.
“I won’t fight it,” Max blurted.
“How’s that?” Mrs. Frost’s eyebrows lifted.
Max felt like he’d swallowed lead weights. “The adoption.” He couldn’t look at her. “I’ll agree to it, if you let them go.”
Cinnabar gasped. Simon’s fists clenched, his stare was wounded.
Chuckles percolated from Ebelskeever and the other agents. “Ooh, how noble,” the big man crooned. “A bloody pair of martyrs, the both of you.” His gaze swung to Cinnabar. “How ’bout you, girlie? Where’s your noble gesture?”
