by Bruce Hale
“Okay,” she said, after a long pause. “Ikuzo.”
Cinnabar slipped out the door after Nikki and Annie.
“Freeze!” a rough voice barked. “Don’t move a muscle.”
AS MAX SOON DISCOVERED, the toilets were subject to surveillance after all. The cameras had simply been concealed behind mirrors so as not to make visitors uncomfortable. He learned this helpful fact from the constables hustling them into the police van.
“You film people in the loo?” squawked Max. “What kind of pervs are you?”
“The kind that like to keep our politicians safe,” said one stone-faced cop.
Nikki punched Max’s shoulder with her cuffed fists. “Thanks loads, Maxi Pad.”
Max protested, “It’s not like we had time to properly check it out before we—”
“That’ll do,” said Simon, with a meaningful glance at the officer handcuffing him to a roll bar.
“Your father is right,” said Hantai Annie. “Nobody say anything. I call lawyer from station.”
“But there’s only ninety minutes left before—” Max said.
“I know,” said Annie. “I know.”
Following a short ride across the river, the S.P.I.E.S. team was marched into a brown-and-tan brick office building that seemed more like the home of an engineering firm than a police station. Nevertheless, it still possessed that unique smell of burned coffee, flop sweat, and lies that marks police stations the world over.
The duty officer at the front desk (Sergeant Yee, by his nameplate) separated the adults from the teens, calmly ignoring Hantai Annie Wong’s strenuous protests. As the constables hauled off Annie, Stones, and Simon, Max’s father called, “Don’t worry, son. We’ll get you out of here.”
Max lifted a hand in farewell at the sight of his father disappearing down the corridor. An unexpected pang gripped his heart. In all the brief time they had spent together, there had been far too many good-byes.
“Now, let’s get you tykes sorted out,” said Sergeant Yee, an amiable Asian man tall enough to be a first-string basketball player. “We’ll need to contact your legal guardians.”
“Those are our legal guardians,” Max and Cinnabar chimed in together.
“Oh,” said the sergeant. He blinked. “Well, er, we’ll make sure they’re present when you’re questioned. Now off with you.”
Hard-faced cops escorted the five teens to an isolated holding cell with six crummy-looking cots and a toilet, clanging the door shut on them. The key turned, the constables left, and the junior spies were alone with their thoughts.
Not very pleasant thoughts, to be sure.
Max slumped onto the cot and sank his head in his hands. This was it. Once the police learned that Merry Sunshine Orphanage didn’t actually have a home anymore, they’d split up Max and his friends and hand them over to social workers for placement with foster parents. Max too, since his father had been part of the group breaking into Parliament.
Or—worst case—now that they were all lawbreakers, the cops might dump the teens into juvenile hall.
And it was all his fault.
Max’s stomach churned. He’d been too greedy. He’d wanted everything—a father and his orphanage friends and a career as a spy. This cell, this was where greediness led. He should have known that orphans don’t get happy endings.
“Fool,” he muttered.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Nikki.
Max couldn’t even bring himself to trade insults with her.
His forehead resting against the bars, Wyatt stared at a scuffed patch of concrete floor. “I saw on TV that if they arrest you under the Terrorist Act, they can hold you for up to fourteen days before even charging you.”
“Now who’s a ray of sunshine?” said Cinnabar.
Wyatt lifted a shoulder. “I’m just saying….”
“We need to do something more productive here.”
Nikki sneered. “What, like carve our names into the wall?”
“No,” said Cinnabar. “Like figure out where LOTUS will make their move.”
“What’s the point?” muttered Max, not lifting his eyes.
“The point,” said Cinnabar, her voice sharpening, “is that we’re the only ones who can stop them. It’s all up to us.”
Nikki snorted. “Then this country’s in big trouble.”
“Enough, Nikki!” snapped Tremaine, coming to his feet. “She’s right—we’ve gotta do something.”
“Hey, guys?” said Wyatt.
The redheaded girl lunged to standing, face flushed. “Don’t act all boss man with me, Natty Dread. I happen to agree with her. It’s only that we’re, you know, in jail.”
“Guys?” Wyatt tried again.
Tremaine’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Natty Dread? You did not just call me Natty Dread. You think, ’cause I’m from Jamaica, that—”
“Oi!” yelled Wyatt. “Shut it!” The two of them broke off squabbling, and Wyatt blinked in surprise at his own shout. “Look, I think we’re going about this the wrong way.”
“How do you mean?” asked Cinnabar.
Wyatt ran his fingers through his unruly blond curls, scrubbing at his scalp as if to stimulate his thinking. “Well, we all assumed that, because LOTUS is after government ministers, they’d strike at the Houses of Parliament.”
Sunk deep in his own misery, Max had mostly let the conversation wash over him. But at this, he raised his head. “But…Parliament’s one of the most heavily guarded spots in the country.”
“Exactly,” said Wyatt. He spread his hands. “Too much security. So what if LOTUS was never planning to meet there at all?”
“You mean…?” Cinnabar said.
“What if they want the ministers to come to them?”
Nikki frowned, drawn into it despite herself. “But how? What does a bleeding minister like?”
“A party?” said Tremaine.
“A fund-raiser?” said Max.
Cinnabar’s mouth fell open and her golden eyes widened. “A circus.”
Everyone regarded her strangely. “Say what?” said Nikki.
“I saw an invitation in that MP’s office,” said Cinnabar. “Cirque du…Something.”
Max jolted upright, galvanized. “Chat. Cirque du Chat—there was a poster in Mrs. Frost’s office. And chat means—”
“‘Cat,’ in French,” said Nikki. Now everyone stared at her strangely. “What? I’ve been to school, you know. Plonkers.”
Wyatt snapped his fingers. “Of course!” he cried. “That smell when we were leaving LOTUS HQ. It’s not just the one tiger; it’s the stink of the big cats’ cages. She must have a bunch of ’em.”
Tremaine raised an eyebrow. “Uh, and you know this how?”
“My gran worked in the circus,” said Wyatt. “They used to call me—”
“The Cat Whisperer,” said Max and Cinnabar together. “We know.”
Stroking his chin, Wyatt said, “But performing circuses are banned here….LOTUS must have gotten some kind of special dispensation. I wonder—”
“Brilliant,” said Nikki, with sarcasm thick enough to frost a wedding cake. “So you’re Little Joey Cat Boy, and LOTUS is gonna brainwash all those pols in a circus tonight. How does that help? As I pointed out earlier, we’re in jail.”
Tremaine gripped the bars, gazing up at the surveillance camera in a corner of the room. “We could tell them. If only the cops knew that we broke into Parliament for good reason. We could explain—”
“Waste of time.” Nikki snorted. “You think they’d care? All the fuzz care about is the law, and we broke it.”
“True enough,” said Cinnabar. “Then I guess that means we’ll have to bust out.”
A long pause followed that remark. Tremaine smiled.
“Of here?” said Nikki. “Have you gone completely barking mad? I like breaking laws as much as the next girl, but that’d only land us in worse trouble than we’re in already.”
Cinnabar bristled. �
��I don’t hear you coming up with any better ideas.”
The bigger girl growled and stared down at Cinn. But she didn’t say anything. She truly didn’t have any better ideas.
Max shifted back and forth. A fragile sense of hope made his limbs tingle. There had to be a way out. If he could only think…
“Did anyone manage to keep their lock picks?” asked Tremaine.
Nobody had.
“Any smoke bombs or flash grenades or experimental bang-bang chewing gum?” asked Wyatt.
None.
Cinnabar paced the confines of their cell, scanning high and low. Max could’ve saved her the trouble. The windows bristled with steel bars, and the only drain was about six inches across. No great escapes happening there.
“We could try a…diversion,” she said. “Start a fight or something, and when the cops rush in, we knock them out and escape.”
This time Tremaine shook his head. “Cho! This isn’t the movies, sister. These blokes have seen those tricks before.”
“Well, we can’t just sit around waiting for our fairy godmother while LOTUS brainwashes half the government.” Cinnabar threw up her hands. “Think!”
Max raised a finger. “Fairy godmother?”
“Too bad you don’t have one, Maxi-Pad,” Nikki sneered. “She could get you a date and cure your zits, both.”
A faint smile hovered around his lips. “Oh, but I do,” he said. “And aren’t we allowed one phone call?”
One phone call, some extravagant promises, and an excruciating wait later, the fairy godmother arrived. And unlike most folktales, he arrived in the person of an eccentric billionaire named Reginald Demetrius Elbow.
“This had better not be some kind of trick,” sniffed Mr. Elbow, standing outside their cell with a small army of lawyers and a pair of bodyguards straight out of a wrestling promoter’s dream. With his liquid brown eyes, goatee, and chiseled cheekbones, the billionaire resembled a Chinese Johnny Depp. If you squinted.
“No trick,” said Max. “You get us out of here, and we get you back the mind-control device.”
Max didn’t bother mentioning that there were a few ifs involved. If Hantai Annie would agree to this deal he’d just made on S.P.I.E.S.’s behalf. If they could actually arrive in time to stop LOTUS. And if the cops didn’t impound the device afterward for evidence.
All these ifs were need-to-know only, and he figured that right now Mr. Elbow didn’t really need to know.
With a wave of their fairy godfather’s magic wand (and some Rottweiler-aggressive legal work), soon they were all—adults included—standing on the sidewalk outside the police station. Max didn’t ask how. All he knew was, it paid to know eccentric billionaires with friends in high places.
“Yoku yatta, Max-kun,” said Hantai Annie. “Well done.”
Simon Segredo clapped his son on the shoulder and left his hand there. Max didn’t shrug it off.
“Genius move,” said Max’s father. “You’re a chip off the old block—off both old blocks. Your mum would be proud.”
At the praise, Max felt his face grow warm.
“Now remember, Mrs. Wong, the lot of you are on probation,” said Sergeant Yee, standing on the steps above them. “One misstep, one illegal activity, and ffwit!—back in the clink you go.”
“You can be certain, Sergeant,” said Mr. Elbow, “that if she and her team do not fulfill their promises, Mr. Elbow will lock their cell door himself.”
The tall sergeant stepped down and extended his hand. “Mr. Elbow, sir, it’s been a real honor.”
The billionaire stared at the proffered palm as if it were a tarantula-and-rattlesnake sandwich.
“Mr. Elbow don’t shake,” said one of the bodyguards.
“Right, then,” said Sergeant Yee. He executed a flawless salute. “A real honor,” he repeated, then pivoted and marched back into the building.
The billionaire let his imperious stare roam over the S.P.I.E.S. team, stopping at Hantai Annie. “Well? Where’s my device?”
“First,” said the spymaster, “we must learn location of circus.”
“Is that all?” Mr. Elbow snapped his fingers, demanding his cell phone. In a few moments, he’d reached someone. “Jack? It’s Mr. Elbow. Fine, thanks. Listen, where’s that cat circus happening tonight? Right, right. Ta, Jack. Best to the missus.”
“Who’s Jack?” Max whispered to his father.
“The prime minister,” said the billionaire, overhearing him. He turned to Hantai Annie and told her the name of the park where the circus was being held.
Simon rubbed his jaw. “But that’s easily a half hour away by car, and the show starts in fifteen minutes.”
Mr. Elbow smiled a patronizing smile. And just like that, the air filled with the whup-whup-whup of a large passenger helicopter, which whirred over a nearby building and landed smack in the center of the traffic roundabout. Drivers swerved, honked, and swore.
“You were saying?” said the billionaire. He strode toward the chopper, bodyguards in tow.
“Wow,” murmured Wyatt. “I wonder if he wants to adopt any orphans?”
SEEN FROM ABOVE, the park was a diamond of darkness adrift in a sea of city lights. The helicopter’s spotlight picked out stretches of trees and lawn, the sudden sparkle of a small rowing lake.
But the spotlight was unnecessary. At one end of the park, lit up like the prime pastry in a bakeshop window was an enormous red-and-yellow tent.
The big top.
The pilot landed his chopper on a vacant stretch of lawn, and as the S.P.I.E.S. crew disembarked, two really fit women with gear bags came trotting up, courtesy of Mr. Elbow. One woman passed Max his jet pack, which he greeted with a cry of “Come to Papa!”
Cinnabar peered around Mr. Stones’s shoulder as he unzipped one of the bags. It held smoke bombs, a variety of tools, and a pair of very serious-looking pistols.
“Lookie lookie, cupcake,” Stones shouted over the roar of the rotors. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
Giving the group a thumbs-up, Mr. Elbow leaned back in his seat with a cold beverage. Clearly, he planned on getting nowhere near the action.
Everyone crowded around for their equipment, and Hantai Annie had to take one of the pistols away from Nikki. Cinnabar blew out a sigh of relief. Nikki and firearms was a seriously bad combination.
The spymaster led her little group away to the cover of some trees, where they could hear one another better. She gestured at them to form a huddle.
“Minna, yoku kike,” said Annie. “Listen up. This is our most important mission ever.”
Cinnabar felt a little shiver dance along her spine. And she didn’t think it was due to the chilly wind off the lake.
“LOTUS has more resources,” said the spymaster. “More manpower. Odds are against us, but we have one big advantage.”
“Surprise?” guessed Max.
Hantai Annie held a fist to her heart. “Goodness. No matter what we face, we fight for justice.”
“Yer bloody well right,” said Stones, eyeing the circle of faces with a half-crazed grin. “And there’s no one I’d rather face impossible odds with than this bunch of plonkers.”
Simon Segredo nodded. “I’ve only been with you all a short while, but you’ve taught me so much about family.”
“That it can be a real pain in the bum?” said Wyatt, to laughter.
“And a true inspiration,” said Mr. Segredo. “It’s an honor to take on this mission with you.” At that, Max beamed.
A warm rush spread through Cinnabar’s chest. She squeezed Max’s shoulder on one side, Wyatt’s on the other. These (and her sister, Jazz, of course) were her family, her people. With them, she could face anything.
“How do we do this?” she asked.
Hantai Annie guided them closer to the big top. At this distance, it glowed like a huge Japanese lantern, trailing long strings of lights to the ground on every side. The lights also served to illuminate a number of agents in dark suits or silver
-and-black spandex, standing at regular intervals around the perimeter.
“They are night-blind,” whispered the spymaster. “Too close to lights.”
“What a shame,” said Mr. Segredo, with a rakish grin. “Then they won’t know what hit them.”
Annie gave instructions, dividing her crew into three teams—Tremaine and Nikki for distraction, and the rest split into two units that would infiltrate the tent from either side.
“But how do we get in?” Wyatt asked.
Mr. Stones slid a razor-edged knife from its sheath and whipped it around like a ninja. “Don’t worry, sunshine,” he said. “Love will find a way.”
A roar went up from inside the tent. A flourish of trumpets.
The show had begun.
Cinnabar took her position behind some bushes, beyond the nimbus of light cast by the tent. With her waited Mr. Segredo and Max. At the signal, Tremaine bopped along the lit pathway to the big top, earbuds in place, as if he were rocking out to his own private sound track.
Two beefy LOTUS agents left their posts by the entrance and swaggered toward him. Just before they arrived, Tremaine whipped out a flashbang and tossed it at their feet, simultaneously leaping aside.
Foomf! The explosion rocked the spies, tossing them backward onto the lawn like discarded dolls, temporarily blinded and deafened. The concussion overlapped with another roar from the crowd in the tent.
Cinnabar chewed her lip. What was happening inside? Would they make it in time?
Spotting the flashbang explosion, the nearest LOTUS agent spoke some quick words into her sleeve and hustled forward, weapon at the ready.
Pow! From out of the darkness, the blast of Nikki’s paintball gun took the agent down—not with paint, but with a concentrated ball of pepper-spray gunk. As two more spies rounded the far corner of the big top, Tremaine lobbed a teargas grenade. Then he and Nikki faded back into the trees, luring the other LOTUS agents away.
“Now!” said Mr. Segredo.
He, Max, and Cinnabar ran full speed for the tent. With his long blade, Mr. Segredo hacked a V in the canvas, and he and Max dove through it, tucking and rolling to their feet in unison. Cinnabar plunged after them, into a bewildering world of noise and lights and smells. Popcorn, hay, and that funky cat stink from LOTUS HQ assaulted Cinnabar’s nose. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the brightness.
