Ends of the Earth

by Bruce Hale

  “Not our problem,” said Ebelskeever. “Let’s go.”

  When Max opened the truck’s passenger-side door, he froze in his tracks.

  “Hi, Max.”

  A lithe blond girl with toffee-brown eyes sat in the middle of the bench seat, her hands in her lap.

  “Vespa,” Max croaked. His throat tightened and conflicting emotions ricocheted around his belly like a Ping-Pong ball in an Olympic finals match. Until he met Vespa da Costa, Max hadn’t known it was possible to like and loathe someone at the same time. “What are you doing here?” he choked out. Even gazing at her lovely face pained him, because each time he saw it, her betrayal sprang to mind.

  “My aunt.” Vespa glanced over at him with a mixture of guilt and something else he couldn’t read. “She wanted me to observe.”

  Her aunt being Mrs. Frost, the ruthless old woman who ran LOTUS’s British division. The one to whom Vespa had spilled all of S.P.I.E.S.’s secrets.

  “Oh,” said Max.

  Ebelskeever slammed the driver-side door and growled, “Hop in, Romeo. Unless you fancy explaining yourself to the coppers.”

  Shoulders tensed, Max slowly climbed into the cab. Before he’d even fastened his safety belt, the vehicle ground into gear, bumping out of the alley and onto a street. Shifted by momentum, Vespa’s warm weight pressed against his side for a second. The scent of tropical flowers teased his nose, and her eyes flicked over to him and then away as she righted herself.

  Max set his jaw, deciding to say nothing. He’d mostly been able to avoid her during his few days at LOTUS’s headquarters in the capital. No reason that practice shouldn’t continue.

  But Vespa had other ideas.

  “Max, we need to talk,” she said.

  “Actually,” he said, “we don’t.”

  She shifted on the seat to face him. “You can’t just keep avoiding me.”

  “Watch me.”

  Vespa’s eyes were huge and shiny. “Please?”

  A hot spike of anger flared in Max’s gut. “Really? You want to do this right here and now?” His gaze took in Ebelskeever’s bulk on Vespa’s other side.

  The burly spy chuckled. “Don’t mind me, lovebirds. I couldn’t care less about your little spat.”

  He stopped the truck at an intersection. Looking past him, Max could see the spot where the snatch had taken place. Now two police constables had a LOTUS agent cuffed and leaning up against the gray Mercedes. There was no sign of the other LOTUS car, or of the other agents.

  “Pity about old Desmond,” said Ebelskeever with a wry headshake. “He always was a bit slow off the mark.”

  The truck wheeled away and jounced down the road with its kidnapped cargo in the back. Ebelskeever’s musky odor (like a wolverine in heat mixed with a men’s locker room) filled the cab, smothering Vespa’s distracting floral scent. Max wasn’t sure whether this was an improvement. He fixed his gaze out the windshield and clamped his lips together. But he could feel Vespa’s eyes boring into the side of his head.

  The silence stretched.

  “Fine,” he snapped. “Say it and be done.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Vespa. “I am so, so sorry. My aunt forced me to go undercover in your orphanage—I had no choice.”

  Max kept staring straight ahead.

  “At first,” Vespa continued, “it was no problem. I did what she told me, passing tips about your operations. But then, later…” She trailed off.

  “Later you passed her even more information,” said Max. He didn’t try to hide his resentment.

  “But it was tearing me up,” said Vespa, with a catch in her husky voice. “I mean, Hantai Annie welcomed me, made a place for me. And you—you were so kind—”

  “—that you told your aunt all about our safe house and gave her what she needed to destroy S.P.I.E.S.,” Max interrupted hotly.

  She bit her lip. Her eyes radiated hurt.

  Belatedly recalling his undercover situation, Max sucked in a deep breath and switched tack. “But I’m not bitter. We’re on the same side now, so everything’s all tickety-boo. You did what you had to do.” His words rang falser than a grade-schooler’s fake ID.

  Vespa made a strangled sound and plunged her face into her hands. Max sneaked a glimpse, but her tousled blond mane covered everything.

  Ebelskeever snorted. “You’ve got a real way with the ladies, sonny-me-lad.”

  Max’s answering quip died on his lips. He stared out the side window. This game was all too real, its stakes all too high. This was no time for jokes.

  A half hour later, the gates rolled open and the truck eased down a driveway onto the grounds of LOTUS’s headquarters. The house was hidden behind a high brick wall and a fringe of elm trees, although calling it a house would be like calling the Great Wall of China a fence—true as far as it went, but it didn’t go nearly far enough.

  The sixty-five-room redbrick mansion sprawled arrogantly amid green parkland like a rich, obnoxious guest who couldn’t be bothered to leave the party. It boasted a host of bedrooms, enough gables and chimneys for five houses, a tennis court and gym, a dojo, a lab, an underground pistol range, a snake pit, an Olympic-size swimming pool, and a home theater. Max hadn’t yet watched a film there, but he supposed that LOTUS screened old James Bond movies and took notes on where the villains went wrong.

  The truck pulled up close to the side of the mansion, away from prying eyes. As it stopped, two bulky men hustled out of the house and around the rear of the vehicle. One of them was Albert Styx, formerly of S.P.I.E.S., now with LOTUS—the man who had shot Max’s favorite teacher, Mr. Stones. Fortunately, Stones had survived, and was now recovering.

  When Styx accidentally caught Max’s eye, he nodded curtly. “Segredo.”

  “Styx,” said Max. This was the longest conversation they’d had since he had arrived at the mansion, and that was fine by Max.

  With a last glance at Vespa, he slid from the cab and followed Styx and the other agent as they rolled Addison Rook’s gurney indoors. She just sat in the truck, watching him.

  A pale, grandmotherly woman with a pixie haircut stood in the doorway of one of the side rooms. With her pleasant expression and feathery white hair, she looked as if she might be on the verge of baking them all a batch of gingerbread cookies.

  But looks could deceive.

  “Take the little brat to the cell,” she said as the stretcher trundled past her down the hallway. “And send the parents our ransom demand,” continued Mrs. Frost, LOTUS’s director.

  “Right away, guv’nor,” said Styx.

  Her storm-gray eyes traveled past Max to Ebelskeever, who was bringing up the rear of the little procession. “So you lost Desmond, did you?”

  “We did,” the big man replied.

  “Sloppy.”

  At that mild reproach, the burly Ebelskeever seemed to flinch. That alone would’ve been enough to clue in a stranger to Mrs. Frost’s power. “I’ll handle it, ma’am,” he rumbled.

  “I never doubted it.” As Max made to follow the others down the hall, Mrs. Frost said, “Young Segredo.”

  Max stopped. “Yeah?”

  “A word in your shell-like ear?” She gestured with one perfectly manicured hand at the room behind her. It sounded like a request, but Max knew it was a command.

  He shrugged a shoulder. “All right.”

  Max followed her into one of the mansion’s numerous sitting rooms. Two built-in bookcases flanked a cheery fire in the brick fireplace. A pair of enormous, sage-colored armchairs and a taupe sofa clustered around a low table. With its silver tea service, Persian rug, and tasteful artwork, the room was the very picture of refinement.

  The mansion was everything his shabby old home at Merry Sunshine Orphanage wasn’t. Max hated it.

  He perched uncomfortably on one of the stiff armchairs and watched as Mrs. Frost poured them each a cup of tea. When the ritual was completed and the cups rested just so on their saucers, she trained her gaze on him.

  �
�And how are you settling in?”

  “Well enough,” said Max. Considering that I’m living in a bloody shark tank, he thought.

  “Is everyone treating you nicely?”

  “Like a prince,” he said. The prince of darkness. So far, the LOTUS agents and house staff had welcomed him with responses ranging from suspicion to open hostility.

  “Excellent,” said Mrs. Frost. “I’m pleased to hear you’re finding your place. The atmosphere here can be rather…competitive at times.”

  Max snorted a laugh. “Oh, is that what you call it when someone leaves tarantulas in your bed? I was wondering.”

  Mrs. Frost sipped her tea and inclined her head. “Those rascals. They will test you sometimes.”

  What was her game? Max wondered. She had tried and finally succeeded in getting him to join her group, but she had to suspect that his true loyalties lay with S.P.I.E.S. and his father, Simon. So why bother recruiting Max for LOTUS?

  At the thought of his missing father, Max suppressed a sigh.

  After disappearing from Max’s life for years, Simon had finally resurfaced, bringing out a host of conflicting feelings in his son. Although he claimed to love Max, the man’s loyalties and motives were unclear. He was pro-LOTUS, he was anti-LOTUS. He was protector, betrayer, truth teller, and deceiver, all in one.

  Just your typical garden-variety dad, thought Max bitterly.

  Mrs. Frost settled her cup into its saucer and leaned toward him. “So far, you’ve begun playing a small role in our operations, but I believe you have real talent. You’re the best natural spy I’ve seen.”

  Max made a noncommittal sound. But it was always nice to have your skills acknowledged, even by a mortal enemy.

  “We’d like to bring you into the thick of it, give you much more responsibility than Hantai Annie ever did—let you play with all the latest toys and gadgets,” Mrs. Frost crooned seductively. “Your potential is enormous, and it was largely wasted at S.P.I.E.S. As I see it, there’s no limit to how high you can rise in our organization.”

  For a heartbeat, Max was a little tempted. He had chafed under Hantai Annie’s rules, even though she’d said they were for his own good. He bobbed his head cautiously.

  “But before we can invest in developing you into a true superspy,” she continued, “we need to see some measure of commitment on your part.”

  “Commitment?” Was this where they made him take a blood oath and swear his undying loyalty on a sacred wolf skull? Max wondered. “Like what?”

  “Something quite easy,” said Mrs. Frost. “And for a foster child in your situation, quite necessary, now that Merry Sunshine Orphanage is no more.” She lifted a sheaf of papers from the table, selected a stapled document, and handed it to Max.

  The heading jumped out at him: PETITION TO ASSUME LEGAL GUARDIANSHIP OF A MINOR. He frowned. “What’s this?”

  “A simple document. All you need do is write a brief affidavit to the court saying that you want this, and with the stroke of a pen, you demonstrate once and for all where your true loyalties lie.” She watched him closely.

  A sense of alarm began to penetrate Max’s confusion, like the smell of smoke intruding on a deep sleep. “And what happens when I write your statement?”

  Mrs. Frost’s smile was of the sort found on Bengal tigers just before consuming their prey.

  “Why, you become my legal ward, of course,” she said.

  “Legal…?”

  “All neat and tidy, and official,” said Mrs. Frost.

  “You mean…?”

  “Yes, you lucky boy.” Her smile widened. “It means I’m adopting you.”

  CINNABAR JONES had overslept. Under normal circumstances, that might have meant missing breakfast or being late to class. But these were not normal circumstances.

  The sound of voices roused her from her makeshift bed on the break room sofa.

  “Wha—?” asked Wyatt, yawning.

  “Shh!” Instantly on guard, Cinnabar rolled out from under the coat she’d been using as a blanket and crept to the doorway.

  For the past three nights, ever since LOTUS had raided the S.P.I.E.S. safe house, Cinnabar and Wyatt had been living on the run, using their spy skills to break into unguarded buildings at night and sleep in empty offices. The first two mornings, they had left before any workers arrived.

  Today, they were not so lucky.

  Cinnabar peered out through the doorway into the maze of cubicles that filled the open-plan office. Fluorescent lights flickered on overhead. A woman’s voice said, “And what brings you here so early, Geoff?”

  “The bloody Pemberton account,” said a man, presumably Geoff.

  Stupid, Cinnabar chastised herself. She’d gotten careless, and now she and Wyatt would have to find a way to sneak past these employees.

  “Be a love and make us a pot of coffee?” said Geoff.

  “It’s the twenty-first century,” said the woman. “Make it yourself.”

  Geoff grumbled and a jolt of alarm chased off the last of Cinnabar’s sleepiness. Coffee? Her gaze swept the break room and landed on the coffeemaker.

  Uh-oh.

  “Wyatt!” she whispered.

  The lump that was Wyatt Jackaroo stirred on its makeshift bed of sofa cushions. “Nngh?”

  “Now!” Cinnabar motioned toward the door.

  Wyatt sat up, blond hair tousled, blue eyes wide. Like her, he had slept in his clothes, with an overcoat for a blanket.

  Cinnabar pointed to her own jacket, and Wyatt snagged it from the couch, tossing it over to her. No sense braving the November chill without protection. Just because Jason Bourne never caught cold didn’t mean they wouldn’t.

  Wyatt joined her at the door. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” he whispered.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” she shot back.

  He blinked. “I was asleep.”

  Cinnabar rolled her eyes. Honestly, for a techie whiz kid, Wyatt could be awfully thick sometimes. She risked a peek out the doorway.

  Seeming to float along the top of the partitions, the head of a handsome, ocher-skinned man was moving their way. They had only seconds to react.

  Cinnabar and Wyatt couldn’t afford to get caught. The police would surely throw the two orphans back into the foster care system, since nobody at Merry Sunshine Orphanage (the cover for S.P.I.E.S.’s operations) was answering their phone.

  And if Cinnabar and Wyatt went back into foster care, they couldn’t rescue Max from LOTUS. Not acceptable. Not acceptable at all.

  She eyed a gap in the cubicles opposite the doorway. “Let’s go,” she hissed.

  Staying low, they scurried across the passage like rabbits under the shadow of hawk wings. But not fast enough.

  “Hey!” the man called. “Who’s there?”

  “What’s wrong?” the woman asked, from another part of the wide room.

  Cinnabar and Wyatt hurried down a narrow corridor between dividers, angling toward the office door.

  “Two kids,” Geoff said. “Must have broken in.” His voice sounded closer. “Come on out now, children. You’ve got no business being here.”

  The junior spies reached an intersection in the warren of cubicles.

  “This way,” whispered Wyatt, pointing straight ahead.

  “No, this way,” said Cinnabar, pointing left.

  A blocky redheaded woman appeared at the end of the corridor straight ahead. “I see them!” she gasped. “They’re over here.”

  Wyatt winced. “How come you’re always right?” he muttered.

  “Because I’m a girl,” said Cinnabar.

  They took off running down the left-hand corridor.

  “Stop them!” cried the woman. “They’re heading for the door.”

  Cinnabar scanned the scene. The entrance was still another forty feet off, and she could hear Geoff’s footsteps pounding away on course to intercept them. Windows lined one side, and a row of offices ringed the other side of this cubicle city.

  Tim
e for Plan B.

  She ducked into a cubicle.

  “You can’t hide here!” Wyatt whispered, staggering to a stop. “They’ll find us!”

  Cinnabar held up her hand in a wait gesture. She snatched a stapler off the desk, cocked her arm, and hurled it toward the window side of the room. It landed with a clatter in another cubicle.

  “They’re over by the windows now!” called the redheaded woman.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Wyatt, fidgeting. “We’ve gotta move it like a rat up a rope.”

  Cinnabar leaned close. “Make for that office,” she said, indicating a darkened room in the corner where a door stood ajar.

  He gave a nervous nod. Together, they crept away from the cubicle, found a side passage, and hotfooted it toward the office, staying low.

  “Anything?” Geoff called.

  “Not yet,” said the woman. “Block the door so they can’t get out.”

  “Right-o. If I catch the little beggars, then will you make me some coffee?”

  Cinnabar could hear the exasperation in the woman’s voice. “No, but if you don’t catch them, I might splash some on you.”

  With a quick glance up and down the corridor fronting the offices, Cinnabar and Wyatt darted across it and into the empty room. Ever so gingerly, she eased the door shut, praying that neither of the workers would spot the movement. For once, luck was with her.

  “We’ll find you wherever you hide.” The redhead’s call was muffled by the door. “You can’t get out.”

  Cinnabar pivoted away from the door to find Wyatt rummaging through the desk drawers. “Are you mental?” she whispered.

  “Nope,” said Wyatt. “But I’m hungry enough to eat the southbound end off a northbound horse. And sometimes, these office workers keep…” His eyes lit up as he plucked a Kit Kat bar from a drawer. “Ha! Brekkie time!”

  Cinnabar shook her head at his thievery and stepped to the window. “Make it a takeaway.” She undid the latches and shoved on the pane. It stuck, so she pushed harder.

  A blast of November chill gusted through the window as it finally opened. Leaning out, Cinnabar spotted an escape route, along the narrow ledge to the nearest pillar, then down its jutting stone doodads to the ground.