by Bruce Hale
At breakfast the next morning, Max toyed with his eggs and toast. The part of his mind that wasn’t worrying about Vespa—and wondering about that kiss—brimmed with escape plans and ploys for revisiting the secret chamber. At the same time, he also speculated on what beef LOTUS’s chief had with the government. Tax problems? Passed over for some high honor?
So lost in thought was he that Max jerked when he realized Mrs. Frost was addressing him.
“Er, how’s that?” he asked.
“I said,” Mrs. Frost repeated tartly, “what did you get up to last night?”
“Up to?” Max suppressed a guilty cringe. “Not much,” he said. “Playing video games, snacking, plotting world domination. The usual.” He carefully avoided Vespa’s gaze.
“Really?” said LOTUS’s chief with mock innocence. “A little bird told me you had romance on your mind.”
Max could feel his ears getting warm. There truly were no secrets in this house. “Your bird was confused,” he said. “I, er…”
The spymaster chuckled. “Can’t say as I blame you. She is lovely, my niece.” Now Vespa blushed and stared at her plate. “But we do have certain standards to uphold in this family. There will be no hanky-panky under this roof, do I make myself clear?”
“Auntie!” said Vespa. “We would never—”
“See to it that you don’t, my girl,” said Mrs. Frost. The white-haired woman leveled her penetrating gaze on Max. “Now then, have you reached a decision about our new…living arrangement?”
Bozzini and Vespa both shifted to watch him. Max clenched a hand on his leg under the table. This would require some finesse.
“Not yet,” he said carefully. “I…feel so honored that you’re willing to give me a permanent home. There’s nothing I want more,” he said, with perfect sincerity.
“But?” Those gray eyes pinned him in place like a moth on a corkboard.
Max focused on cutting a bite of his fried eggs. “Well…I’d feel better about it—more complete—if I knew what happened to Hantai Annie, Wyatt, and the rest.” He managed a shrug. “Easier to let go, and all that.”
He chewed slowly, wondering if Mrs. Frost might actually let slip the info he needed.
“Dead,” she said, her voice as unemotional as if she were describing the weather.
Max nearly choked on his egg. He’d worried, of course, but never in his worst imaginings had he believed them to be gone.
“They’re dead to you,” said the spymaster. “No matter where they are. If you’re truly to become one of us, no more attachments to anyone in your old life.”
A roaring filled his ears. With an effort, Max kept his fists from shaking. How dare she toy with him like that. “Not even my dad?” he asked, throat tight.
“Your father.” Mrs. Frost’s voice was as cold as a year’s worth of Januarys. “After he abandoned you for so long, after he caused your mother’s death—still you hold out hope? Your father,” she said, beheading a sausage, “is no one’s idea of a father.”
Although he wanted to slap the woman for her cruelty and stand up for his dad, something inside Max withered at her words. The truth stung. Yes, Simon Segredo had disappeared when Max was little more than a toddler, only to resurface last month. And yes, in their few encounters since then, he had lied, manipulated, and persuaded Max to betray his friends. Not exactly Father of the Year material. But still…
“I need more time,” said Max. “This is a big decision.”
Mrs. Frost tore a scone in half with a twist of her wrist. “I am a patient woman. But I will not have my generosity taken for granted. You shall give me an answer by tonight. Understood?”
Max nodded, afraid to trust his voice. Tonight? This called for drastic measures. He wolfed down the rest of his breakfast, but then the tureen of porridge caught his eye, and a sudden inspiration struck.
Picking up his plate and cutlery, Max said. “Delicious. Think I’ll go pay my compliments to the chef.” But as he rose, Mrs. Frost wagged her fork in admonishment.
“Now, now. Where are your manners? Did you ask to be excused?”
Max rolled his eyes. “Can I be excused?”
“It’s ‘may I,’ and yes, you may,” said the grandmotherly spymaster. “I can see you’ll require quite a lot of training in manners and grammar.”
All the more reason to duck this adoption, thought Max. He offered a phony smile and took his leave. Pushing through the swinging door, he entered the warm bustle of the kitchen, with its homey smells of toast and sausage and lemony soap.
The part-Asian server was setting out the staff’s breakfasts on a sturdy oak table by the windows while the second server, a skinny brunette, rinsed cooking utensils and loaded them into a dishwasher.
Lovingly scrubbing a skillet at the sink stood a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair, skin like polished ebony, and a thick, sturdy frame wrapped in an apron. The cook, Max guessed.
He passed his plate to the brunette and addressed the woman at the sink. “My compliments,” he said. “First-rate breakfast.”
Her smile was as broad as her Scottish brogue. “Thank ye, laddie. Not many here bother to say thanks—save Mrs. Frost, of course. Impeccable manners, that woman.”
For a heartless killer, Max thought. Aloud, he added, “I was wondering, does everyone in the house eat the same food?”
“Oh, aye,” said the cook. “Save for the really fancy dishes. That’s front room only.”
Max cocked his head. “Really? So the guards, for example, will have the same lunch as me today?”
“The smoked haddock chowder? Aye, they will.” She rinsed off the pan. “Why do ye ask?”
“No reason.” Max lifted a shoulder. “Just wanting everyone to enjoy the same lovely meals as me.” Inwardly, he cringed. Would the cook buy this bald flattery?
She beamed as she dried the skillet. “Sweet lad. If only the rest of this crew were half as thoughtful.”
If only you knew, thought Max. But all he said was, “You’re too kind.”
AFTER A SESSION of Internet research on one of the mansion’s computers, Max carefully deleted his browsing history. He might not be the most tech-savvy kid around, but he did know that a good spy always covers his tracks. With a bit of snooping through a bathroom cabinet, he located the necessary ingredients, and then decided he’d better scout out his escape route.
Heading downstairs and along the main hall, Max ambled up to the back door and tried it. Locked. And what’s worse, it was controlled by a key card—and thus completely invulnerable to his lock picks. Max noted that the windows were locked also, and wired with alarms. LOTUS must not be too keen on getting fresh air.
He was about to go case all the possible exits, when a cheerful whistling caught his attention. Down the hallway trundled the Scottish cook, carrying a teal-blue overcoat and a purse large enough to hold several baked hams, a butter churn, and a bucket of gravy.
“Ah,” said Max. “Mrs., er…”
“Cheeseworthy,” the woman said. “I’m off to do me shopping. Are ye going somewhere?”
Max made a face. “Well, I was planning to stroll around the grounds, but”—he slapped his pockets—“I seem to have left my card upstairs. So forgetful.”
Mrs. Cheeseworthy’s glance went from Max to the door. Her brow furrowed, and he could almost hear her thinking, Is this kid a guest or a captive?
“I’ll just slip out with you,” said Max, patting her arm. “It’ll be all right.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
He offered his most trustworthy smile. “It’s not like I’m a prisoner. Mrs. Frost is planning to adopt me, after all.”
“Oh, aye?” said the cook. Her moonlike face still reflected doubt.
“It’s a walk around heavily protected grounds,” said Max, forcing a chuckle. “What could happen?”
“That’s true.” Mrs. Cheeseworthy’s expression softened. “Ye seem a nice enough sort. I don’t mind saving ye the trip upstair
s.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” Max tried to hide a triumphant grin. He couldn’t believe how easy this was. For a LOTUS employee, the cook was pretty trusting.
“And of course, if ye try any mischief,” she said, “ye’ll be savaged by dogs or shot by guards.”
Max felt his jaw drop. “Uh, of course.”
Mrs. Cheeseworthy beamed, slid her card through the scanner, and the lock clicked open.
Recovering himself and opening the door with a flourish, Max said, “After you.” He even helped the cook into her overcoat, like the world’s last surviving gentleman.
With a finger wave, Mrs. Cheeseworthy crunched across the gravel to an ancient Volvo parked far away from the gleaming Mercedes and BMWs, as if the luxury cars were embarrassed to be seen in its company. Max jammed his hands into his jeans pockets and sauntered across the parking area. To an observer, he was merely a kid stretching his legs after being cooped up all morning.
But his eyes roved constantly, noting details. The gardener and her assistant, trimming a hedge. The chauffeur polishing a Bentley, shoulder holster bulging under his jacket. The cameras mounted on light posts.
Giving the workers a friendly wave, he stepped down into the garden, which was larger than an average city’s public park. Ranks of rosebushes stretched off in either direction, pruned back for winter. Fantastic hedges carved into lions and tigers and wolves lined the top of a gentle slope, overlooking enough green rolling lawns to make Tiger Woods drool.
Making his way around an ornamental fountain bristling with cherubs and nymphs, Max headed for the thick stand of trees that bordered the lawn. They were tall enough, he noted, to easily conceal the LOTUS estate from its neighbors.
Just before he reached the little grove, Max noticed a long, low building tucked away in the bottommost area of the grounds. Unlike the rest of the structures, it was charmless, concrete, and blocky, and when the wind blew from that direction, he caught a whiff of ripeness—something like wet straw and dog poop. The kennels, maybe? If so, Mrs. Frost must keep enough dogs to stage her own private Iditarod race, he thought. Or maybe that was where they had stashed last night’s mystery pet.
It was cooler among the trees, and when Max pushed aside a branch, it sprinkled him with moisture from the rain earlier that morning. The grove stood tall, but not so deep, and soon he passed through it, fetching up against the brick wall that surrounded the property.
And what a wall.
The barrier stood a dozen feet high and was topped with two strands of razor wire—most likely electrified, Max guessed. All tree branches were trimmed far enough back that not even a howler monkey on steroids could make the leap over the wall without hitting the wire.
Max rubbed his forehead. As far as he knew, his family tree had a distinct lack of circus acrobats. There must be another way out….
He walked a short distance along the path that ringed the perimeter. Kicking at the dirt, he wondered whether he might be able to dig a tunnel of some sort, and then he saw it: seven letters scratched into the damp soil.
Squatting for a closer inspection, Max made out: G-A-M-B-A-R-E. “Game-bear?” he muttered, sounding it out. Clearly, the message had been inscribed this morning, after the rain. Was it encoded? And if so, who was it meant for?
His train of thought was derailed when a savage barking erupted behind him.
“Oi!” came a rough voice. “Where you think you’re going?”
It was Styx, the turncoat S.P.I.E.S. agent, being pulled along by two massive, black-and-tan Rottweilers. The huge man wore a scowl like it was the latest Paris fashion. His glare was hot enough to throw sparks.
“Don’t have a thrombo,” said Max. He rose and casually smeared the letters with his foot as he wheeled about. “I’m only stretching my legs.”
Styx stopped about eight feet away. Like iron filings in the presence of a magnet, the dogs pulled to the end of their leashes, eyes glued to Max, growling continuously.
“Stretching your sodding legs?” Styx snarled. “What’s this look like, a bloody park?”
Max took in all the manicured trees, the brick wall, and the impeccably groomed path between them. “Well,” he said, “yes.”
“Har-bloody-har,” said the hulking spy. “No outdoor privileges for you. Boss lady said so.”
“She’s afraid the sun will damage my delicate skin?” said Max.
“She’s afraid you’ll hop the wall and sell us out to the highest bidder,” said Styx.
Max acted offended. “You mean she doesn’t trust me? I’m wounded.”
“Keep up the comedy, and my mates Wynken and Blynken will show you what wounded really means.”
Max eyed the nearer dog. Its lips had peeled back from a seriously sharp set of fangs, and a rope of drool dangled from its chops. The growling continued unabated, like a pack of Hell’s Angels revving their choppers.
Lifting his hands in mock surrender, Max let Styx and his canine companions herd him back toward the mansion. As they crossed the lawn, he asked the big man, “So, how’s your new employer working out?”
“None of your business,” said Styx.
“They giving you loads more responsibility? Respecting your mad skills?”
Styx said nothing. His face was like a shuttered shop window on New Year’s Day.
“No, then?” said Max as they skirted the fountain. “Don’t take it too hard, mate. Mrs. Frost hasn’t exactly handed me the keys to the kingdom either—not like Hantai Annie did.”
Styx grunted, eyes narrowing.
Mentioning Annie’s name triggered something in Max. It reminded him of the way she used to tell him to hang in there—or gambare, in her fractured Japanese English. Wait, gambare? What if the letters G-A-M-B-A-R-E weren’t gamebear, but a message from Hantai Annie herself? Had she somehow made it over the wall? Was she even now—
A dog snarled. “Oi,” said Styx, prodding Max. “Pick up your feet, Segredo.”
Max came back to himself, discovering he’d stopped dead. He couldn’t let Styx know what he suspected. What on earth had they just been talking about? Oh, right.
“Maybe Mrs. Frost doesn’t give us responsibility because she’s afraid we’ll betray her to S.P.I.E.S,” he said, trying to keep his face neutral.
The massive man snorted. “Nothing left to betray her to. My team nearly rounded up Vazquez with some of the last dregs.”
Max’s stomach gave a flutter at the mention of his friends. Although starved for word of them, he kept his gaze on the mansion and maintained a casual tone. “Oh, yeah? Nearly?”
“Your blasted girlfriend got in the way.”
Max turned a chuckle into a cough. “That’s a shame.”
“Wait till I catch up with her,” the big spy snarled. “I’ll teach her not to mess with Styx.”
With a rush of protective feeling toward Cinnabar, Max’s next words came out sharper than he’d intended. “Sounds like they taught you a thing or two. Everyone got away, eh?”
They crunched across the gravel, the dogs herding Max up to the mansion’s side entrance.
“Not for long,” said Styx. He fed his key card into the reader, and the door clicked open. “We got teams out searching. A handful of kids and a lone techie? They’re sitting ducks.”
Styx worked the doorknob and gave Max a none-too-gentle shove into the house. “Stay inside,” he rumbled. “Next time, I unleash the dogs.”
As if they’d picked up on the threat, Wynken and Blynken rumbled a parting growl, their amber eyes glaring daggers at Max.
“Something to look forward to,” he said, shutting the door in their furry faces.
Max drew a long breath and blew it out, a floating sensation spreading through him. Was Annie really on the grounds somewhere? And if so, should he proceed with his escape plan or start hunting for her? Lost in thought, he wandered down the hall until a slender figure blocked his path.
“You,” said Dijon. “You think you’re so smart.”
&nb
sp; “Me?” said Max. “A little above average, maybe.”
She leaned closer, hands fisted on hips. Her black eyes drilled into him. “Well, I know what you’re up to, little man.”
“Really?” said Max. A chill rippled through him, but he kept up a bland front. “I wish you’d tell me. I rarely know what I’m up to.”
“Nobody believes you’ve come over, not even the guv’nor.” A cold smile appeared on her lovely face. “I’ve got my eye on you, and when you slip up…” Dijon snapped her fingers.
“You’ll click your fingers at me?” said Max.
“I’ll break your neck like a breadstick,” said Dijon, and she sauntered off down the hall as if she owned the whole darned place.
Such lovely people here, thought Max. Can’t imagine why I’d want to leave.
CINNABAR’S BUTT felt deader than a zombie’s conscience, deader than disco, deader than Julius Caesar’s pet goldfish. She’d been sitting in the crowded backseat of the nondescript van for what seemed like days, but was only hours. Her back was stiff, the stale air smelled of body odor and bean farts; she was cold, crabby, and beginning to be seriously cheesed off at Nikki.
But none of that mattered.
Well, not much, anyway. Because they were parked down the street from LOTUS HQ, where Max was being held captive, and because tonight, they would rush in and save his narrow behind from a fate worse than death.
She elbowed Wyatt, sitting beside her. “What’s happening now?”
“Still nothing,” he said, continuing to monitor the side rearview mirror. “Same as when you asked five minutes ago. Crikey, you’re a broken record.”
“Well, I can’t see anything, can I?”
On her other side, Nikki snorted. “Should’ve thought of that before you chose your seat, Skinnybar.”
Cinnabar ground her teeth. She hated when Nikki was right—not that it happened very often. “Mr. Segredo, let’s at least go check out the perimeter?”
“Soon.” Max’s father shifted in the driver’s seat, never taking his eyes off the small hand mirror that reflected the mansion’s front gate.