by Bruce Hale
The wrapper quickly heated up in Max’s hand. “Brilliant!”
“And before long…”
Fsst! One end of the paper glowed red, then burst into flame.
“Ow!” Max nearly dropped it, but managed to keep hold.
“Quickly,” said his father. “Before it burns out—”
“I’ve got it,” said Max, who was practiced in playing with fire. “We touch the flame to our gum.”
“Precisely.”
Gingerly, Max set the flame against his wad as Cinnabar followed suit. “Ow! Couldn’t they design a better fuse?”
“Probably,” Simon said. “That’s why it’s a prototype. Now stand back.”
They huddled on the far side of the chamber. With a high, keening sound, the gum began to bubble and darken. Then a faint pop as the bubbling stopped. And…
Nothing happened.
The thick metal door stood there, same as before, solid and immovable. The hinges appeared untouched, save for the clumps of used gum.
Simon pressed his fingertips to his temples.
“Sorry, Mr. Segredo,” said Cinnabar. “Looks like your mate sent you a dud pack.”
“But he swore it would work,” Max’s father muttered, half to himself.
A spark of anger lit up Max like a cheap firecracker. He crossed to the door and pounded a fist on it. “Stupid high-tech spy gum!”
With a groan of complaint, the heavy door sagged in its frame, snapped its locks, and crashed to the floor.
Max gaped.
Cinnabar’s face lit up like a geezer’s last birthday cake in an incredulous smile. “It worked!”
“Let’s go,” said Simon. “That’s bound to draw some attention.”
They rushed through the door-shaped hole in the wall, but at the sight of the second cell, Max pulled up short. “Got any more of that gum?” he asked.
“Why?” said Simon.
Max hooked a thumb at the door. “Addison Rook is in there. We can’t just leave him—plus, busting him out would really tick off Mrs. Frost.”
“Good enough reason for me,” said Simon, digging in his pocket.
“Um, no need for explosives,” said Cinnabar. She put her hand on the door and pushed, revealing an empty chamber.
“Huh,” said Max. “They must have traded him already.” He shook it off. “Come on!”
Together, they hurried down the short corridor, and into LOTUS’s command center. A tan, stocky man with a face like an old boot stepped from around the computer bank, his pistol coming up.
“Oi, what the devil—?” he began.
Max, in the lead, karate-chopped the weapon from his grasp. Cinnabar staggered the agent with a roundhouse kick, and Simon put him down with a brutal combination of punches.
“Now that’s what I call teamwork,” said Cinnabar.
Simon retrieved the agent’s gun and made for the weapons locker. “Arm yourself,” he said, then seemed to reconsider. “With nonlethal weapons.”
“That’s what we were planning anyway,” said Max. “But I thought you were all about the bang-bang?”
“Your Hantai Annie has a point,” said his father. “Underage kids and firearms don’t mix.”
The sight of the locker jogged Max’s memory. “Oh, by the way, keep your eyes peeled for a tiger.”
“A tiger?” Max’s father frowned.
“Frost has strange taste in pets.”
Cinnabar grabbed some pepper spray and a couple of smoke bombs, and Max was following suit when something in the next locker caught his eye.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said. There hung the jet pack, buffed and polished and good as new.
“Max, leave it.” Cinnabar was hurrying toward the spiral staircase, a few steps behind Simon.
“Uh-uh. This one’s got my name on it.”
Max lifted the jet pack from its hook and hustled after them. He couldn’t believe this escape was going so well. No hungry tiger stalking them—yet. Only one guard, and he’d been no challenge. Max allowed himself a glimmer of hope that he might actually escape this loony bin and reunite with the rest of his friends, that everything might be just as it was at the School for S.P.I.E.S., only better.
And then…
Two figures rounded the curve of the steps above. Dijon LeStrange, pistol in one hand, was leading Wyatt Jackaroo.
“And where do you think you’re going?” the LOTUS agent drawled.
SIMON SEGREDO whipped his pistol up in a two-handed grip, and pointed it straight at Dijon’s heart.
“Don’t shoot!” cried Wyatt, holding out both palms. The LOTUS agent at his side made no move to raise her weapon.
“And why not?” asked Mr. Segredo.
“Yamero,” said Dijon in a gruff voice that wasn’t her own. “Is bad luck to shoot your friends.”
Wyatt watched the astonishment bloom on their faces. Cinnabar’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. Max rocked back on his heels. Wyatt knew they were both thinking that the LOTUS agent sounded exactly like…
“Hantai Annie?” said Cinnabar.
One side of the woman’s mouth twitched. “Well, it’s not Easter Bunny.”
“What the—?” Mr. Segredo lowered his weapon, and Wyatt remembered how to breathe again.
Max gasped and struggled to speak. “But you—I thought—” And then, as if a whirlwind of feelings had swept him up, he rushed forward to greet her.
The orphanage director trotted down the last few steps and gathered Max into a bear hug. “I know,” she murmured. “I know.” Wyatt beamed at them. Absolutely nothing beat tearful reunions—not even dark chocolate Kit Kat bars.
Max and Annie held the embrace for a long moment, and then Cinnabar came in for her own hug. Max’s voice went all warbly. “But how…how did you…?” He touched his own face while staring at Annie’s.
“Bonzer disguise, isn’t it?” said Wyatt, joining them. “I nearly had a thrombo when she caught me creeping about. Thought I was in the soup, for sure.”
“I can’t believe it.” Cinnabar gaped at Hantai Annie’s face and touched a hesitant finger to the director’s cheek. “You look exactly like her.”
Simon peered at the latex Dijon mask. “That’s Ellie Crow’s work, isn’t it?”
“Best in town,” said Annie. “Now, no more questions. Ikuzo—we go!”
As they hustled upstairs, however, Max voiced another concern. “Your voice,” he said. “I thought you couldn’t speak English that well?”
The spymaster glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Did you now?” she said, in a note-perfect imitation of Dijon’s snide tone. “Perhaps you forgot that I speak seven languages. Perhaps you forgot what my name means.”
“Hantai…means ‘opposite,’” said Wyatt. “Like you do the opposite of what people expect.”
She smiled. “Exactly.”
Wyatt gave the others a look that said, See? I knew it all along. But honestly, he’d been just as stunned as they when he learned the truth.
The group reached Mrs. Frost’s office without encountering any bad guys or tigers. As Annie worked the statuette to close the secret passage (whose mechanisms Wyatt really wanted to examine), Cinnabar asked, “But how did you know about this?” She motioned at the section of floor sliding back across the hidden stairwell.
“Dijon is very talkative, when I ask her the right way,” said Hantai Annie. “She in New York now. That lady, she lacks job satisfaction.”
Simon clapped a hand onto Max’s shoulder. “Not us, eh?”
“Not now, anyway,” said Max.
Wyatt was tickled to see a warm smile unfurl across Max’s face at his father’s touch. Maybe the two of them had patched up their differences after all?
Then Max frowned. “Hang on. How long have you been disguised as Dijon?”
“All day,” said Hantai Annie.
“Then…you Tased me!”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Gomen. I had to stay in character.”
Max shook hi
s head in bemusement. “Sometimes you can be a real pain in the—”
“So,” Wyatt cut in, rubbing his hands together, “what now?”
Hantai Annie scrutinized them. “You my prisoners. Hide weapons and follow my lead.”
“Agreed,” said Mr. Segredo.
After they’d slipped their gear into pockets or waistbands (aside from the jet pack, which Max wore on his back), the spymaster produced three sets of handcuffs. “Attach one side, but fake the other,” she said. Wyatt and the rest complied, then, after a quick peek through the door, she marched them outside and down the hall at gunpoint.
Aware that the cameras were watching, Wyatt acted the part of a captured agent, slumping his shoulders and dropping his gaze. But inside, he was buzzing like he’d swallowed a bucketload of fireflies. Could they really walk out of the mansion like this, right under Mrs. Frost’s nose? A prickle itched between his shoulder blades at the sight of every camera they passed, but at least the Three Musketeers were reunited.
His shoulder bumped Max’s. “Good to have you back, mate,” he muttered.
Max hid a grin. “It’s not totally awful.”
“Just like old times,” said Cinnabar. Despite her handcuffs and haggard air, this was the happiest Wyatt had seen her in ages.
At the bottom of the stairwell, they followed Hantai Annie’s escape route—a different route, Wyatt was glad to see, from the one Simon had taken when breaking in. By now, it was past 10 p.m. Wyatt supposed that much of the staff had retired to their own evil flats and houses—wherever bad guys holed up when off duty. The thickly carpeted halls were as empty as a vampire’s hand mirror.
Moving quickly but calmly, Hantai Annie guided them to a side entrance that overlooked a garden. Through the window, the hedges were lit like a museum exhibit. Mrs. Frost and her bullyboys were nowhere to be seen.
Could it really be this easy? Wyatt’s life in foster care told him, not bloody likely.
And what do you know? Wyatt was right.
Hantai Annie slid her key card through the scanner, they stepped out the door, and they nearly bumped into the looming figure of Styx.
The huge man lowered his buzz-cut head and stared. “What are this lot doing out?” he growled.
“Orders,” said Hantai Annie in her bored Dijon voice.
Wyatt chewed his lip. Would their bluff work?
“Where you taking them?” said Styx.
Annie jerked her head to the right in a vague manner. “Out back.”
“To the cages? That’s daft.” Styx’s thick hand came up to scratch his bull neck. “Whose orders?”
“All the way from the top,” said Dijon/Annie. “You want to argue with the guv’nor, be my guest.” She kept her face bland, her manner casual and cruel.
Styx scowled, peering between her and her captives, like he knew something was dodgy, but couldn’t put his finger on it. “Your face looks funny,” he said.
“That’s rich, coming from someone who used to model for Halloween fright masks,” sneered Annie-as-Dijon.
Mr. Segredo tensed, readying for action. Wyatt rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants legs. Would the turncoat agent buy their lie?
Drawn to the movement, Styx’s eyes widened. “Here now, this one’s got loose.”
Too late, Wyatt realized he’d separated his hands to wipe his palms. The handcuffs dangled from one wrist. “Heh.” He offered a nervous smile. “No worries. I’m supertrustworthy.”
Styx’s hand strayed to his holster, where it hung under his arm.
Before the spy could draw his weapon or shout an alarm, Max whipped out his pepper spray and gave Styx a full blast, squarely in the face.
“Gaack!” The bearlike man staggered backward, arms raised for protection. Simon Segredo punched him in his undefended gut.
Then, in a lightning-fast sequence of kicks and strikes, Hantai Annie had Styx on the ground gasping for air. She crouched over him, eyes blazing.
“Omae,” she spat. “You always were slow learner.”
“Ah—Annie?” coughed Styx. His pale skin went even paler.
“Night-night, traitor.” And with that, she punched him in the temple.
Styx’s head lolled. He was out cold.
“Quickly,” Mr. Segredo said, stepping forward. “Help me truss up this stonking great rhino and hide him.”
Working together, they cuffed Styx hand and foot. It took all five of them to lug his limp form into the shadows behind a hedge.
“Whatever else he’s been doing here,” grunted Wyatt, “he sure hasn’t skimped on meals.”
“They’ll be sounding the alarm soon,” said Mr. Segredo. “We should—”
“Wakatta,” said Annie. “We go.”
She took the lead, slipping along the hedge line, staying low. Wyatt was sure that LOTUS had plenty of cameras covering the grounds. They were, after all, an ultra-high-tech outfit. Idly, he wished that S.P.I.E.S. had as many fancy toys for him to play with.
From the other end of the property, dogs barked.
Max’s eyes widened. “Let’s get cracking,” he said. “We don’t want to meet up with Wynken and Blynken.”
“I like dogs,” said Cinn.
“Not these mutts,” said Max. “They’re more like killer whales with legs.”
Annie picked up the pace, and now they were nearly trotting, past a fountain and across a wide swath of lawn. At the rear of the group, Wyatt kept glancing behind them, not wanting to be surprised by snapping jaws and white fangs.
The wind shifted, and a familiar odor teased his nose. The tang of wet hay, overlaid with a musky scent and the hint of something even stenchier.
Wyatt slowed. “That smell. I know I’ve smelled it before.”
Taking his arm, Max hurried him along. “Yes, it’s the smell of your dirty laundry. Let’s pick up the pace.”
“No,” said Wyatt. “It reminds me of the circus.”
“The circus?” Now Cinnabar slowed too. “Your fosters took you to the circus? I’m jealous.”
“It’s probably Mr. Schnickelfritz,” said Max. To their blank looks, he replied, “Mrs. Frost’s pet tiger.”
Hantai Annie glanced back and saw they’d fallen behind. “Isoge!” she snapped. “Move it!”
The dogs’ barking grew louder, deep and rough. These were not happy puppies. Wyatt, Max, and Cinnabar broke into a run, following the adults.
“Actually,” Wyatt panted, “when I was a…little ankle-biter, my gran…worked in the circus. I was so…good with lions and tigers, everyone…called me the Cat Whisperer.”
“Are you a dog whisperer too?” asked Cinn.
“Sorry, no.”
“Then get your skates on, mate,” said Max, lengthening his stride.
Hantai Annie led them through a stand of trees. Wet leaves squished underfoot, and Wyatt slid, banging his knee on an unseen trunk. When they emerged from the other side of the grove, they fetched up against the brick wall—tall, forbidding, and topped with razor wire.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare ladder?” said Simon Segredo, glancing down the path.
Distant shouts echoed from the mansion. Sweat drenched Wyatt’s brow. They were up a gum tree for sure; the alarm was well and truly raised. He checked out the wall. No friendly tree branches overhung it, no mini-trampolines waited patiently.
How would they make it over?
“This way,” said Annie, dashing to the left. The other four followed in her wake, pounding along the path between wall and trees. Wyatt sincerely hoped the spymaster had a plan.
Just when he began to get a wicked stitch in his side, Hantai Annie called a halt. Wyatt didn’t like the worried light in her eyes.
“What?” asked Mr. Segredo.
“Doko da?” Annie mused. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?” said Cinnabar.
The spymaster scowled. “Rope ladder,” she said. “Should be here.” As she dug in a pocket for her cell phone, a funny expression crept acros
s Max’s face.
“Half a tick.” He patted the straps of his jet pack. “Why don’t I just fly everyone over?”
“Max,” said Mr. Segredo. “I’m not sure…”
Cinnabar eyed the jet pack dubiously. “On that? Didn’t you say you crashed it in the command center?”
“Well, yeah,” said Max. “But that was my first flight. I’m loads better now.”
“Because of all the practice you’ve had since then?” Cinnabar cocked her head.
“Here, I’ll prove it,” said Max. “Wrap your arms around me. You’ll be my first passenger.”
She backed away. “No, thanks.”
“Wyatt?”
On the phone, Hantai Annie was asking Mr. Stones about the rope ladder. Mr. Segredo had trotted farther down the path, looking for another way over. Wyatt noticed the dogs’ barks had changed pitch, from a deep woof-woof to the sort of bellowing cry that hunting bloodhounds made in old prisonbreak movies. They were on the move.
“Beauty,” said Wyatt. “Let’s do it.”
He stepped close and awkwardly clutched Max in a bear hug. They were best mates, but it still felt weird to grab a guy like this. Max craned his neck around to see the controls. “Okay,” he said. “Blast off in…three…two…one!”
The jet pack’s engines roared like angry surf on a reef. With a sudden jerk, they were airborne.
Wyatt’s feet dangled. A laugh erupted from him. “Hey! You did it!”
“See?” cried Max. “I told you—”
Before his friend could finish that thought, Wyatt felt himself traveling more backward than upward.
And just like that, wham! His back slammed into the brick wall, he lost his grip, and he plummeted to the ground.
As he lay flat on the path, Wyatt woozily watched Max and his jet pack zip back in the other direction, straight into a spreading oak tree.
“Baka yarou!” barked Hantai Annie. “Stop playing foolish!” She helped Wyatt stand and made sure he was okay.
“I’m not playing!” said Max, trying to disengage himself from a branch as the jet pack whined. He bobbed up, down, and around, like a hooked marlin fighting a fishing line. “I’m trying to—ungh!” With a last jerk, he wrenched himself free and whirled back into the air.