by Stuart Gibbs
Erica frowned at me like I had just told her Christmas had been canceled. “She just said she didn’t care what I do to her.”
“I think that was a figure of speech.” I turned to Ashley and said, “Hi.” Even though she was evil, it seemed like the polite thing to do.
“Get bent, ferd,” Ashley said.
I looked to Erica, confused. “Failure plus nerd?”
“Freak plus nerd, you jidiot,” Ashley said.
“Watch the attitude,” Erica warned her, “or I’ll charbroil your kneecaps.”
“There’s no torturing!” I said again. “It’s against the law.”
“We’re in Mexico, not America,” Erica pointed out. “US law doesn’t apply here.” She stepped toward Ashley and fired up the blowtorch. A lick of blue flame burst from the tip.
Ashley’s bravado faded slightly. Beads of sweat formed on her upper lip.
“I know what the key does!” I said quickly, before Erica could fricassee any parts of Ashley’s body. “You don’t have to use that!”
Erica flipped off the blowtorch, looking disappointed. We stepped to the side, and I relayed what Murray had told me. As I spoke, her annoyance faded and she became more and more intrigued.
“Very interesting,” she said when I was done. “Of course, we still need to know where the key goes.”
“Joshua’s the one who would know that. Maybe we should check in with your grandfather.”
“Good idea.” Erica set the blowtorch down and looked to Ashley. “We’re not done here,” she warned, then led me out of the bedroom.
“You were only bluffing with that, right?” I asked, once we were out of range for Ashley to hear us.
“You think she’d hesitate to use that if the tables were turned?” Erica asked.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“You didn’t answer mine, either.”
I frowned, unsure what I believed Ashley would do. She and I had once been friends, back when I had been sent to infiltrate SPYDER’s evil spy school. When Ashley learned I was working for the good guys, she felt I’d betrayed her, and she’d hated me ever since.
We passed another bedroom. Inside, I could hear another interrogation going on. Mike Brezinski, my closest friend from growing up and the newest recruit to spy school, was trying to get information from Warren Reeves, the newest recruit to SPYDER. Warren had defected from spy school, where he had been exceptional at camouflage and minimally talented at everything else.
“Stop playing dumb with me,” Mike warned. “Tell me everything you know about the leaders of SPYDER.”
“I don’t know anything,” Warren said defiantly. “Ask anyone. My mind is completely empty.” It took a moment for what he’d said to sink in. “Wait a minute. That’s not what I meant.… ”
We passed two more bedrooms, the doors of which had been hastily modified so that they could be locked from the outside, turning the rooms into makeshift prison cells. Paul Lee and Vladimir Gorsky, two of the world’s most successful illegal arms dealers, were in those rooms. No one had gotten around to interrogating either of them yet.
“Did Ashley give you any information about the leaders of SPYDER?” I asked.
Erica shook her head. “She says she never met them.”
“But she and Warren went to their yacht and were there for hours.… ”
“The leaders were on a different deck. Ashley and Warren weren’t allowed to access it. They only communicated through written notes, which were all burned afterward. Mr. E doesn’t communicate electronically. No e-mail. No texts. No cell phone calls. So all messages are completely untraceable.”
We passed through the kitchen, which had taken a beating. Erica had fought off four of SPYDER’s henchmen in it a few nights before, using every appliance at her disposal. Erica was a formidable opponent. Most of the pans had skull-size dents in them, and a waffle iron was still embedded in the wall.
Three of the henchmen were now out on the deck, bound to patio chairs; the fourth, Dane Brammage, the biggest and most dangerous, was also in the infirmary. He had suffered a severe concussion when a waterslide had collapsed on his head while he was pursuing us earlier that morning.
Erica’s parents were in charge of questioning the henchmen. However, that’s not what they appeared to be doing.
Erica’s father (and Cyrus’s son) was Alexander Hale, who until recently had been regarded as one of the finest spies at the CIA. Then it had been revealed that his entire career was built on lies. Alexander was really only good at two things: making himself sound good and taking credit for other people’s work. Despite lacking competence, though, he still meant well and tried his best.
Erica’s mother was Catherine Hale, who would have been regarded as one of the finest spies at Britain’s MI6, except for the fact that almost no one on earth knew she was actually a spy. She was that good. Most people thought she was simply an exceptionally enthusiastic museum curator—including Alexander Hale, until that very morning.
The Hales had been divorced for a few years, but Alexander had still been very upset to discover that his wife had been lying to him about what she did for their entire lives—even though, as a fellow spy, he should have been lying to her about what he did as well. He hadn’t been able to let go of this all morning.
“I can’t believe you weren’t honest with me!” he exclaimed. Alexander was wearing a bespoke three-piece suit, and he would have looked impressive in it anywhere but the tropics. In the scorching heat and humidity, he was soaked in sweat.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Alexander,” Catherine said. Even though she was obviously exasperated, her melodious British accent made her sound happy and cheerful. “When were you ever honest with me?”
“That was different!” Alexander protested. “When I lied to you, it was for the good of the United States.”
“Well, when I lied to you, it was for the sake of England.”
“That’s not as important as lying for the United States. America is more important than England.”
Catherine wheeled on Alexander, fire in her eyes. “Do not make this argument about which country is better,” she warned. “If you do, I will crush you.”
The three henchmen looked to Erica and me helplessly. It appeared that they would have all been happier being tortured than listening to Alexander and Catherine bicker any longer.
Erica didn’t seem to want to hear it anymore either, because she quickly interrupted. “Ben got some information about what the key goes to.”
Catherine and Alexander turned to her, looking embarrassed about being caught in midargument. Catherine’s anger immediately dissipated. “That’s wonderful, Benjamin!” she trilled. “What did you learn?”
Before I could launch into the explanation again, Erica’s phone sounded an alarm. Erica immediately grew worried—which was of great concern to me, because Erica almost never looked worried. Anything that could shake her was most likely extremely bad news.
“That’s Grandpa’s emergency signal!” she exclaimed, then spun on her heel and raced back the way we had come. I followed her, as did Catherine. Alexander attempted to follow us, but he first tried to dramatically slap a clip of ammunition into his gun and dropped it. The bullets scattered all over the rooftop patio, and Alexander promptly slipped on them and landed flat on his back, groaning in pain.
The Hale women and I left him behind. After several missions with Alexander, I knew we were probably better off without him. We raced back through the penthouse suite, then down the emergency staircase. Erica and Catherine were both in exceptionally good shape. It took everything I had to keep up, while neither of them seemed the slightest bit out of breath.
The whole way, Erica kept trying to call her grandfather, but there was no answer. This worried Erica more, which made me worried as well.
We finally reached the ground floor and charged out of the stairwell and into the main building at the resort. The infirmary was a small room j
ust off the lobby. There wasn’t much to it: two examination tables, a closet full of medication, and a few chairs. The doctors at the resort mostly treated minor tourist issues like sunburn and traveler’s gastrointestinal distress.
The Hales and I froze in shock at the sight that greeted us.
A great struggle had obviously taken place. The furniture had all been overturned and broken. The pharmacy had been looted. Three people lay unconscious on the floor: the doctor, a nurse—and Cyrus Hale. Cyrus’s phone was clutched in his hand. Sending the alarm code to Erica had probably been his last act before passing out.
Joshua Hallal and Dane Brammage were gone.
2 TYPOGRAPHY
Aquarius Family Resort and Spa
Quintana Roo, Mexico
March 30
1330 hours
Catherine immediately ordered Erica and me to make sure that Cyrus was all right, then ran off in the direction she figured Joshua and Dane would have gone. To my surprise, Erica listened to her. The only thing that could stop her from chasing down enemy agents, it seemed, was concern for her grandfather.
She immediately dropped to his side, placed her fingers against the carotid artery in his neck, then heaved a sigh of relief. “He’s alive. He has a pulse, but it’s weak.”
I checked the doctor and the nurse the same way and found they were still alive as well. Both had syringes jabbed into their rear ends with the plungers depressed, indicating that they had been sedated. Meanwhile, Cyrus had been rendered unconscious the old-fashioned way: He’d been clocked on the head. There was a welt the size of an apricot just above his right eye, while a metal bedpan lay close by, severely dented from the impact with his skull.
Erica removed some smelling salts from one of the many pouches on her utility belt and waved them under her grandfather’s nose, but he remained stubbornly inert.
There was a gurney folded up against the wall, most likely the same one Joshua had been brought in on. Erica leapt to her feet and unfolded it. “C’mon. Let’s get him back to the penthouse.”
“You’re sure it’s safe to move him?” I asked.
“Safer than leaving him here. For all we know, SPYDER might still have operatives on the loose.” Erica ducked into the pharmacy closet to grab some of the remaining bandages and painkillers. “Might as well stock up on these while we’re here. Given that lump on his head, he’ll need them.”
Cyrus was heavier than he looked; for an older man, he was almost pure muscle. It took us a while to get him onto the gurney.
Catherine returned as we wheeled Cyrus out of the infirmary, a frown etched on her face. “They’re long gone. They stole a car from the valet at the front of the hotel and sped off a good five minutes before I got there. I never could have caught up to them.”
“Did you tell the police?” I asked.
“Of course, but I doubt it will do any good,” Catherine replied. “Joshua and Dane are probably lying low already.”
“Lying low?” I repeated, surprised. “Joshua has two fake limbs and the other two are in casts, while Dane is the largest human being I’ve ever met in my life. How could those two possibly not get noticed?”
“You’d be surprised,” Catherine said.
Cyrus remained unconscious while we wheeled him from the infirmary to the private elevator for the penthouse suite and then rode it up to the top. Alexander happened to be passing by when the doors pinged open. He shrieked upon seeing the state of his father.
“What happened?” he gasped.
“Joshua and Dane got the jump on him somehow,” Erica said.
Alexander looked as though he couldn’t make sense of this. “That’s not possible. No one’s ever gotten the jump on Dad before.”
Catherine put a hand on his arm and spoke in a surprisingly caring tone, a hint of what their lives might have been like long ago. “Cyrus is getting on in years. And he was retired until recently. Maybe he’s a little off his game.”
Alexander nodded understanding, but the news that his father was getting old only seemed to make him feel worse. He followed behind us morosely as we wheeled Cyrus into the one room that didn’t have a SPYDER agent incarcerated in it.
This was the room that Dane Brammage had been using. The bed had buckled under his bulk, as though a hippopotamus had been sleeping in it.
Cyrus stirred slightly on the gurney and murmured something softly.
“Dad?” Alexander asked, rushing to his side. “Can you hear me?”
Cyrus’s eyes flew open. “The enemy is getting away!” he exclaimed. “We need to stop them!”
“He’s conscious!” Alexander exclaimed.
“The redcoats have fled from their positions on the Delaware!” Cyrus went on. “Let’s rout them and end the British scourge once and for all!”
“He’s conscious, all right,” Erica said sadly. “Unfortunately, his mind’s in the wrong century.”
Cyrus glared at all of us. “Don’t just sit there!” he shouted. “Go tell General Washington I need more troops! The fate of the Continental Army hangs in the balance!”
“Take it easy, Cyrus,” Catherine said. “You’ve had a nasty bonk on the noggin.”
Cyrus’s eyes went wide at the sound of her accent. “She’s British!” he shouted to us. “There’s a spy in our midst! Seize her and I’ll have her tarred and feathered!” He lunged for her, but his legs went out on him and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious again.
Catherine looked to Alexander, concerned. “I haven’t seen Cyrus much in the past few years, but I’m assuming that’s an atypical episode?”
“Yes,” Alexander agreed. “Although once, when I was quite young, he got a bad concussion and thought he was a member of the Mongol Horde for a week.” He knelt down, hooked his hands under Cyrus’s arms, and hoisted him into the bed.
Cyrus started singing “Yankee Doodle” in his sleep.
“I’m afraid this takes him out of commission,” Catherine said. “We can’t have our leader thinking he’s still fighting the American Revolution. We’ll have to proceed with Operation Screaming Vengeance without him.”
“Couldn’t we wait a bit to see if he comes around?” I asked hopefully. Cyrus was crotchety and gruff, but he was still a good spy with a great deal of experience. I didn’t like the idea of our team shrinking even smaller than it was.
“It’s too dangerous for him,” Erica said. “Another good whack on the head could send him into a coma. And it’d be dangerous for us as well. We need every member of our team to have their full mental faculties, or this mission will be a failure.”
“This mission’s already a failure,” I pointed out. “All we have is a key—and the only person who knows where to find the lock it fits just escaped with his favorite hit man.”
“It might not be quite that bad,” someone said behind me.
We all turned around to find Zoe emerging from the dining room, clutching the key in one hand and dragging Murray behind her with the other. “I think I have a lead,” Zoe announced.
“That’s a relief,” Mike said, exiting the room where he’d been interrogating Warren. “Because I’m getting nowhere with this guy. The doorknobs in this place know more about what SPYDER is up to than he does.”
“What do you have?” I asked Zoe expectantly.
Zoe held up the key triumphantly. “There’s a number printed on this—1206.”
“Yes,” Erica said dismissively. “Probably denoting the number of the safe-deposit box or whatever it goes to. Unfortunately, that doesn’t do us any good if we don’t know where the box is.”
“The number isn’t important,” Zoe said. “At the moment, I mean. But what is important is that it’s printed in Tottenham font.”
The rest of us stared at Zoe blankly. Except Mike, who gaped at Zoe in amazement. “Holy cow,” he said. “You’re into typography?”
Zoe turned to him, her eyes flashing with excitement. “Into it? I love it.”
“Me too!” Mike excla
imed. “How has this not come up before?”
“I don’t know!” Zoe said. “I was going to try to start a typography club at school last month, but then Ben got wrongfully accused of trying to assassinate the president, and that kind of sucked up all my spare time.… ”
“Whoa,” I said. “Hold on. What’s typography?”
“The art and technique of arranging and designing type to make written language and numbers more legible, readable, and appealing,” Mike said. “People who study it are called typophiles—although I prefer the term ‘font-natic.’ ”
“Font-natic!” Zoe giggled. “That’s great! I love it!”
I looked at Mike, shocked that he had an interest I didn’t even know about—and a bit jealous that he and Zoe were bonding over it so quickly. “How come you never told me you were into this?”
“I thought you’d think it was lame,” Mike replied.
“It is lame,” Murray said. “Liking fonts is even lamer than collecting posters with kittens on them…Waaaugh!” He suddenly tripped and went crashing painfully to the floor.
It didn’t appear that Erica had moved at all, and yet I was quite sure she was the one who had tripped him. After all, Erica had a secret affinity for posters with kittens on them. They were all over the walls of her dormitory room, along with a surprising array of gingham throw pillows. I had sworn never to reveal any of this under penalty of death.
“So tell us, Zoe,” Catherine said, ignoring the fact that Murray had just face-planted into the tile floor at her feet. “Is there a way forensic typography can tell us where this key might go?”
“I think it can at least point us in the right direction,” Zoe said eagerly. “Tottenham is an extremely rare font. It was created during the 1850s by an amateur typographer in London named Samuel Hewes, but it was rarely used.” She pointed to the numbers on the edge of the key. “As you can see, the font is a bit too narrow, and so all the letters and numbers blur together a bit.”
Mike cringed in disgust. “Ooh. That is a terrible font. It’s almost as bad as Durkin.”
“Ugh,” Zoe agreed. “Do not get me started on Durkin. Worst. Font. Ever.”