For Your Paws Only

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “Hit it, boys,” said Glory.

  Nutmeg brought his toothpick drumsticks down on his cymbals (foraged soup-can lids) with a crash.

  “One! Two! Three! Four!” he cried. And then, tail tapping behind him, head bopping to the vigorous beat, he launched into the spirited lead-in to the Steel Acorns’ number-one hit, “Born to Shake My Tail.”

  The opening chords from Lip’s electric guitars and Romeo’s bass (tongue depressors wired for sound) filled the small practice room. Bunsen winced, and his pale paws crept up toward his ears. B-Nut motioned to his fellow band members to lower the volume.

  “Just enough to cover our voices,” he said.

  Bananas Foster might be her brother’s friend, but Glory was taking no chances of being overheard, soundproofing or no soundproofing. She didn’t want anything to jeopardize the mission. Too much was at stake.

  Before Glory could bring the meeting to order, the door to the practice room burst open and a tall, good-looking field mouse swaggered in.

  “Let the party begin!” he cried.

  Glory sighed. “Hello, Hotspur,” she said without enthusiasm.

  Bunsen watched in alarm as Hotspur looked Glory up and down and whistled appreciatively. “Silver Skateboard status must agree with you, Morning Glory Goldenleaf,” he said. “You are positively glowing. ‘Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,’ as the Bard would say.”

  Glory sighed again. She’d forgotten Hotspur’s habit of spouting Shakespeare.

  Julius’s nephew turned to B-Nut. “Good to see you, too, dude,” he said. “And these must be the Steel Acorns I’ve been hearing so much about.”

  Without pausing their strumming and drumming, Lip, Romeo, and Nutmeg each gave him a polite nod.

  Hotspur’s eyes narrowed as he spotted Bunsen. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “This is Bunsen, our newest field agent,” said Glory.

  “Since when?” asked Hotspur rudely, casting a dubious glance at Bunsen’s slim white form.

  “Since Halloween, when Julius promoted him.”

  “My uncle promoted a lab mouse to field agent?” Hotspur replied with a sniff of disapproval. “He must be losing it.” He reached out and squeezed Bunsen’s slender bicep. “You lab mice may have the brains, but you hardly have the brawn for this line of work.”

  Bunsen’s whiskers wilted at these withering words.

  “Bunsen Burner is one of the bravest mice I know,” Glory retorted, rushing to her colleague’s defense. “Why, if it weren’t for him and B-Nut, my ears would have been nailed to Dupont’s wall of trophies last month for sure.”

  Hotspur shrugged. “If you say so,” he said, unconvinced. He flexed his own bicep and gazed at it admiringly.

  “Sit down, Hotspur,” said Glory sharply. “We have work to do. Where are the MICE-Six agents, by the way?”

  “Bubble and Squeak?” Hotspur replied. “I left them back at Grand Central. Figured it would be better to keep them on Stilton Piccadilly’s tail.”

  “But I specifically requested that everyone rendezvous here!” protested Glory.

  “What difference does it make? We can bring them up to speed later.”

  What difference does it make? thought Glory furiously. This was exactly what she’d been afraid of. Hotspur Folger was already throwing his weight around, trying to undermine her authority. If she didn’t nip this in the bud, next thing she knew he’d be trying to take over the mission. Her mission.

  “From now on, you follow orders,” she said sternly. “My orders.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss.” Hotspur yawned. “Sorry, still a little jet-lagged. That red-eye’s a killer. Of course, I should be used to it now, what with all that time I spend chasing rats across Europe.” He flashed them a broad smile. “London, Paris, Rome—it’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.”

  Behind Hotspur’s back, Glory caught her brother’s eye. She grasped the tip of her tail in both paws and chomped on it in mock exasperation. B-Nut smothered a grin. Hotspur could always be counted on to brag about his exploits.

  “Well, now that we’re all here . . . ” Glory began. “Almost all of us, that is”—she glared at Hotspur, who smirked—“I want to lay out our plan. You’ve got our listening post up and running, right, Bunsen?”

  “Except for the video feed,” Bunsen replied. “There’s a bug in the system I’m trying to work out.”

  “Keep at it,” said Glory. “B-Nut, you, Hotspur, the Acorns, and I are scheduled to rendezvous in Grand Central at noon with Oz and D. B.—”

  “Who?” asked Hotspur, frowning. “I don’t recall any agents by those names.”

  Glory gave him a speculative glance. Should she tell him about the children now, or let him find out for himself? She decided to let him find out for himself. A bit of a shock might do old Snotspur a world of good. “You haven’t met them yet,” she said simply. “They’re new. Julius hired them after you went overseas.”

  She gave the rest of the group a conspiratorial wink, then continued briskly. “Oz and D. B. are bringing the rest of the equipment with them and will make the drop at lunchtime. Once everything’s in place, we’ll keep Dupont and the others under close surveillance. And when we have the intel Julius wants, we’ll relay the information and await further orders.”

  There was a knock on the door of the practice room. Bananas Foster poked his head in. “Sounds good from out here,” he said. “Catchy tune.” He held out a scroll of paper. “Some pigeon stopped me on the roof just now and gave me this. Said it was for someone named Glory?”

  Nutmeg, Romeo, and Tulip automatically looked over at Glory. She froze. Julius was right—the Acorns were wet behind the ears. Experienced agents would never risk blowing her cover like that.

  B-Nut jumped up and reached for the pigeon-post message. “Ah, that’s short for Glorious Voice,” he said. “That’s what Cherry’s fans call her.”

  “Really?” said Bananas. “Glorious Voice? Catchy. Can’t wait to hear you tonight, Cherry.” He passed the scroll to B-Nut. “Funny-looking writing. Almost like some sort of code.” He paused, then added hastily, “Not that I read it or anything.”

  B-Nut chuckled. “That Cherry Jubilee fan club!” he said smoothly. “Always up to something. Must be trying out their new decoder rings.”

  “I’ll have to get one of those,” said Bananas, winking at Glory. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on any of the action.” He left, closing the door behind him.

  “Sorry, Glory,” said Lip.

  Glory shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. We all make mistakes. But thanks, B-Nut. That was quick thinking.”

  B-Nut unscrolled the note and scanned it, then passed it to Glory. “It’s from Oz and D. B. by the looks of it.”

  Bunsen scrabbled about in his backpack and emerged with the cipher disk. “Fire away,” he called, and as Glory read out the sequence of letters, he twisted the outer dial into position, then scribbled the decoded message onto a tiny notepad.

  “What does it say?” asked Glory.

  “ ‘SHARK ATTACK UNDERWAY! SEND HELP!’ ”

  “Shark attack?” asked Hotspur, frowning again.

  “No time to explain,” said Glory. She turned to the Acorns, who were still quietly strumming. “Boys, Oz and D. B. need you more than I do right now. Grab a pigeon—it’s time to send in the cavalry.”

  CHAPTER 12

  DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1030 HOURS

  Oz was back upstairs in his hotel room, changing his egg-soaked shirt.

  “I can’t understand why Jordan and Tank would do such a thing!” said his mother.

  “Um,” said Oz, shooting a rueful glance at D. B., who was sitting on the couch. How did you explain sharks to parents? Before he could even try, there was a knock on the door, and Amelia Bean poked her head in. “You all about ready?” she asked. “The tour bus is leaving in ten minutes.”

  “I just need to wipe this stuff out of my hair,” Oz replied.

&nb
sp; He went into the bathroom and had just begun scrubbing the back of his head when a movement at the window caught his eye. A trio of pigeons was flapping off across Park Avenue, and the Acorns were perched on the ledge. They waved.

  “Hey guys!” said Oz, opening the window. “Am I ever glad to see you.”

  “Tough morning?” asked Lip.

  “Complete disaster,” moaned Oz. “We’re probably in last place.”

  Romeo held out another scroll of paper.

  “Glory’s music?” Oz asked, and the bass guitarist nodded. “Hang on a sec.”

  Opening the bathroom door a crack, he beckoned to D. B.

  “What? Oh hey, guys,” she said, spotting the Acorns.

  Oz passed her the tiny sheets of music. “Can you enlarge this? There’s a copy machine near the lobby.”

  “Done,” said D. B. “I’ll meet you on the bus.”

  “Wait!” squeaked Nutmeg. He opened his backpack and took out two human-size cell phone headsets. “Bunsen’s upgraded our equipment. We’re going wireless.” He handed them to Oz and D. B. “He says they should work just fine as long as you keep your CD player turned on, Oz. He’s got us all preset to the same frequency.”

  As D. B. headed for the lobby, Oz slipped on his headset and pocketed his Bunsenized CD player/transmitter. “So what’s the plan?”

  The Acorns looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Just go with the flow, dude,” said Lip.

  “Go with the flow?” This was not exactly what Oz wanted to hear. “These are sharks, Lip,” he explained. “They don’t exactly flow. They attack.” He held up his egg-stained shirt as proof.

  “Don’t worry, Oz—we’ve got it covered,” said Romeo. He puffed out his chest. “We’re official Spy Mice Agency field agents, remember?”

  Oz chewed his lip. The Steel Acorns had been field agents exactly as long as he had, which wasn’t very long. He sighed. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

  Nutmeg stepped forward and leaped onto the toe of his shoe. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “C’mon, dudes!”

  With that, the three mice climbed swiftly up Oz’s pant leg and squeezed themselves into the pocket of his shirt. Oz looked down to see three pairs of bright little eyes looking up at him.

  “Ready whenever you are,” said Lip.

  “Our first solo mission!” added Romeo.

  “Yeah!” cried Nutmeg, bouncing up and down beside him.

  The mice’s obvious excitement was infectious, and Oz felt his spirits lift for the first time all day. Maybe the happy-go-lucky Acorns didn’t have a plan, and maybe they were no match for the sharks, but they were here, and that meant that he and D. B. were no longer alone. Oz smiled, and shoved his glasses firmly onto the bridge of his nose. “The name is Levinson. Oz Levinson,” he said in his best James Bond voice. “It’s time to rock and roll, dudes!”

  CHAPTER 13

  DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1130 HOURS

  The dining concourse on the lower level of Grand Central Station was teeming with activity.

  Humans rushed to and fro, a constant flow that increased to a flood every few minutes as trains arrived. They thronged the counters of the numerous restaurants and snack bars, buying pizza and pasta, soup and sushi, cookies, cheesecake, tacos, and more. Some of them took their meals with them; others sat at the many tables spread about the concourse.

  “Where there’s food, there are rats,” said Glory, and B-Nut and Hotspur nodded in agreement. The three of them were camouflaged inside one of the many holiday wreaths that hung on the train station’s marble walls, watching all the hubbub below.

  Like Oz and D. B. and the Acorns, Glory and B-Nut and Hotspur were wearing headsets. In addition to being linked to each other, however, theirs were also linked to Bunsen, who was monitoring them from the listening post backstage at BANANAS!

  “Any sign of rodent activity?” asked the lab mouse, his voice crackling through their earpieces.

  “Not yet,” said B-Nut, who had a pair of miniature binoculars—a novelty item, originally attached to a key chain that had been left behind in one of the booths at the Spy City Café—trained on the floor below. “Heck of a lot of humans, though.”

  “You think this is busy, you should see Victoria Station in London. Or Stazione Termini in Rome,” said Hotspur.

  Glory gritted her teeth. This mission was starting to get on her nerves. With any luck, they’d get the information they needed shortly, and she could ditch Hotspur and his hot air and head back home. Glory could practically smell the Thanksgiving feast her mother would already be busy preparing.

  Glory allowed herself to daydream for a moment of the holiday they would celebrate tomorrow in the sturdy old oak tree she called home. And what a celebration it would be! She and all sixteen of her siblings would be together for the first Goldenleaf gathering since their father’s miraculous rescue last month. Her mother had planned an extra special meal for the occasion. She was probably in the kitchen right now, baking pies and rolls and—

  “There he is,” said B-Nut tersely. “By the trash can across from the sushi counter.”

  Jolted out of her happy reverie, Glory grabbed the binoculars from her brother. Fine Silver Skateboard agent she was, woolgathering when she should have been watching for Dupont.

  “That’s him all right,” she said.

  “And that’s Stilton Piccadilly right behind him,” said Hotspur.

  “Whoa,” said Glory, “he’s a bruiser. Looks like he might actually be able to take on Dupont and win.” She passed the binoculars back to B-Nut.

  Hotspur nodded. “He’s as nasty as he is big too. Keeps London’s guilds tied up in knots.”

  “Speaking of London, where are Bubble and Squeak?” asked Glory. “I thought you said you left them on Piccadilly’s tail.”

  “Uh-oh,” said B-Nut.

  “What?” asked Glory.

  B-Nut pointed toward the trash can. “Trouble,” he said. “They’re on Piccadilly’s tail, all right.”

  Glory took the binoculars from him again. She gasped. Stilton Piccadilly was swishing his tail back and forth with fierce glee. As he did so, two small mice swished with it. Bubble and Squeak were tied to its tip, and back and forth they went, scraping and bouncing over the hard marble floor in time to the hulking rat’s cruel metronome. A cluster of other rats had gathered, including Dupont. They were all laughing.

  Glory’s stomach clenched. Mouse torture was not a pretty sight. “Right,” she said. “I’m going in.”

  She drew the harpoon pen out of her backpack and assembled it swiftly. “B-Nut, go back up on the roof and find Hank. Oz and D. B. should be arriving in the main concourse soon and someone has to be there at the rendezvous. We can’t afford to miss them.”

  “Got it,” said B-Nut. “Be careful, Sis.” He scrambled up the wire that held the wreath to the wall and disappeared through a ventilation grate.

  “Yes, Glory,” Bunsen’s worried voice echoed in her headset. “Watch your back!”

  “Happy to watch it for her, mate,” Hotspur chimed in.

  This was greeted with silence from Bunsen.

  Glory rolled her eyes and aimed her pen at a wreath a few yards down the wall. “If we get the trajectory just right, we should be able to pull this off,” she said. Her bright little eyes narrowed as she calculated the distance between the wreath in which she was hidden, the one directly over Stilton Piccadilly, and a third a little farther down.

  Glory glanced over at Hotspur. This was a dangerous maneuver, and she’d never teamed up with him before. Could she trust him, or was he just in it for the spotlight? She couldn’t risk any foolhardy heroics. There were lives at stake—spy-mouse lives. Still, two mice were definitely better than one for what she was about to attempt. It was a risk she’d have to take.

  She pulled the trigger, and her dental floss harpoon soared across the wall. “At least we’ll have the element of surprise on our side.”

  “Sometimes that’s eno
ugh,” said Hotspur, pulling the trigger on his pen too. His harpoon flew off, burying itself beside Glory’s in the middle wreath.

  “Nice shot,” said Glory.

  “Think so? You should have seen me last September in Moscow. I had to—”

  “Not now, Hotspur,” said Glory, cutting him short. She plucked a small triangular blade from her backpack. It was a lapel knife, another World War II invention, this one designed to be hidden in the lapel of a uniform and used as a last resort in close combat. Humans held them between their thumb and forefinger, but the blades were just the right size for mouse paws and standard issue for Silver Skateboard agents. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” said Hotspur, holding up a blade of his own. “Or as the Bard says, ‘A rescue! A rescue!’ ”

  The two mice clipped their twin lines of floss through the carabiners on their utility belts and leaped from the wreath. Down, down, down they dropped. The floss caught them just a few inches above the floor and they swung, Tarzan-style, directly toward the cluster of rats.

  Piccadilly had his back to them, his tail still slashing back and forth viciously. Moving in tandem, Glory and Hotspur swung boldly through the middle of the crowd. As they passed over Bubble and Squeak, they leaned down and simultaneously sliced through the lengths of twine that held their colleagues captive.

  “Noon, upstairs!” Glory murmured to the British agents, and then up, up, and away from the rats she swung. She and Hotspur swept like twin pendulums toward the third wreath, and as the two of them leaped into the greenery and reeled in their floss, Bubble and Squeak lost no time scampering to safety below.

  “Zut alors!” cried Brie. “What was zat?”

  The rats gaped at each other in astonishment. They’d been caught completely off guard. They’d barely had time to register the sudden appearance of the two flying mice before they were gone again.

  Dupont’s red eyes narrowed. He lifted his snout and sniffed the air speculatively. “An old enemy, if I’m not mistaken,” he replied. “A Goldenleaf, to be exact.”

  “Where are my mice!” shouted Piccadilly, whipping around to find nothing but twine attached to his tail. “They took my mice!”