Ends of the Earth (15 page)

“Yes, please.”

He passed her a rubber-handled machete. “Take the stepladder, and go and check the current through the wire with this. Carefully.”

“I'll come along,” said Wyatt. “Just in case.”

Cinnabar rolled her eyes.

They fetched the stepladder from the back of the van. The night air was crisp as an autumn apple. The street smelled of petrol and wood smoke and roast beef from somebody's dinner. All was
quiet; residents of the big houses were inside having their meals or away on expensive holidays.

With a wary look in both directions, Cinnabar and Wyatt crossed the road and leaned the stepladder up against LOTUS's brick perimeter wall.

“Simon says, gloves,” whispered Wyatt.

“Gloves?” she replied.

He dug his own pair from a jacket pocket. “As in, Simon says, wear your gloves for extra safety.”

She sighed again but went along with his request. As Wyatt braced the stepladder, Cinnabar climbed to the second-highest step and reached down for the machete. Wyatt passed it up, handle
first.

“Now be extra careful not to touch—” he said.

“The metal part of the blade,” she interrupted. “I'm not a complete berk, you know. I do have a few brain cells to rub together.”

He raised a palm. “Didn't want anything to happen to you,” he said.

“Don't get mushy.”

Wyatt smirked. “Who's mushy? It's only that the smell of fried Cinnabar would be hard to get out of my nostrils.”

She snorted at his comment, but she did make doubly sure that no part of her hand was touching the metal blade. Then, Cinnabar stretched her arm up to its fullest extent, and with an involuntary
grimace, gingerly touched the machete to the razor wire.

No sparks, no jolt. Nothing.

Both of them let out their breath. “Cowabunga!” Wyatt crowed.

Cinnabar shushed him.

“Beauty,” he whispered. “Our plan is
working
.”

“So far,” said Cinnabar, passing back the machete.

Wyatt gave a thumbs-up to Mr. Segredo and hurried over to the van. He returned with two rubber floor mats, which he handed up to Cinnabar, who draped them side by side over the razor wire.

Mr. Segredo slipped from the vehicle like a shadow and motioned for Wyatt to join him. Together, they carted over a professional-quality mini-trampoline and set it up beside the wall.

“Remember,” he said, “if either of you isn't comfortable with this, you can always—”

A dog's yap interrupted him.

The trio whirled to see an old man, as bent as a question mark, following a scrappy little Scotty dog up the sidewalk. Mr. Segredo leaned against the ladder, trying to camouflage it. Nothing
could be done about the trampoline.

The old man shuffled up and fixed it with a bleary eye. “What's all this, then?”

“Trampoline,” said Wyatt with a guileless grin.

“Mini-tramp, actually,” Cinnabar corrected.

Mr. Segredo spread an arm expansively. “Merely making sure the kids get some exercise,” he said. “Tearing 'em away from the computer, you know how it is.”

“Nope.” The man's dog sniffed the trampoline while its owner squinted at the ladder. “And what's that for?”

“Gives 'em more height, you see,” said Simon Segredo. “For a bigger bounce.”

The dog walker grunted, tugged the dog's leash, and began to shuffle on past. Cinnabar slumped in relief, but then the man turned back to them.

“You live in that whopping great house behind the wall?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Cinnabar and Mr. Segredo at the same time as Wyatt answered, “No.”

She glared at the blond boy. “He's visiting. Why do you ask?”

“Tch,” the old man tutted, shaking his head. “Such odd noises coming from there, day and night. Like a regular zoo, it is.”

Mr. Segredo raised a calming hand. “Sorry about that. We'll try to keep it down.”

With a final harrumph, the man led his dog out of sight.

“What do you reckon all that was about?” Wyatt asked.

“No idea,” said Max's father. “Time to go.” He moved the ladder to the proper spot, in line with the mini-tramp and the mat-draped section of the wire.

Cinnabar volunteered to go first. She scaled the stepladder to the top, pumped her arms, and leaped onto the rebounding surface.

Once, twice, three times she bounced, higher and higher. Then Cinnabar gave the hardest jump of all, tucked her limbs, and shot up…and over the wall!

Some low shrubs broke her fall on the other side. Not a perfect landing perhaps—the Russian judges wouldn't give it a ten—but good enough for espionage work.

“Well?” Mr. Segredo's whisper cut through the darkness.

“Made it,” she whispered back, a fierce exhilaration filling her. “Next?”

Wading through the bushes until she was out of the way, Cinnabar made a quick scan of her surroundings. A narrow rim of shrubs grew just inside the wall, giving way to a wide swath of lawn.
Beyond that, dimly illuminated by tasteful spotlights, lay a tennis court, and beyond that the hulking sprawl of the mansion, its lights blazing through the darkness.

She listened intently. No guards came running, no dogs barked.

So far, so good.

Cinnabar heard grunted exhalations from the other side of the wall. Then, like a blond-haired moon, a round face rose into view, followed by a flailing body. But Wyatt's efforts, rather
than carrying him farther, landed him in trouble. As he descended, one outflung arm caught on the uncovered razor wire.

Shhhrick!
His jacket sleeve tore, yanking him off course. Wyatt thumped against the brick wall and tumbled clumsily into the bushes.

“All right?” she whispered.

He crunched through the shrubbery to her side, plucking at his bottom. “This spandex is riding up my bum, but otherwise, yeah—I'm aces.”

About thirty seconds later, the lanky form of Simon Segredo flew over the wall, looking like nothing so much as a too-tall Olympic gymnast. He executed a flip and even stuck the landing.

“Stone the crows,” Wyatt muttered, eyes wide.

“Show-off,” whispered Cinnabar.

Sizing up the situation in a glance, Max's father led them along the edge of the lawn at a slow jog, approaching the mansion obliquely. Two-thirds of the way there, he paused in the cover
of an overhanging tree.

Cinnabar tapped his shoulder and indicated the rambling structure ahead. “A dumb question,” she said. “How do you know which of those sixty-something rooms we'll find Max
in?”

Mr. Segredo's teeth gleamed in the faint moonlight. “GPS,” he said.

“No way,” said Wyatt. “You had a tracker on Max and they didn't catch it?”

“Not for two whole days,” said the spy. “Last I saw, he was staying in a third-floor room, in the nearest wing of the house.”

Wyatt beamed. “Same way I found him last time Max got himself into LOTUS HQ.” He turned to Cinnabar. “Remember, Cinn?”

She patted his shoulder. “Memory lane later. Rescue now.”

“Too right.”

Mr. Segredo unzipped a small gear bag and passed each of them a metal canister. “You know your targets. Hurry now, and don't get spotted.”

“Good-o,” said Wyatt. “Where do we meet?”

Max's father pointed. “That corner, soon as you can. Now go!”

The three of them split up, one for each wing of the grand estate. Cinnabar marveled anew at how easily Wyatt had hacked the mansion's floor plan and heating-system schematics. She shook
her head admiringly. That boy had mad computer skills. Too bad he turned into a drooling idiot around pretty girls.

Each wing possessed its own heat pump, and each heat pump, Wyatt discovered, had an air intake vent that was accessible from outside the house. Cinnabar located her target behind a low hedge.
Squatting beside it, she fished the smoke grenade from her jacket pocket. With a quick jerk, she pulled the ignition ring and lobbed the cylinder into the vent.

Billows of bluish smoke trailed behind it as the bomb disappeared. Cinnabar grinned. Hot times in LOTUS HQ.

She made for their rendezvous, sticking to the shadows in case any of the residents happened to glance outside. As she passed a room that was lit up like a diorama, a scowling, apelike man
loomed at the window, a sudden apparition.

Ebelskeever!

Cinnabar tucked into a crouch and held her breath. Had he spotted her?

Her heart thudded and it felt like ants were crawling on the inside of her skin. Seconds ticked past. She didn't dare move, but she had to know. As slowly as a winter thaw, she uncurled
enough to raise her eyes to the window. The burly man stood there still, dark eyes peering unseeing into the night, and mouth working as he spoke with someone in the room.

Then, a muffled yell. Ebelskeever's face registered alarm, and he spun away, disappearing from view. The smoke must've begun to emerge from the heating vents.

Staying low, Cinnabar dashed to the meeting spot. Wyatt was already waiting, shifting from foot to foot, and Mr. Segredo arrived right after her.

“Let's move,” he said. “We've got ten to fifteen minutes, tops. If we hit trouble, Blue Team won't be coming to the rescue—they're only for
distraction.”

“So let's not get in trouble,” said Cinnabar.

Mr. Segredo sent them each a searching look, then stuck out his hand, palm down. “For Max,” he said.

Cinnabar and Wyatt stacked their hands on top of his. “For Max,” they echoed.

When a wide-eyed LOTUS agent burst through the nearby side door, they quickly stunned him, hid the unconscious man in the bushes, and slipped inside the mansion.

ALARMS WAILED
like heartbroken robots. Billows of blue-gray curled from heating vents. Voices shouted back and forth, and the acrid smell of smoke
stained the air.

Wyatt's heart throbbed like that techno music Cinnabar's sister fancied, but he didn't much feel like dancing. He hustled down the hall behind the others, gripping a pistol in
his sweaty palm. It didn't matter that the gun was loaded with beanbag rounds; what worried him was the mission.

Truth is, he was rubbish at this operational stuff. Give him a computer, a gizmo, or an electrical system and he was a regular legend—none better. But all this creeping about, shooting,
and karate-kick stuff made him feel like the last kid chosen for the football team—clumsy, out of place, and ill prepared.

He hoped he wouldn't let Max down.

Mr. Segredo led them along the brightly lit hall, Taser in one hand, pistol in the other. They hurried past empty illuminated rooms that appeared to be a stage set for a play called
Rich
People's Lives Are Better Than Yours
(minus the smoke, of course). Wyatt had never seen such posh decor, such luxurious furniture—except maybe at the
other
LOTUS HQ
he'd invaded. Say what you might about the enemy, they could decorate a mean house.

Two women dressed in black-and-silver spandex uniforms hurried down the hall from the other direction. Wyatt tensed, then he realized why Max's father had insisted they wear the togs
they'd discovered in the LOTUS safe house.

“Where's the fire?” asked the lead agent, a blond woman with the broad shoulders of a professional swimmer.

“We can't find it,” said Mr. Segredo, taking a couple of steps aside. “Have you tried the boiler room?”

The darker woman's gaze took in his weapons and the two teens accompanying him. She frowned. “Since when do we hire kids?”

“It's a recent thing,” said Wyatt. “New internship program.”

Still confused, the women looked between the tall agent and his charges. Blond Swimmer's hand unconsciously moved toward the holster strapped under her arm.

Cinnabar poured on the charm. “I can't believe how lucky I am to be an intern,” she gushed. “All I want is to be a top agent, like you two.”

Their attention focused on Cinn. To one side, Wyatt noticed Mr. Segredo readying his weapons. His stomach knotted; he really didn't want to see bloodshed.

“Me too,” Wyatt added, forcing a hero-worshiping grin. “Stuff a duck and strike me bloody handsome! I'm happier than a tick on a fat dog!”

“Is English his second language?” the darker agent asked Cinnabar.

“We're not sure what his first one is,” she replied.

Blond Swimmer rolled her eyes and waved them forward. “Get on with you. This is an emergency, not a guided tour.”

“Come along, kids,” said Mr. Segredo.

“Ta, then.” Wyatt ducked his head in thanks.

“And keep an eye out for the fire source,” the other woman called after them as the S.P.I.E.S. team continued on their way.

Soon they reached an intersection where their smaller corridor met the main one, and Mr. Segredo's steps slowed.

“We go right,” said Wyatt, consulting his smartphone. “According to the floor plan, the stairs are that way.”