Ends of the Earth (7 page)

He hustled across and plunged into the right-hand hallway. Shielding his beam now, Max tiptoed down the narrow passage past doors guarded by card-scanner locks. When he judged he'd gone
far enough, he hugged the wall, clicked off his light, and listened.

Footsteps clattered on the steel steps.

“I tell you, it ain't necessary.” Humphrey's gruff voice grew louder as he descended.

“The guv'nor decides what's necessary,” snapped a sharp female voice. Dijon LeStrange. “And she wants security double tight.”

Max tensed.
The guv'nor
meant Mrs. Frost. Was she home already?

Lights snapped on, and Max had to squint against the sudden brightness.

“See?” said Humphrey, his words echoing in the cavernous room. “Nobody home.”

“That's your whole inspection?” Disapproval drenched Dijon's tone like curry on rice. “Good thing you're not on gate duty. The enemy could roll a bloody
Trojan horse past you.”

“Get knotted,” said Humphrey. “I just don't fancy wasting effort, that's all.”

At the end of his passage, back the way he'd come, Max could see a slice of the larger chamber. If either of the guards walked past, they would be able to see him too, plain as day. He
glanced behind him, searching for a safer spot. A stack of cardboard boxes rested near the corridor's dead end. Perfect.

“Ooh, listen to Mr. Efficiency,” sneered Dijon. “‘Wasted effort,' he says. For your information, if the cameras malfunction, it's not a waste of time to check
and see if any bad guys are about.”

Creeping back to his hiding spot, Max thought, Bad guys?
They're
the bad guys. He ducked into place and winced as his knee bumped a box.

“What was that?” said Dijon.

Max froze.

“The prisoner, no doubt,” said Humphrey.

“Come on, then,” said Dijon. “Let's go look. Unless you fancy finding other employment.”

Humphrey grumbled. Max hugged the wall as the footsteps drew closer, and now he could see the agents through a narrow gap—Humphrey, buff and broad-shouldered; Dijon, sinister and svelte.
They stopped at the first door. The grumpy spy drew his weapon, and Dijon slid a key card through the scanner.

As soon as the door opened, a high, anxious voice emerged. “Don't hurt me! What do you want? My parents are rich; they'll give you whatever you want. Just don't hurt me,
please!”

Addison Rook.

With all that had happened since, Max had nearly forgotten about the boy genius he'd helped kidnap only that morning. Now he felt a twinge of sympathy for the twit. Nobody deserved to be
kidnapped and imprisoned, not even Addison. But since the teen was a valuable pawn, Max knew he wouldn't be harmed. He scowled and pushed the thought from his mind. Addison just wasn't
his problem.

And if that made him heartless, well, secret agents and foster kids didn't survive by being as gooey as a box of Christmas chocolates.

“Don't wet your bloody pants, boy,” growled Humphrey. “We're only checking up on you.”

“Oh.” Addison's relief was almost comical.

“Are the accommodations to your liking?” asked Dijon with a sarcastic lilt. “Is the food up to snuff?”

“The cell is…adequate,” said Addison, a hint of his self-assurance creeping back. “The lamb, though, was a tad overdone.”

Humphrey snarled and took a step closer.

“But I like it that way?” the boy genius squeaked, his voice jumping an octave.

Dijon shut the door, and the electronic lock clicked.

“
Now
can we go?” Humphrey groused. “The guv'nor will be home any minute.”

“All right, then.” She led the way back into the main room, her voice receding. “But I want you to go check on that brat Segredo, make sure he's not up to
mischief.”

Uh-oh.

Max squeezed his eyes shut. He wouldn't be able to take his time and try to locate his friends on that blasted computer. Instead, he'd have to sneak back upstairs, pray he
didn't get caught, and devise a reasonable excuse to cover his time spent snooping.

The overhead lights snapped off, and the guards' footsteps retreated up the stairs. When Max heard the false floor slide back into place, he snapped on his flashlight and recrossed the
evil lair. Moving as cautiously as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, he scaled the staircase, careful not to make a sound. At the top, Max put an ear to the false floor, listening
for any sign of human activity. Nothing. Only a faint electrical hum.

Max reached down and flipped the switch. As the floor above him began to retract, he rushed up the last steps and into Mrs. Frost's office. If someone
was
waiting, he at least
wanted to meet them head-on.

The chamber lay empty. A quiet pop came from the fireplace as the sap in one of the logs ignited. Max released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

So far, so good.

He worked the lion statuette, and the floor slid back into place. Taking one last glance at the office, he made his way to the bathroom door, passed through, and relocked it.

When he spun around, Max nearly jumped out of his skin.

“What in the world,” said Vespa, “are you doing in my loo?”

HER CONVERSATION
with Simon Segredo wasn't going quite the way Cinnabar had hoped.

“You're both certifiably brainsick,” said Mr. Segredo. “You think you can waltz into LOTUS headquarters, just the two of you, and rescue Max? From the best-guarded, most
secure spy compound in the country?”

“Not just the two of us,” said Wyatt. “We were hoping you'd come too.”

Max's father only raised his eyebrows in response. He paced the dingy parlor of the cut-rate hotel suite he'd taken them to, peering out between rust-colored curtains at the gloomy
day outside.

In spite of the man's impeccable pearl-gray suit, Cinnabar thought Mr. Segredo looked haggard. His cheeks were hollow, his brown eyes shadowed with fatigue. Maybe he wasn't
trustworthy, but he
was
Max's dad. He deserved to know.…

“We haven't told you everything,” said Cinnabar.

Mr. Segredo wheeled back toward her, his long face impassive. “All right.”

Cinnabar and Wyatt traded a glance. “It's Mrs. Frost,” Wyatt began.

“She's trying to adopt Max,” Cinnabar finished.

Mr. Segredo's jaw tightened, but that was the only sign of whatever he was feeling. “Adopt him. And you know this how?”

“Tully has a source,” said Cinnabar.

The tall spy rubbed a hand across his face.

“We can't let it happen,” said Wyatt. “Obviously.”

“I see.” Mr. Segredo seemed lost in thought.

“Don't you care?” Cinnabar rocketed up off the ratty sofa and crossed to him. “Look, I don't trust you, seeing as how you've worked for
LOTUS—”

“Understandable,” said Max's father.

“But no matter what, Max is your son,” said Cinnabar. “How could you let him be adopted by that evil old bat?”

Simon Segredo massaged the back of his neck, his gaze troubled.

“It's not Max, it's me,” he said.

“Really?” asked Wyatt. “She's trying to adopt you too?”

Max's father shook his head. “She's trying to hit me where I'm most vulnerable.”

“So hit back,” Cinnabar pleaded. “Help us find LOTUS's new headquarters and rescue Max.”

“This is my concern, not yours,” said Mr. Segredo. “I've got something they want, so it's best if I sort this out on my own. You kids shouldn't get
involved.”

Cinnabar's temper flared. “Well, pardon me for living, but it's not your decision. We're
already
involved.”

Wyatt stood to join her. “She's right. Max is our mate, and we won't abandon him, no matter which ruthless granny has got her mitts on him.”

Mr. Segredo crossed his arms and looked from one of them to the other for a few heartbeats, eyes narrowed. Finally, he nodded to himself. “Max is lucky to have friends like you.”

“So…?” Cinnabar's gaze searched his face.

“So, I'm glad there's someone who knows where LOTUS headquarters is.”

Cinnabar frowned. “Who?”

“Me.”

Cinnabar felt completely gobsmacked. For the first time in a long while, she couldn't speak.

Wyatt gasped. “You
know
? Stuff a duck, you mean you've known all this time?”

“Yes,” said Max's father.

Cinnabar's hand flew to her heart. “But why? If you know where he is, why haven't you already rescued Max?”

Turning away, Mr. Segredo drew in a long breath and blew it out. “It's not as simple as you think.”

“Sure it is.” She followed him, heat rising to her face. “You go in, you get him, you bring him out. Done.”

“Easy-peasy,” said Wyatt.

The tall spy grimaced. “For one thing, I've been splitting my time between watching LOTUS and watching you.”

“Us?” Cinnabar rocked back on her heels. “Why us?”

“You're Max's closest friends. If anything happened to you, he'd never forgive me.
I'd
never forgive me.”

She brushed aside his explanation. “Forget us—worry about him. We can take care of ourselves.”

Mr. Segredo's smile was a sardonic one. “Like you were doing outside The Eye?”

Cinnabar flushed and studied the carpet. She had no comeback.

“And what's the other thing?” said Wyatt.

“Sorry?”

The blond boy scratched his cheek. “You said, ‘for one thing.' What's the other?”

“I need a solid plan, based on trustworthy intel—which I've almost got.” Max's father faced them squarely. “And I need a team.”

Wyatt made a voilà gesture that took in himself and Cinnabar. “Presto change-o, here we are.”

“No offense, but for a compound that well protected, I need a team that's a bit more…substantial,” said Mr. Segredo. “You mentioned one of your teachers and his
crew were in Chinatown?”

Cinnabar's brow crinkled. “Mr. Vazquez? But Tully only said they'd been spotted. We don't have an address, or even a phone number.”

Mr. Segredo tut-tutted. “What do they teach you young spies these days? Didn't your crew ever work out a dead-drop system or another way of passing messages?”

Wyatt's eyes lit up. He snapped his fingers. “Gumtree! Of course.”

“Gumtree?” said Cinnabar. “Is that some Australian thing?”

“Tell you in a sec,” said Wyatt. “All we need's a computer.”

Max's father produced a compact laptop model from his duffel bag. “Here. Get going on that while I work on rounding up some resources.”

Hours later, as daylight bled from the room, Cinnabar rose from the sofa and stretched a crick out of her back. Scribbled plans littered the cheap coffee table, and Wyatt
hunched over the laptop computer like a vulture over roadkill.

“How about now?” she asked him.

He sighed. “For the twelve hundred and thirteenth time, Cinn, I'll get an e-mail alert when someone responds.”

One half of a muted conversation drifted from behind the closed bedroom door. Cinnabar glanced over at it. Who was Mr. Segredo calling? she wondered. He'd been absolutely smashing when he
saved them from the LOTUS agents, but her suspicion was a habit that died hard. Would they be able to trust him when the chips were down?

The electronic chime of the computer jolted her from her reverie. Cinnabar strode back to the sofa. “Well?”

Wyatt opened the e-mail message. So far, their few responses to the online classified ad for an “exotic pet” on Gumtree.com had all come from normal people. Cinnabar was beginning to
wonder whether the rest of the S.P.I.E.S. team had forgotten that long-ago class on passing coded messages online.

Then a grin split Wyatt's face. “Bonzer!” he whooped.

“It's them?”

“Mr. V wants to know where he can meet us and get a gander at our bunyip.”

“That's brilliant!” Cinnabar quirked an eyebrow. “Um, bunyip?”

Wyatt smirked. “It's an Aussie thing. You wouldn't understand.”

Cinnabar sank onto the couch beside him. “So where do we meet?”

At that moment, the bedroom door swung open, and Simon Segredo strode into the room, wiping his hands on a sky-blue silk handkerchief.

“And?” asked Wyatt.

“Success,” said Mr. Segredo, as calm and relaxed as if he'd just returned from a day at the spa.

“How did you manage to find what we needed?” Cinnabar asked.

“I traded favors with some, shall we say, less than savory acquaintances.”

Cinnabar stiffened, unable to hide her reaction.

“My dear Cinnabar,” said Mr. Segredo. “Unlike your precious Hantai Annie, I am willing to do whatever needs to be done.” He tucked the handkerchief into his breast pocket
and brushed some invisible lint off his lapels. “Now, any luck reaching Vazquez?”