Ends of the Earth (8 page)

Wyatt flashed two thumbs up. “All we need is a meeting place.”

“Excellent.” Max's father pulled a small notebook from a jacket pocket, scribbled on it, and passed the note to Wyatt. “Here's the spot. Tell them eight
o'clock.”

Cinnabar felt a sudden lightness in her chest. This day was certainly ending on a much more positive note than it had begun on. With the team about to reunite, they finally stood a chance of
rescuing Max before he was lost to them forever. Who knew? This harebrained mission might actually work out after all.

 

“Seriously? Here?” said Cinnabar. “Of all the places in the city, you wanted to meet here, right in the middle of all this?”

She stood with Wyatt and Mr. Segredo on a crowded sidewalk in the heart of the capital, across from the famous square that was one of its most popular tourist attractions.

Even at night, the neighborhood crackled with energy. Pods of American retirees, clusters of German teens, and small knots of Chinese tour groups formed the boulders in the stream of humanity
that flowed up the street. When the stoplight changed, Mr. Segredo led Cinnabar and Wyatt across, into the wide square with its spotlighted fountains and towering monolith. The fumes from fleets of
cars, red double-deckers, and tour buses made the place smell like an oversize petrol station.

“You've gotta admit,” said Wyatt, “there aren't many meeting places more public than this.”

“That's the whole idea,” said Mr. Segredo, guiding them around a chattering group of Italians and up to a railing that overlooked the square. “The more public, the less
likely that LOTUS will try something.”

“But how would they even know we're meeting here?” asked Cinnabar.

An ironic smile crossed Mr. Segredo's face. “Aside from the fact that your organization has more holes in it than a Swiss cheese? Let me put it this way: You know which spies live to
a ripe old age?”

“Which ones?” asked Wyatt.

“The paranoid ones,” said Max's father, opening his gear bag. “You two check for your friends. I'll watch for any watchers. Here.” He tucked some objects into
their jacket pockets. “A few useful items, just in case.”

Cinnabar patted the comforting weight in her pocket. She gazed out over the cloverleaf-shaped fountains, glowing ice blue in the darkness, at the statue of the old war hero on his high column,
and at the figures winding in and out of shadows between them. She scanned for familiar profiles and recognizable gestures amid the press of strangers. And then…

“There!” Cinnabar pointed at a cluster of people by one of the lion sculptures at the monument's base.

Wyatt leaned forward, squinting. “Is that Tremaine? And Mr. Vazquez?” He whirled back. “Hey, Mr. Segredo, look at—”

But Simon Segredo had melted away into the night.

“Who is he,” said Wyatt, “Batman?”

“Come on!” Cinnabar snatched at his sleeve, hurrying over to the steps. She and Wyatt descended steadily, watching the small group across the square. Mr. Vazquez glanced her way, and
Cinnabar was surprised at the catch in her throat.

After several days of living on the run, she hadn't realized how much she'd missed being with her own people. Cinnabar half stumbled, breaking into a sprint as they got closer.

Mr. V pointed at her, saying something as three other heads swung her way: Rashid, Tremaine, and Nikki Knucks. All three grinned, even Nikki, and then Cinnabar found herself swept up in
Tremaine's warm, licorice-scented embrace.

“Give a brother a hug!” cried the teak-skinned boy.

The next few moments were a whirl of embraces and back thumping and overlapping greetings. When Cinnabar and Wyatt stood back from their fellow orphans, Mr. Vazquez was finally able to slip in a
coherent word.

“My friends,” he said, “I am so very glad to see you. We feared the worst.”

“We experienced the worst,” said Wyatt. “Try surviving on Twix and stale break-room biscuits for a couple days.”

“Not like you couldn't stand to drop a few pounds,” Nikki teased, poking his belly.

For once, her taunts didn't rattle Wyatt. “Aw, I missed you too, Nikki,” he said mock-sweetly, drawing hoots from the two older boys. Nikki blushed to match her red hair and
scowled like an Easter Island statue.

“Where have you been?” asked solemn Rashid.

“Hunting for Max,” said Cinnabar. “LOTUS captured him after the raid.”

Tremaine winced. He could usually be counted on for a joke and a smile, but now his face wore a troubled expression. “Hantai Annie is missing, and Miss Moorthy, too,” he said.
“Dunno what became of Mr. Dobasch. Sad days, sister.”

“So let's go get them all back,” said Cinnabar. “Starting with Max.”

Mr. V nodded. “Let's do it.”

Her mouth fell open. “Really? Just like that?”

“Of course.”

“But…” She frowned. “I thought you'd try to talk us out of such a dangerous mission.”

“Normally, I would.” Mr. V's handsome face, more like a tango instructor's than a computer expert's, seemed drawn and tired. “But you don't know the
whole story.”

Wyatt and Cinnabar traded a look. “What do you mean?” asked Wyatt.

“While we were out stealing the mind-control thingumabob,” said Tremaine bitterly, “LOTUS was busy burning down Merry Sunshine Orphanage.”

“What?!”
cried Cinnabar and Wyatt together.

An iron fist crushed Cinnabar's heart. She had trouble catching a breath. “My sister!” She grabbed Mr. Vazquez's arm. “What happened to Jazz?”

“And Mr. Stones?” asked Wyatt. “The other kids?”

The teacher patted her shoulder. “Don't worry. Mr. Stones and Madame Chiffre got everyone out in time. They sent a message—they're hiding out somewhere safe.”

Cinnabar reeled. Her sister was safe, and Merry Sunshine was…gone. A strange cocktail of relief, regret, and cold rage surged through her veins. Jaw clenched, she snarled,
“They'll pay. Those ratbags won't get away with it.”

“Ratbags?” said a familiar voice. Cinnabar spun to see the massive bulk of the traitor Alfred Styx looming over her. He smiled a sharklike smile. “Now is that any way to talk
about an old friend?”

WYATT GAPED
. The last time he'd seen Styx, the big man had been chasing them down a hall at LOTUS HQ, brandishing an assault rifle. Now here he
stood, larger than life, wrapped in a navy-blue trench coat and sporting a crew cut so sharp it could shave the ink off a newspaper. Wyatt stepped back, instantly on the alert.

“Tired of the tucker at LOTUS?” he asked nervously. “Looking to rejoin your old mates?”

“After I was so well treated at S.P.I.E.S.?” Styx made a sour grin, like someone who bites down on a chocolate truffle only to discover earwax inside. “Not bloody
likely,” he growled. He swiveled his blocky head to the left and whistled sharply between his teeth.

At the signal, four LOTUS agents in dark suits materialized as if conjured by a magician, encircling the orphans and their teacher.

Styx plunged a meaty paw into his overcoat pocket, poking the object inside against the fabric and pointing it at Cinnabar. As Mr. V made a move toward his own weapon, the big man said,
“Ah-ah-ah. Think twice, Vazquez. Hantai Annie would never forgive you for making me spill orphans' blood.”

Cinnabar blanched, and the other kids froze. Wyatt's heart hammered like a thrash-metal drum solo.

Mr. V's eyes narrowed. “You wouldn't.”

“You don't know what I'd do,” rasped Styx. “And neither do I. So let's not find out.”

Wyatt glanced left and right. Now would be a really bonzer time for Simon Segredo to make an appearance. But the dapper spy was nowhere in sight.

“How'd you find us?” asked Cinnabar.

Styx snorted. “Think you're the only one who remembers the old procedures? I've been checking the ‘Pets for Sale' section of that Web site ever since we took down
your safe house. Hacking your e-mails was child's play.”

“Let the children go,” said Mr. Vazquez. “I'll come along quietly.”

Styx shook his thick head. “Mrs. Frost wouldn't approve.”

“She doesn't let you think for yourself?” Wyatt asked, half surprised at his own audacity. “Got you on a pretty tight leash, then?”

Styx's face clenched like a fist. “The old witch doesn't appreciate what she has. But she will.”

“Aww, you're not feeling the love?” Nikki needled him.

“Seems that happens a lot with you, eh, Styxie?” Wyatt said. He wasn't sure why, but keeping Styx annoyed and distracted seemed like a good strategy.

The big man snarled like a rabid grizzly bear.
“Enough!”

Wyatt flinched, rethinking his strategy.

“
You
, don't call me Styxie,” the enormous spy snapped, jabbing a finger at Wyatt. His glare swept over the rest of the group. “You lot, come with us.
March!”

Wyatt, torn between fear and bravado, caught Cinnabar's eye. She glanced at his pocket and gave him the tiniest of nods, reminding him of the useful items that Mr. Segredo had slipped
them. He nodded back.

Cinnabar folded her arms. “And what if we won't go with you? Would you really shoot down a bunch of unarmed orphans in public?”

“Don't push him,” said Rashid. “I don't want to know.”

Styx clamped one of his huge hands around Cinnabar's arm. His pale face was mottled with anger, like a bruised apple. “Button your lip, missy. Or I'll button it for
you.”

A female LOTUS agent stepped up beside him, looking like a Rottweiler in a pantsuit. “The car's waiting,” she said, indicating the gray Mercedes van idling at the edge of the
square despite angry honks from other vehicles. “Let's not have a scene.”

Styx grunted. He yanked Cinnabar along as he trundled toward the van, and the other LOTUS spies herded the group of teens.

“No, by all means,” Cinnabar said, her voice growing louder, “let's have a scene. Let's have one right
now
!”

And with that, she tugged Mr. Segredo's bulky yellow-and-black pistol from her overcoat and Tased Styx in the spot where a man would least like to be Tased.

“Wooaugh!” With a wordless cry, the huge spy folded at the waist and crumpled to the pavement, twitching and jerking.

Wyatt pulled his hands from his pockets, brandishing a smoke bomb in each. “Mind your eyes!” he cried to his fellow orphans.

Foomf!
Billows of bluish smoke engulfed the group as the bombs hit the pavement. Nearby tourists shouted in alarm and scrambled away.

“Fire!” Wyatt yelled, fanning their panic. “Run!”

“Follow me!” cried Cinnabar.

Between the sulfurous smoke and the tears in his eyes, Wyatt had trouble telling one blurry figure from the next, but he found Nikki and shoved her toward Cinnabar. When he went to search for
Rashid, Rottweiler Woman seized his arm in a death grip.

“Gotcha!” she snarled. “You rotten little—”

Wyatt whipped a canister of pepper spray from his overcoat, spritzing it right into whatever insult waited on the tip of her tongue. Down went Rottweiler Woman, coughing and gagging. He stumbled
after Cinnabar and Nikki, pushing past the freaked-out tourists and another incapacitated LOTUS spy.

A gunshot barked in the confusion, and someone cried out.

Once past the smoke cloud, Wyatt spotted Mr. Vazquez supporting a wounded Rashid, hustling along one edge of the square. The rest of the orphans were just ahead of them. Wyatt hurried to catch
up.

Then he noticed the Mercedes van gliding along the curb behind them, like a tiger shark trailing a school of fish.

“Look out!” he cried.

Cinnabar and Tremaine glanced back, dismay etched across their faces. They picked up the pace, but the vehicle was closing the gap.

The van's curbside window was down. Wyatt swatted at his coat pockets, fumbling for another smoke bomb…there! He wasn't the world's greatest cricket player—okay,
possibly the world's worst—so he'd have to get close.