For Your Paws Only (10 page)

“I don't see them,” said Hotspur, whipping his binoculars out and training them on the floor.

“You may want to aim a little higher,” said Glory, trying hard to suppress a smile.

Hotspur raised his binoculars an inch. “Tall, are they?” he barked. “Must be field mice.”

“Not exactly,” said Glory.

Squeak caught on first. “Do you mean to tell me—”

“You haven't—” said Bubble.

Glory nodded. “For Your Paws Only,” she warned.

Hotspur put his binoculars down, peeved that the others were in on something he wasn't. “What are you talking about?”

Glory pointed to the group of junior Bake-Off finalists. “The plump blond one with the glasses and the skinny brown girl with the dark braid thingies on her head.”

Hotspur's mouth fell open. “
Children
?” he croaked. “The other agents are
humans
?”

Glory felt happy for the first time all day. It wasn't often that old Snotspur lost his cool. “Yessiree,” she said, smiling broadly. “Human children. Fine agents, too, both of them.”

“But the Mouse Code forbids contact with humans!” protested Hotspur.

“No one else knows but us,” said Glory. “Not even the Council. It's a Spy Mice Agency secret—strictly Paws Only.”

Bubble and Squeak nodded and shrugged. The Americans had always done things a bit differently. Hotspur blinked, still trying to grasp this new development. “Does my uncle know about this?” he said finally.

“He was the one who hired them,” Glory replied. She turned to B-Nut. “You and Hank get ready. Wait for my signal.”

B-Nut nodded and sped away.

“But what—what—”

“Couriers,” said Glory. “We couldn't manage all the equipment from Washington.”

“But—but—”

Glory patted her colleague's shoulder. “You'll get
used to it.” She turned to Bubble and Squeak. “Wait here until I return. Shouldn't be long.”

Glory drew her gleaming silver skateboard out of her backpack and stepped out of the shadows. She took a deep breath and furrowed her brow in concentration. She hadn't practiced this next maneuver recently.

Placing the skateboard on the floor of the lobby, she waited until a human approached who was heading for the center of the room. Then she leaped onto her board, propelled it forward with a thrust of her hind paw, and grabbed onto the cuff of the man's trousers to hitch a ride. As he stepped forward, she released the cuff and swung gracefully toward the other. Step, glide, step, glide. Her timing was flawless, and she quickly fell into a fluid rhythm. The maneuver was natural and effortless, and not a single human noticed the small mouse coasting across the room.

“Wow!” said Squeak in admiration. “Wicked drafting!”

“Splendid pacing,” added Bubble. “Absolutely tip-top.”

Even Hotspur had to admire Glory's skill. “Couldn't have done it better myself,” he said grudgingly. “Although there was one time, in Madrid—”

“Look! A flying ollie!” cried Squeak in excitement. “I've never seen one executed on a live mission before!”

As her human ride veered around the group of Bake-Off finalists, Glory used the momentum of his stride to lift herself and her skateboard into the air. Detaching
from his cuff, she flew forward, landing lightly near where Oz was standing.

“Oh, well done,” said Bubble. “Well done indeed.”

Hotspur didn't say a word.

Across the room, Glory returned her skateboard to her backpack and climbed nimbly up Oz's pant leg to where his hand was tucked in his trouser pocket. She patted it urgently with her paw.

Oz gave a start. He looked down. Glory waved. “Hi, Oz!” she called softly.

Oz placed a protective hand over her and backed away slightly from the group. Jordan and Scott had been keeping a close eye on him since the Empire State Building. Moving his hand up to his face, he pretended to scratch his chin. “Careful,” he said in a low voice. “We're being watched.”

Glory peeked around his thumb. “Jordan and Tank?”

“Uh-huh,” Oz replied. “They're suspicious. We had a little run-in a few minutes ago. But everything's under control.”

“That's good.” Glory sounded relieved. “You brought the merchandise, right?”

Oz pretended to scratch his nose. “Yeah.”

“Be on the lookout for Hank and B-Nut. You'll be making the drop to them.”

“Got it.” Oz placed his hand back in his pocket, and Glory climbed down his pant leg again and deftly retraced her steps.

“I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes,” said Squeak as she whooshed to a stop by the stairway. “That flying ollie was awesome. Can you teach me?”

“Sure,” Glory replied.

Hotspur sniffed, and inspected the tip of his tail.

Bunsen's voice came crackling over their headsets, and the four mice sprang to attention. “Vinnie and Ollie are in position on the roof,” he announced. “The merchandise is heavy, Hank, but if you can get it to them, they'll help you fly it over here to Rockefeller Center.”

“No problem,” Hank replied.

The mice watched as the Mayflower Flour group started to head for the hall leading to the food court.

“Now, B-Nut!” Glory called.

In a flash, her brother and his winged partner dove for Oz. Oz saw him coming and motioned to D. B., who pulled the purple dinosaur lunch bag from under her jacket. She handed it to Oz.

“What's the matter, Fatboy—can't you wait until we get downstairs?” jeered Jordan.

“Looks like it's feeding time at Sea World again,” added Tank, moving to snatch the lunch bag away.

As he passed D. B., she calmly stuck out her foot and tripped him. Tank went sprawling onto the floor. Oz held the lunch bag over his head, and Hank swooped down, hooked his claws around the handle, and plucked it away from him.

“Hey!” said Jordan, as the bird wheeled upward to the far corner of the ceiling, where a small hole led to the roof. “Did you see that?”

“What?” said Tank, scrambling back onto his feet.

“That pigeon! It stole the lunch bag!” Jordan said.

“Lunch bag? What lunch bag?” said Oz innocently. “I didn't see a lunch bag, did you, D. B.?”

D. B. shrugged and shook her head. “First a hamster, now a lunch bag. You two aren't just morons, you're nuts!”

And leaving the two sixth graders sputtering in frustration, Oz and D. B. turned and followed the tour group toward the food court.

“Brilliant,” said Squeak, watching from the safety of the stairs. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“You were right, Glory,” added Bubble. “The human children are a fine addition to the team.”

Hotspur sniffed again. “You think that was brilliant?” he began. “You should have seen me this one time in Stockholm—”

“Give it a rest, Hotspur,” said Glory with a grin. “We've got work to do.”

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1230 HOURS

“You aren't worth
your whiskers!” snarled Stilton Piccadilly, his red eyes blazing at Roquefort Dupont.

Dupont's tail thrashed angrily to and fro at this insult. “How was I supposed to know that blasted Goldenleaf brat would show up?”

“Security would be tight, you promised!” the British rat continued, pacing back and forth across the sewer deep beneath Track 77. “Not a whisper would leak out, you promised! I sent a courier suggesting we meet in London, but no, you wouldn't have that. Everything had to be on your terms.” He leaned closer, sneering. “Face it, Dupont, you're a joke. You don't have what it takes to cut it as Big Cheese. Now I, on the other hand—”

Dupont lunged. Piccadilly dodged to the side, and the two bull rats circled warily, the hackles of fur on the backs of their thick necks rising in angry spikes. Before
either could strike, however, Brie placed a restraining paw on her cousin's shoulder.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the she-rat in her silky voice. “Zees is not ze time nor ze place for a duel. What happened was unfortunate,
oui.
Zose tiny short-tail spies might have given us much information, with ze right treatment.” She paused, licking her lips at the thought. Her eyes glinted in the dim light, revealing a hint of cruelty. Limburger Lulu and Limburger Louie drew back with a shiver. The lovely Brie had a darker side.

“Perhaps we can drop zis unfortunate business, and get to work,” the she-rat continued. “We have much to do before tonight.”

Dupont and Piccadilly eyed each other for a long moment, then grumblingly agreed.

Brie stepped up onto a half-submerged brick and began to address the assembled rodents. “As acting chair-rat of ze new Global Rodent Roundtable, ze G.R.R.—”

“GRR!” chimed the gathered rats, baring their teeth in the agreed-upon response.

“GRR!” echoed Brie, who then continued briskly, “I hereby declare zis meeting open. First order of business, induction of members.”

One by one, the seventy-seven rodents filed in front of their peers, their ugly snouts held high in pride.

“From Greece, Myzithra Moussikis,” announced Brie.

“Misery!” a rat in the back of the line shouted.

“From ze Nezerlands, Gouda Waterloo,” Brie continued. “And from Spain, Zamorano de Castilla.”

As each new delegate was introduced, the rats gave the loud Global Rodent Roundtable “GRR!” cheer. So busy were they with the introductions that not a single one noticed four small figures descending slowly down the sides of the sewer vent above.

Glory motioned Hotspur, Bubble, and Squeak to stop. “Agents in place,” she whispered. The four of them hung suspended from long strands of dental floss.

Her headset crackled, and Bunsen's voice floated across the airwaves. “This is the dangerous part,” he said. “You're going to have to get low enough to position the sunglasses properly. The minute you can see rats, stop. Be careful, okay?”

Glory glanced cautiously downward. She knew only too well the stakes involved. A sewer full of rat kingpins, the biggest and baddest that the rodent world had to offer. All those sharp claws and jaws! Glory's heart began to beat faster, recalling her ordeal in Dupont's lair. Were they to be discovered—or worse, were one of them to fall—well, the end would not be pretty. It would be quite horrible, in fact. Dupont would have four new tails and four new pairs of ears for his wall of trophies. If Gorgonzola didn't get them first.

She gave her colleagues a nod. Slowly, keeping a careful eye on each other to make sure they stayed in sync, the four mice gradually dropped lower and lower.
Between them, strung across the vent on a web of dental floss, balanced the video sunglasses that Oz had brought from the Spy Museum.

Lower and lower the mice rappelled. Soon, they were able to make out dim shadows below. Another few feet, and the rats themselves came into view. The fur on the back of Glory's neck prickled at the sight of all those long, hairless tails. She held up a paw and halted her descent. Her colleagues halted, too.

“Okay, Bunsen, we've got them in view,” she whispered.

“Excellent. This is the tricky part, Glory. First, you'll need to secure the glasses.”

The four mice removed tacks from their backpacks, and silently inserted them into the mortar between the bricks of the sewer vent's walls. When this was done, they expertly tied off the strands of dental floss that cradled the sunglasses. Glory tested the line with a paw. It held.

“Done,” she whispered.

“Now one of you needs to climb out and flip the switch,” said Bunsen.

“I'll go.” Glory inched her way out onto the web of floss. As nearly weightless as she was, the tightrope-like strands still dipped and swayed with each step. She gulped, but didn't look down, fixing her gaze instead on the target—the black sunglasses, their lenses pointed directly at the cluster of rats below.

“What was that?” cried Dupont.

Glory froze, teetering on the floss. Her heart pattered wildly. She'd been spotted!

“What did you say his name was?” repeated Dupont.

“Havarti Lergravsparken,” said Brie. “From Copenhagen.”

Glory breathed a sigh of relief. Dupont hadn't seen her after all. He was still busy inducting rats into the—what had Brie called it?—the Global Rodent Roundtable.

She inched forward, stopping when she reached the sunglasses. Reaching out a careful paw, she flipped the tiny switch that was camouflaged by a screw in the frames.

“Okay, Bunsen,” she whispered. “They're on.”

“We have liftoff!” her colleague squeaked excitedly in her ear. “Can you angle the video camera a little more to the left?”

Glory fiddled with the sunglasses.

“Perfect!” said Bunsen. “The pigeons are waiting for you on the roof.”

And just as silently as they had appeared, the four mice vanished into the shadows.

DAY TWO • WEDNESDAY • 1345 HOURS

“This isn't over yet,”
said Tank.

“Not by a long shot,” added Jordan.

Oz glanced warily at the sixth graders. They were smiling for the TV camera in the Waldorf-Astoria's ballroom, their faces the picture of sunshine and innocence. The afternoon Bake-Off session was about to get underway.

Oz frowned. After the disastrous morning session, he didn't hold out too much hope for the contest's outcome. He stared ruefully at the failed loaf of pumpkin bread that squatted on the edge of his work station. It looked like a squished brick. The eggs Jordan had smashed against his neck had broken his concentration, and he'd forgotten to add the baking powder.
6TH PLACE,
read the card propped on the plate. Dead last.
Pathetic,
thought Oz glumly.
What a loser.