Ends of the Earth Page 8

  Cinnabar blew out a sigh. She was a patient person by nature, but this endless surveillance was wearing on her last nerve. “Why not now?”

  Mr. Segredo half swiveled and pointed out the window. “See that post on the wall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Notice the camera up top? They’ve got eyes on the sidewalk.”

  “So?” said Nikki.

  “So,” said Mr. Segredo, “they know some of us by sight. If we just stroll down the street, they’ll recognize us in a heartbeat, scoop us up, and then where would Max be?”

  “Where he belongs,” Nikki muttered.

  Cinnabar dug an elbow between Nikki’s ribs, and Max’s father shot the redhead a sharp look.

  “If you’d rather be somewhere else, Miss Knucks, I suggest you go there,” he said. “This is risky enough even with everyone fully committed.”

  Nikki nudged Cinnabar back, but then she wilted under Mr. Segredo’s stare. “I’m good,” she mumbled.

  “Tremaine,” Max’s father said, turning to the athletic teen beside him. “You ready for your part?”

  Tremaine grinned, giving him a thumbs-up. “All aces, mon.” He was dressed in a black hoodie and baggy jeans, giving him the appearance of a typical hip-hop-loving college kid.

  “Nikki?”

  Similarly attired, Nikki grunted, “Yup.”

  Mr. Segredo watched a delivery truck rumble along the road. “Use the lorry for cover, and…go!”

  As soon as the truck passed between their van and the camera, Nikki and Tremaine hopped out, hurrying toward sections of the wall about a hundred feet apart. Each pulled a can of purple spray paint from their hoodie pocket and began plastering the redbrick wall with colorful graffiti.

  “Not that I don’t love seeing LOTUS get tagged,” said Wyatt. “But how exactly will this help us rescue Max?

  “Watch and learn,” said Mr. Segredo, his eyes on the gate.

  A whine came from the van’s cargo space, and Cinnabar reached back to pat the head of their borrowed pet, a scraggly brown mutt that looked like a cross between an Irish wolfhound, a badger, and a mop. “Easy there, girl. You’ll get your walkies soon.”

  “She’s not the only one who needs to have a hey-diddle-diddle,” said Wyatt, crossing his legs.

  “I told you to use the loo before we left,” said Cinnabar. “Honestly, you—”

  “Focus!” snapped Mr. Segredo.

  Cinnabar scooted into Nikki’s spot, and she and Wyatt watched the rearview mirrors. Outside, Tremaine and Nikki were still spraying graffiti, the Jamaican teen adding some green highlights to his purple EAT THE RICH tag. At last, the gate cranked open, and a chubby man in a pea coat and balaclava rushed out.

  “Oi!” he cried. “You’re in for it now, you little beggars!”

  “There,” said Simon Segredo, checking his watch. “Nearly five minutes.”

  Nikki and Tremaine disappeared down the street in opposite directions, running like a pair of cheetahs who’d been drinking from an espresso pool. The guard wasn’t nearly so fleet. After a halfhearted chase, he shook his fist at Nikki and stomped back to the gate out of breath, barking a complaint into his walkie-talkie.

  “A small revenge, but sweet,” said Wyatt.

  “And what did we learn?” asked Mr. Segredo.

  Cinnabar narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “They don’t have their A Team on security.”

  Max’s father nodded. “And why?”

  “Five minutes is a pretty slow response time,” she said.

  “And?”

  “That guard wasn’t exactly young Arnold Schwarzenegger,” said Wyatt. “He couldn’t even catch Nikki, and he was panting like a sunstruck dingo.”

  “Very good,” said Simon Segredo. “And from that we can deduce…?”

  Cinnabar and Wyatt swapped a glance. “Um, LOTUS guards need more cardio training?” she said.

  Mr. Segredo quirked an eyebrow. “LOTUS,” he said, “is using their best agents for something else.”

  Wyatt grinned. “Leaving the castle undefended?”

  “Hardly. It’ll still be a tough nut to crack. But at least we’ve got the ghost of a chance.”

  Cinnabar rolled her eyes. “Such confidence. I feel so much better.”

  Max’s father started up the van and pulled away from the curb. “Let’s go collect your friends and test another part of the perimeter.”

  “There are loads of words to describe Nikki,” said Cinnabar. “But ‘friend’ isn’t the first one I’d pick.”

  The vehicle made its way down the road and around the corner, where Tremaine and Nikki were waiting. They piled in, and Mr. Segredo took them onto a street that wound around to a block of homes on the other side of the mansion.

  Stopping before another grand house, Max’s father said, “I happen to know this family is away on holiday. Wyatt, Cinnabar, let’s suit up.”

  Cinnabar stuffed her wiry hair under a loose newsboy cap and slipped on a pair of sunglasses while Wyatt disguised his appearance with a baseball cap and an oversize raincoat.

  “Whatever you do,” said Mr. Segredo, “don’t stare directly into any cameras. A LOTUS guard might recognize you from the time you visited their former HQ, and the last thing we want to do is tip our hand.”

  “Roger that,” said Wyatt.

  “‘Roger that,’” mocked Nikki. “Can’t you just say ‘okay,’ like a regular person?”

  Wyatt sent her a dirty look, but said nothing as he picked up the dog’s leash and stepped from the van.

  “Anything specific you want to know?” Cinnabar asked Mr. Segredo.

  He ticked the points off on his fingers. “Number of cameras, any blind spots, and anyplace where the wall is vulnerable.”

  “No worries,” said Cinnabar. But that wasn’t strictly true. Inside, she had enough worries for the whole crew and then some. How would they get in, how would they find Max, had he succumbed to Vespa’s charms yet, and, oh yeah, how the heck would they escape from the high-security compound right under LOTUS’s noses?

  But “Back in a flash” was all she said.

  When she rounded the side of the van, Wyatt had already attached the leash to the shaggy dog’s collar. “What’s its name again?” she asked.

  “Ziggy,” said Wyatt, trying to pet the creature as it ducked away from his caresses. “And he’s such a gooood boy, idn’t he, oodgie-woodge-ums?” This last bit was crooned at the dog.

  Honestly, thought Cinn, why do people treat animals like babies? “She’s a girl, cabbage head. If you’re done getting all smoochy-woochy, let’s go.”

  Wyatt lugged the four-legged mop out of the van and onto the sidewalk, the dog struggling with him all the way. “Just trying to bond,” he said. “We’re meant to be his owners, after all.”

  Cinnabar smirked. “Only a blind man would take that for your dog.”

  “I’m more of a cat person.” Wyatt sighed.

  Keeping an eye on the windows in case Mr. Segredo had been misinformed about the homeowners, they crossed the lawn, making for the side of the house. Ziggy dragged Wyatt back and forth across the grass like a deranged speedboat towing a water skier. Finally, the blond boy managed to tug the beast onto a neat series of stepping-stones that led under overhanging trees and around to the back.

  Here, they wound between ornamental hedges, potted shrubs, and lawn furniture to the back of the property, where it ended at the brick wall that encircled LOTUS HQ. Someone had cleared about five feet of land in a ring around the wall, thus creating the perfect path for walking the dog.

  Mindful of Simon Segredo’s warning, both Cinnabar and Wyatt kept their faces averted from the high mounted cameras. As they strolled from one yard to the next, Cinnabar kept cutting her eyes at the top of the wall.

  “Looks like they’ve got at least five cameras, spaced about thirty feet apart,” she muttered to Wyatt. “Think we could short one of them out?”

  “In a jiffy,” he said, “but they’d probably send s
omeone to investigate. What we need is…” He gaped at a sturdy plane tree whose thick branches hung close to the wall.

  “What?” said Cinnabar, when he stayed mute.

  “What, what?” Wyatt blinked at her.

  She gave an exasperated snort. “What do we need? You said we need something.”

  “Oh, that what.” A sneaky smile spread across his face. “We need an innocent-looking way of creating the short. And I might have just found it.”

  But before he could explain further, a strident female voice called out, “You there!”

  Wyatt and Cinnabar wheeled toward the nearest house, where an imposing gray-haired woman in gardening togs stood outside her door, scowling at them.

  “Us?” said Cinnabar, with her best butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression.

  “No, the other children trampling my heather!” snapped the woman. “Yes, of course, you. What on earth are you doing in my back garden?”

  Wyatt glanced down at Ziggy, who was digging up one of the homeowner’s shrubs, then back at the woman. “Walking our dog?” he said.

  “Well, walk it somewhere else, or I shall be forced to ring the police!”

  With apologies and friendly waves, they dragged the shaggy mutt away. The homeowner’s glower tracked them across the next two backyards.

  “Holy dooley,” said Wyatt. “She’s a worse guard dog than an actual guard dog. If we’re—”

  Harsh barking erupted on the other side of the wall, and a rough voice shouted, “Oi! Where you think you’re going?”

  Cinnabar and Wyatt instinctively crouched, although the man on the other side couldn’t see them. Ziggy whimpered.

  “Was that Styx?” Wyatt whispered.

  “Shh!” Cinnabar listened intently. A boy’s voice answered the man’s. Max? They talked back and forth, the man accusing and the boy teasing him. Finally she heard, “You mean she doesn’t trust me? I’m wounded.”

  Definitely Max.

  Wyatt’s smile was as wide as the Australian Outback, and his blue eyes shone. “That’s him!” he hissed.

  Cinnabar felt an answering smile spring to her face. The voices faded as Max and Styx walked away, but her feeling of elation remained.

  “Wow,” said Wyatt. “He was only ten feet away. Wish we could’ve sent him a message.”

  Cinnabar’s gaze sharpened, and she gave a curt nod. “Don’t you worry,” she said, eyes dancing. “We will.”

  “BUT WHY can’t we break in right now?” asked Cinnabar, when they’d returned to the van and driven away with their borrowed pet. “They’d never expect it.”

  “They wouldn’t expect it because it’s a barmy move,” growled Nikki. “Did you take any spy classes at all?”

  The two girls glowered at each other, and although Wyatt’s sympathies were with Cinn, he knew Nikki had a point.

  “We’re not ready, that’s why,” said Mr. Segredo calmly. He piloted the vehicle through thickening traffic as they left the posh neighborhood where LOTUS kept their headquarters.

  “So let’s get ready,” said Cinnabar.

  Simon Segredo only smiled.

  “You’ve got a plan, haven’t you?” said Wyatt.

  “Indeed,” said Max’s father. “We need to stop and pick up a few things.”

  Nikki grimaced. “What, like at a spy shop?”

  Mr. Segredo chuckled. “Not exactly. We’re going to pay a little visit to some people I know.”

  An hour later, they’d restored Ziggy to his rightful owner, stopped by a thrift store and a copy shop, and were parked across the street from a row of shabby, unremarkable houses. Mr. Segredo had trained his binoculars on the windows of a unit next to an abandoned store.

  “Blast,” he muttered. “They’re home.”

  “So,” said Tremaine, “are you gonna explain why Wyatt and I are togged out like Boy Scouts, or do we play Twenty Questions?”

  Max’s father lowered the glasses and nodded at the flat. “That, my young friends, is a LOTUS safe house.”

  “How do you know?” asked Nikki.

  “Duh,” said Wyatt. “He used to work with them.”

  Nikki snarled and tried to reach around Cinnabar to punch him, but the wiry-haired girl blocked her swing.

  “Must you always be an utter git?” said Cinnabar.

  “Get knotted,” snapped Nikki. But she settled back into the seat, arms folded.

  “If you’re all quite finished,” said Simon Segredo stiffly, “I’ll continue.”

  It occurred to Wyatt that Max’s father hadn’t spent much time around kids, judging by how he reacted to the group’s ongoing squabbles. But of course, he’d missed the last seven or so years of Max’s life. Being on the run from a worldwide organization of evil spies sure puts a kink in your family time.

  Mr. Segredo shifted in the seat so he could face them. “Inside that safe house are all the supplies we’ll need for tonight’s rescue mission.”

  “It’s tonight?” said Wyatt.

  Max’s father raised his eyebrows. “The sooner the better, if we’re to put a stop to all that adoption rubbish.”

  “Brilliant.” Cinnabar clapped once.

  “And these disguises will help how, exactly?” asked Tremaine.

  Mr. Segredo eyed their khaki outfits, striped neckerchiefs, and black berets. “All we need is a little distraction.”

  Nikki snorted. “That’s distracting all right. You look like a right pair of berks.”

  Tremaine ignored her. “So we stroll up to the door in these old-timey uniforms, and then what?”

  Mr. Segredo laid out their course of action. After surveying their target for another half hour and spotting no more than two LOTUS agents through the windows, he finally gave them the go-ahead.

  Wyatt and Tremaine slipped out of the van on the side away from the safe house. Wyatt began making a beeline for the unit, but Tremaine snagged him by the back of his kerchief.

  “Hold up, Horatio,” he said.

  “What?” said Wyatt.

  Tremaine indicated the safe house. “If they see us going straight to their crib and passing up the houses next door, what will they think?”

  Wyatt winced. “Too right. Let’s start over here.” He indicated a nearby house and together they walked up the steps to rap on the yellow door.

  “Oo is it?” came a quavery female voice.

  “Boy Scouts, mum,” said Wyatt. “Can we have a word?”

  A long pause, then the clatter of three locks being undone. The door swung open to the length of a security chain, and a pale, wrinkly face, like that of an albino mole, squinted through the crack.

  “Yes?” said the old woman.

  “We’re doing a fund-raiser for our troop, mum,” said Wyatt, lifting his clipboard.

  “What for?”

  Tremaine spoke up. “To raise funds. So that we can go to camp, see?” He waved a sheet of bogus tickets at her.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of a tall brown teen on her doorstep.

  “A fiver will get you a ticket to our big barn dance,” said Tremaine, smiling winningly.

  She slammed the door in their faces.

  “Friendly sort,” said Tremaine.

  “Still and all,” said Wyatt as they retreated down the walkway, “good thing she didn’t buy a ticket.”

  “Why?” asked Tremaine.

  “’Cause then we might actually have to throw a barn dance,” said Wyatt. “And I’m allergic to hay.”

  The tall boy smirked.

  Nobody answered the door of the second house they approached. When they reached the sidewalk again, Wyatt did his best not to react to the sight of Mr. Segredo crouching behind a parked car at the curb. He and Tremaine veered up the short walkway to the LOTUS safe house. “Reckon they saw us at their neighbors’ place?” Wyatt muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  Tremaine shrugged, and the small rucksack on his shoulder swung with the movement. He pressed the buzzer under the house number and unzipped hi
s pack.

  The door swung open to reveal a leather-brown man with shoulders like a professional wrestler and a dyed-blond Mohawk.

  “Yeah?” he sneered.

  “We’re raising money for our Scout troop,” said Tremaine.

  Mr. Mohawk snickered. “Bully for you.”

  Wyatt offered the LOTUS agent his most winsome, harmless expression. “Help send some poor city kids to camp?”

  “Not bloody likely.” The agent started closing the door.

  Tremaine rummaged in his backpack. “Wait,” he said. “Just to show there’s no hard feelings, we’ve got something for you.”

  Mr. Mohawk’s eyebrows rose. “Is it candy?”

  “It’s pretty sweet,” said Wyatt.

  Tremaine’s hand emerged holding a black-and-yellow Taser pistol. The leads shot out, hitting the LOTUS agent in the chest, and he danced like a spastic disco daddy until he tumbled to the floor.

  “See?” said Wyatt. “Sweet.”

  “It never gets old, mon.” Tremaine grinned.

  Mr. Segredo dashed up the steps and led the way into the house, weapon drawn. Wyatt and Tremaine were right behind him. They fanned out to right and left, searching for the second agent.

  Wyatt felt as useless as mud flaps on a speedboat. The other guys were both armed—Max’s dad with a wicked-looking pistol, and Tremaine with the Taser—but what did he have? A ruddy clipboard. Wyatt’s shoulders slumped. He was never the lead operative, always the backup. What a joke.

  Then Mr. Mohawk groaned and stirred. Wyatt clouted him over the head with the clipboard until it splintered, and the man was silent.

  Well, maybe I’m not completely useless, thought Wyatt.

  Tremaine had climbed noiselessly upstairs to the second story while Mr. Segredo crept through the front room, deeper into the house. Wyatt trailed after Max’s dad.

  The small house was surprisingly cheery, with framed hunting prints on the walls and a colorful throw on the sofa. The place smelled of fish and chips and furniture polish. A curl of steam rose from a cup of tea on the side table.

  Pretty homey for a bad-guy hideout, Wyatt thought.

  While he’d paused to check things out, Mr. Segredo had disappeared down a short hall into the kitchen, past a couple of closed doors. Wyatt followed, but just as he drew even with the first door, it swung open to reveal a short Asian man with startled eyes and a chin like a shovel blade.