Ends of the Earth (11 page)

“You,” said Dijon. “You think you're so smart.”

“Me?” said Max. “A little above average, maybe.”

She leaned closer, hands fisted on hips. Her black eyes drilled into him. “Well, I know what you're up to, little man.”

“Really?” said Max. A chill rippled through him, but he kept up a bland front. “I wish you'd tell me. I rarely know what I'm up to.”

“Nobody believes you've come over, not even the guv'nor.” A cold smile appeared on her lovely face. “I've got my eye on you, and when you slip up…”
Dijon snapped her fingers.

“You'll click your fingers at me?” said Max.

“I'll break your neck like a breadstick,” said Dijon, and she sauntered off down the hall as if she owned the whole darned place.

Such lovely people here, thought Max. Can't imagine why I'd want to leave.

CINNABAR'S BUTT
felt deader than a zombie's conscience, deader than disco, deader than Julius Caesar's pet goldfish. She'd
been sitting in the crowded backseat of the nondescript van for what seemed like days, but was only hours. Her back was stiff, the stale air smelled of body odor and bean farts; she was cold,
crabby, and beginning to be seriously cheesed off at Nikki.

But none of that mattered.

Well, not much, anyway. Because they were parked down the street from LOTUS HQ, where Max was being held captive, and because tonight, they would rush in and save his narrow behind from a fate
worse than death.

She elbowed Wyatt, sitting beside her. “What's happening now?”

“Still nothing,” he said, continuing to monitor the side rearview mirror. “Same as when you asked five minutes ago. Crikey, you're a broken record.”

“Well, I can't see anything, can I?”

On her other side, Nikki snorted. “Should've thought of that before you chose your seat, Skinnybar.”

Cinnabar ground her teeth. She hated when Nikki was right—not that it happened very often. “Mr. Segredo, let's at least go check out the perimeter?”

“Soon.” Max's father shifted in the driver's seat, never taking his eyes off the small hand mirror that reflected the mansion's front gate.

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 someone 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.”