Ends of the Earth (12 page)

“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 his 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.

Wyatt froze.

“Who're you?” the agent demanded.

“I, uh. That is, I…” Wyatt stammered.

“Santini!” Shovel Chin called. “Intruder!” And he rushed forward, raising his powerful hands.

Wyatt scrambled backward. Colliding with the side table, he tumbled to the floor amid a shower of table lamp, hot tea, and magazines. “Help!” he squawked, belatedly.

Shovel Chin pounced, and Wyatt rolled at the last second, narrowly missing being pinned.

“Freeze!” shouted Mr. Segredo.

The LOTUS agent twisted like a cat. He grabbed Wyatt's shoulders, hauled him to his feet, and wrapped an arm around his neck, using him as a shield.

“Let him go!” Max's father commanded. He stood in the hallway with arms extended and weapon aimed straight at the enemy spy.

Wyatt heard a metallic
snick
from behind, and felt something cold and sharp prick his neck. He shrank away as far as he could, making a strangled sound.

“How 'bout you drop your pistol instead, and I take you in to Mrs. Frost, you poxy double agent?” Shovel Chin snarled.

Wyatt's mind raced. What to do? Tremaine was still upstairs, and the girls were out in the van. He had no weapon, and the slightest twitch might get his throat slit. Several self-defense
moves ran through his head, but if Shovel Chin jerked the wrong way, it was bye-bye, Wyatt.

He froze, too scared to try anything.

“What's it gonna be?” the LOTUS agent said.

Mr. Segredo grimaced. Then he slowly lowered his gun, saying, “Easy. Don't hurt him.”

“Set it on the floor and kick it over here. That's right.” Shovel Chin gave a nasty chuckle. “And to think that Roscoe Yamada got the best of the great superspy Simon
Segredo.” He laughed again, and Wyatt got a full dose of onion breath.

Mr. Segredo had placed the gun on the floor, but suddenly he glanced past the LOTUS agent's shoulder.

“Oh, that's rich,” said Yamada. “You think I'll fall for
don't-look-behind-you
, the oldest trick in the—”

CRASH!
Something shattered close behind Wyatt. The impact drove the LOTUS agent's chin into Wyatt's head like a hammer, while bits of ceramic whatsit showered around them.
The man grunted, his grip loosened, and then…

KITSSH!
A second impact, this one not quite so messy. The agent's body sagged against Wyatt, and both of them collapsed to the floor, Wyatt underneath. Yamada's body blocked
Wyatt's field of vision.

“Couldn't let you boys have all the fun,” Cinnabar said, from somewhere behind and above.

“Yeah,” Nikki seconded. “What kind of sexist rubbish is that, anyway—girls wait in the car while boys take action? Girl spies are just as good as boy spies.”

Wyatt agreed with them wholeheartedly. He struggled out from underneath the unconscious agent in time to see an incredible sight: Cinnabar and Nikki exchanging a triumphant fist bump. In their
other hands, one held the remains of a table lamp; the other, a heavy vase.

Mr. Segredo knelt and helped Wyatt to stand. “Are you all right?” he asked, concern carved into the lines of his face.

Wyatt nodded. He rubbed his head. “Ow,” he said.

Tremaine walked past them, opened the second hallway door, and addressed the others with a grin. “Well, kiss me neck!” he whooped. “Christmas came early.”

The rest of the group crowded around the doorway and peered inside. It was like a Spies “R” Us store jammed into a closet—orderly shelves of smoke bombs, weapons, flashbangs,
handcuffs, communications devices, disguises, and surveillance equipment, all sitting there waiting for them.

A grin split Wyatt's face. “If this is Christmas,” he said, “someone's been a
really
good boy.”

IN THE END,
Max was surprised at how easy it was to create—a few common household products, some spices from the pantry to disguise the taste,
and voilà—a stew fit to give serious intestinal disturbance to a houseful of bad guys. It was so easy, Max thought he just might have to appear on
Celebrity Spy Cook-off
(if
he'd actually been a celebrity, and if there had been such a show).

In fact, the hardest part was getting the cook, Mrs. Cheeseworthy, away from her station long enough for him to do the deed.

“Och, lad,” she said, brushing back a stray curl with her forearm as she stirred the massive pot of smoked haddock chowder. “Don't hover. I'm trying to work
here.”

Max leaned against the massive chopping block, watching her. “Sorry, but I've always had an interest in cooking,” he lied. “This is fascinating.”

He watched the servers come and go with cutlery, napkins, and plates, setting the long table in the formal dining room. The pilfered spice jar dug into his hip, from the pocket where he'd
stashed it. Max crossed, then uncrossed his arms. Time was running short—if he didn't spike the stew in the next five minutes, the diners would arrive and it'd be too late.

But Mrs. Cheeseworthy wouldn't budge. She remained as steadfast as a dieter staring down a chocolate cake.