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
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
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