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.
Should he detonate a smoke bomb at the far end of the kitchen? No, too easy to identify, especially for a spy’s cook. Set a grease fire? Even worse. Pacing around the food prep island,
idly tapping a rhythm on the counter, he even considered pretending to hear someone calling for Mrs. Cheeseworthy. Rubbish idea—she’d never buy it.
So how…?
Purely by accident, his hand brushed the uncorked bottle of wine that
“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.
Should he detonate a smoke bomb at the far end of the kitchen? No, too easy to identify, especially for a spy’s cook. Set a grease fire? Even worse. Pacing around the food prep island,
idly tapping a rhythm on the counter, he even considered pretending to hear someone calling for Mrs. Cheeseworthy. Rubbish idea—she’d never buy it.
So how…?
Purely by accident, his hand brushed the uncorked bottle of wine that
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