Novel - The Supernaturalist by Eoin Colfer Page B

tattooed. Initially he couldn’t see anything in the ink, but then strange hypnotic swirls and patterns suggested themselves. “You like it?” asked the sentry. “Full-body coverage with Jamaican hypno-patterns, only $399 in The Ink Blot tattoo parlor. Ask for Sasha.”
    “Wow,” said Ditto. The patterns were all over. How had he missed them before?
    Mona snapped her fingers before his eyes.
    “Don’t look at the ink, estúpido . Hypno-patterns will zone you out.”
    “It’s true,” said the sentry. “I had a cab driver once, staring at me in the mirror. Fell asleep at the wheel.” He pointed the nozzle of his weapon at Mona. “Now to business. On your feet. You just have time to make your last appointment.”
    Ditto opened his mouth to pass comment, and Mona clamped a hand over it.
    “No problem, amigo . Lead the way.”
    The tattooed sentry prodded them down a steep stairwell to the factory floor. The other Bulldogs seemed a lot taller up close. They jostled the intruders, brandishing weapons and baying for blood.
    Their leader stepped forward. They could tell he was the leader because the words HEAD HONCHO flashed across his bare chest in subcutaneous lighting. “What did we find, Shadow?” he growled, his metallic mohawk quivering on his skull. And Head Honcho actually did growl. He’d probably had surgery on his vocal cords to achieve the effect.
    Shadow pushed his prizes into the ring. “Two little rust mites hanging in the rafters.”
    Head Honcho sized the intruders up. “Okay. Strap them on the bonnets, they’ll make nice hood ornaments.”
    Dozens of hands grabbed the pair, hoisting them roughly overhead.
    “Wait,” said Miguel, blocking the Bulldogs’ path. “Nothing gets strapped on my hood, Honcho. This machine is aerodynamic. Bumps like that will mess with the speed. ¿ Comprende? ”
    Mona glared down at him from a sea of arms. “Thanks a bunch, Miguel. And I thought you cared.”
    Honcho’s brain gears ground noisily, making the connection. “You know this kid?”
    Miguel sighed deeply. Another night fouled up. “Yes, sure. She’s my . . . little sister. I told her to stay home, but she likes the races. In the blood, I guess. Do me a favor and cut her loose.”
    Head Honcho’s chest lights flashed faster, racing with his heartbeat.
    “I don’t know, mate. Rules are rules.”
    Miguel persisted. “Come on, hombre . I can’t go home without the niña .”
    “Why not, mate? Teenagers are just a waste of space and air.”
    “True, but this girl is one of the best drivers we have. Almost as good as me. Be a shame to waste all the driving hours we invested. In a couple of years she’ll be burning up the strip.”
    A nasty smile spread across Honcho’s face. His steel mohawk vibrated as he laughed.
    “Okay, mate. I got a deal for you. The girl drives the last race.”
    “ ¡Qué no! ” protested Miguel. “No way. That car is my baby.”
    “It’s your call. She’s in the car, or she’s on it.”
    Miguel pulled his bandanna off, wringing it between both hands. “Okay. She drives.” He pointed a rigid finger at Mona. “You mess this up, Mona, and there’ll be hell to pay.”
    On the car or in it? Not that Mona actually had a choice. Dozens of strange hands fed her overhead to the Myishi Z-twelve. She felt herself being folded almost in half and stuffed in the car’s side window. Ditto was hustled into the passenger’s seat.
    “You can take your mascot too,” said Honcho, strapping himself into the Bulldog’s contender. “You need all the luck you can get.”
    “Mascot,” said Ditto, between gritted teeth. “That moronic sack of implants. I’d like to punch his lights out. Literally.” He checked his blond hair in the mirror. “You can drive this thing, right?”
    Mona studied the confusing array of dials and meters. “Yeah. Maybe. In theory.”
    “Do you think they’ll give us a practice run?”
    Outside the car, groups of adrenalized gang members were