Artemis Fowl (16 page)

Artemis Fowl was waiting, anti-shield filters cobbled on to his sunglasses.

“Good evening, Captain Short,” he began, confidence apparently intact. “At the risk of sounding clichéd, I’ve been expecting you.”

Holly didn’t respond, didn’t even look her jailer in the eye. Instead she utilized her training to scan the room, her gaze resting briefly on each surface.

“You are, of course, still bound by the promises made earlier tonight. . . .”

But Holly wasn’t listening, she was sprinting toward a stainless-steel workbench bolted to the far wall.

“So, basically, our situation hasn’t changed. You are still my hostage.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” muttered Holly, running her fingers over the rows of confiscated Retrieval equipment. She selected a stealth-coated helmet, slipping it over her pointed ears. The pneumatic pads pumped to cradle her crown. She was safe now. Any further commands given by Fowl meant nothing through the reflective visor. A wire mike slotted down automatically. Contact was immediate.

“. . . on revolving frequencies. Broadcasting on revolving frequencies. Holly, if you can hear me, take cover.”

Holly recognized Foaly’s voice. Something familiar in a crazy situation.

“Repeat. Take cover. Cudgeon is sending in a . . . ”

“Something I should know?” said Artemis.

“Quiet,” hissed Holly, worried by the tone of Foaly’s usually flippant voice.

“I say again, they are sending in a troll to secure your release.”

Holly started. Cudgeon was calling the shots now. Not good news at all.

Fowl interrupted again.

“It’s not polite, you know. Ignoring your host.”

Holly snarled. “Enough is enough.”

She pulled back her fist, fingers curled in a tight bunch. Artemis didn’t flinch. Why would he? Butler always intervened before punches landed. But then something caught his eye, a large figure running down the stairway on the first-floor monitor. It was Butler.

“That’s right, rich boy,” said Holly nastily. “You’re on your own this time.”

And before Artemis’s eyes had time to widen, Holly put an extra few pounds of spring in her elbow and whacked her abductor right on the nose.

“Oof,” he said, collapsing on to his rear end.

“Oh,
yes!
That felt good.”

Holly focused on the voice buzzing in her ear.

“. . . we’ve been feeding a loop to the outside cameras, so the humans won’t see anything come up the avenue. But it’s on the way, trust me.”

“Foaly. Foaly, come in.”

“Holly? Is that you?”

“The one and only. Foaly, there is no loop. I can see everything that’s going on around here.”

“The cunning little . . . He must have rebooted the system.”

The avenue was a hive of fairy activity. Cudgeon was there, haughtily directing his team of sprites. And in the center of the melee stood a sixteen-foot-tall hovercage, floating on a cushion of air. The cage was directly before the manor door, and the techies were securing a concussor seal to the surrounding wall. When activated, several alloy rods in the seal’s collar would be detonated simultaneously, effectively disintegrating the door. When the dust settled, the troll would have only one place to go—into the manor.

Holly checked the other monitors. Butler had managed to drag Juliet from the cell. They had ascended from the cellar level and were just crossing the lobby. Right in the line of fire.

“D’Arvit,” she swore, crossing to the work surface.

Artemis was propped on his elbows. “You hit me,” he said in disbelief.

Holly strapped on a set of Hummingbirds.

“That’s right, Fowl. And there’s plenty more where that came from. So stay right where you are, if you know what’s good for you.”

For once in his life, Artemis realized that he didn’t have a snappy answer. He opened his mouth, waiting for his brain to supply the customary pithy comeback. But nothing arrived.

Holly slipped the Neutrino 2000 into its holster.

“That’s right, Mud Boy. Playtime’s over. Time for the professionals to take over. If you’re a good boy, I’ll buy you a lollipop when I come back.”

And when Holly was long gone, soaring beneath the hallway’s ancient oak beams, Artemis said, “I don’t like lollipops.”

It was a woefully inadequate response, and Artemis was instantly appalled with himself. Pathetic really:
I don’t like lollipops.
No self-respecting criminal mastermind would be caught dead even using the word lollipops. He really would have to put together a database of witty responses for occasions such as this.

It was quite possible that Artemis would have sat like that for some time, totally detached from the situation at hand, had not the front door imploded, shaking the manor to its foundations. A thing like that is enough to knock the daydreams from anyone’s head.

A sprite alighted before acting Commander Cudgeon.

“The collar is in place, sir.”

Cudgeon nodded. “Are you sure it’s tight, Captain? I don’t want that troll coming out the wrong way.”

“Tighter ’n a goblin’s wallet. There’s not a bubble of air getting through that seal. Tighter ’n a stink worm’s—”

“Very well, Captain,” interrupted Cudgeon hurriedly, before the sprite could complete his graphic analogy.

Beside them the hovercage shook violently, almost toppling the container from its air cushion.

“We better blow that sucker, Commander. If we don’t let him outta there soon, my boys’re gonna spend the next week scraping . . .”

“Fine, Captain, fine. Blow it. Blow it for goodness sake.”

Cudgeon hurried behind the blast shield, scribbling a note on his palmtop’s screen. Memo: Remind the sprites to watch their language. After all, I am a
Commande
r
now.

The foul-mouthed captain in question turned to the hovercage’s cab driver.

“Blow ’er, Chix. Blow the door off its damn hinges.”

“Yessir. Off its damn hinges. That’s a roger.”

Cudgeon winced. There’d be a general meeting tomorrow. First thing. By then he’d have the commander’s icon on his lapel. Even a sprite might be less likely to curse with the triple acorn logo winking in his face.

Chix pulled down his shrapnel goggles, even though the cab had a quartz windscreen. The goggles were cool. Girls loved them. Or so the driver thought. In his mind’s eye he saw himself as a grim-faced daredevil. Sprites were like that. Give a fairy a pair of wings and he thinks he’s God’s gift to women. But Chix Verbil’s ill-fated quest to impress the dames is, once again, another story. In this particular tale, he serves only one purpose. And that is to melodramatically push the detonate button. Which he does, with great aplomb.

Two dozen controlled charges detonated in their chambers, driving two dozen alloy cylinders out of their mounts at over a thousand miles per hour. Upon impact, each bar pulverized the contact area plus the surrounding fifteen centimeters, effectively blowing the door off its damn hinges. As the captain would say.

When the dust settled, the handlers winched back the containment wall inside the cage and began hammering the side panels with the flats of their hands.

Cudgeon peeped out from behind the blast shield.

“All clear, Captain?”

“Just a damn second, Commander. Chix? How’re we doin’?”

Chix checked the cab’s monitor.

“He’s movin’. The hammerin’ is spookin’ him. The claws are comin’ out. My, he’s a big sucker. I wouldn’t wanna be that Recon babe if she gets in the way of this.”

Cudgeon felt a momentary pang of guilt, which he dispelled with his favorite daydream—a vision of himself sinking into a beige-velour Council seat.

The cage heaved violently, almost dislodging Chix from his seat. He held on like a rodeo rider.

“Whoa! He’s on the move. Lock and load, boys. I have a feeling that any second we’re going to be gettin’ a cry for help.”

Cudgeon didn’t bother locking and loading. He preferred to leave that sort of thing to the foot soldiers. The Acting Commander considered himself too important to be risked in an insecure situation. For the good of the People in general, it was better he remain outside the op zone.

Butler took the stairs four at a time. It was possibly the first time he had ever abandoned Master Artemis in a time of crisis. But Juliet was family, and there was obviously something seriously wrong with his baby sister. That fairy had said something to her, and now she was just sitting in the cell giggling. Butler feared the worst. If anything were to happen to Juliet, he didn’t know how he’d live with himself.

He felt a dribble of sweat slide down the crown of his shaven head. This whole situation was shooting off in bizarre directions. Fairies, magic, and now a hostage loose in the manor. How could he be expected to control things? It took a four-man team to guard the lowliest politician, but he was expected to contain this impossible situation on his own.

Butler sprinted down the corridor into what had until recently been Captain Short’s cell. Juliet was sprawled on the cot, enraptured by a concrete wall.

“What are you doing?” he gasped, drawing the Sig Sauer nine-millimeter with practiced ease.

His sister barely spared him a glance. “Quiet, you big ape. Louie the Love Machine is on. He ain’t so tough, I could take him.”

Butler blinked. She was talking gibberish. Obviously drugged.

“Let’s go. Artemis wants us upstairs in the situations room.”

Juliet pointed a manicured finger at the wall.

“Artemis can wait. This is for the intercontinental title. And it’s a grudge match. Louie ate the Hogman’s pet piggie.”

The manservant studied the wall. It was definitely blank. He didn’t have time for this.

“Right. Let’s go,” he growled, slinging his sister over a broad shoulder.

“
Nooo!
You big bully,” she protested, hammering his back with tiny fists. “Not now. Hogman! Hogmaaaan!”

Butler ignored the objections, settling into a loping run. Who the hell was this Hogman person? One of her boyfriends no doubt. He was going to keep closer tabs on callers to the lodge in future.

“Butler? Pick up.”

It was Artemis, on the handheld. Butler jiggled his sister up a foot so he could reach his belt.

“Lollipops!” barked his employer.

“Say again. I thought you said—”

“Eh . . . I mean, get out of there. Take cover! Take cover!”

Take cover? The military term didn’t sound right coming out of Master Artemis’s mouth. Like a diamond ring in a lucky bag.

“Take cover?”

“Yes, Butler. Cover. I thought speaking in primal terms would be the quickest route to your cognitive functions. Obviously I was mistaken.”

That was more like it. Butler scanned the hall for a nook to duck into. Not much choice. The only shelter was provided by the suits of medieval armor punctuating the walls. The manservant ducked into the alcove behind a fourteenth-century knight, complete with lance and mace.

Juliet tapped the breastplate.

“You think you’re mean? I could take you with one hand.”

“Quiet,” hissed Butler.

He held his breath and listened. Something was approaching the main door. Something big. Butler leaned out far enough to get one eye on the lobby. . . .

Then you could say that the doorway exploded. But that particular verb doesn’t do the action justice. Rather, it shattered into infinitesimal pieces. Butler had seen something like this once before when a force-seven earthquake had rippled through a Colombian drug lord’s estate seconds before he had been scheduled to blow it up. This was slightly different. More localized. Very professional. It was classic anti-terrorist tactics. Hit ’em with smoke and sonics, then go in while the targets were disoriented. Whatever was coming, it would be bad. He was certain of it. He was absolutely right.

Dust clouds settled slowly, depositing a pale sheet on the Tunisian rug. Madam Fowl would have been furious, if she ever put so much as a toe outside the attic door. Butler’s instincts told him to move. Zigzag across the ground floor, make for the higher ground. Stay low to minimize the target. This would be the perfect time to do it, before visibility cleared. Any second now, a hail of bullets would be whistling through the archway, and the last place he wanted to be was pinned down on a lower level.

And on any other day Butler would have moved. He would’ve been halfway up that stairway before his brain had time for second thoughts. But today he had his baby sister over his shoulder spouting gibberish, and the last thing he wanted to do was expose her to murderous assault fire. With Juliet in the state she was in, she’d probably challenge the fairy commandos to a tag-wrestling match. And though his sister talked tough, she was just a kid, really. No match for trained military personnel. So Butler hunkered down, propped Juliet against a tapestry behind a suit of armor, and checked his safety catch. Off. Good. Come and get me, fairy boys.

Something moved in the dust haze. It was immediately obvious to Butler that the
something
wasn’t human. The manservant had been on too many safaris not to recognize an animal when he saw it. He studied the creature’s gait.

Possibly simian. Similar upper body structure to an ape, but bigger than any primate Butler had ever seen. If it was an ape, then his handgun wasn’t going to be of much use. You could put five rounds in the skull of a bull ape and he’d still have time to eat you before his brain realized he was dead.

But it wasn’t an ape. Apes didn’t have night eyes. This creature did. Glowing crimson pupils, half-hidden behind shaggy forelocks. Tusks too, but not elephantine. These were curved, with serrated edges. Gutting weapons. Butler felt a tingle low in his stomach. He’d had the feeling once before. On his first day at the Swiss academy. It was fear.

The creature stepped clear of the dust haze. Butler gasped. Again, his first since the academy. This was like no adversary he’d ever faced before. The manservant realized instantly what the fairies had done. They had sent in a primal hunter. A creature with no interest in magic or rules. A thing that would simply kill anything in its way, regardless of species. This was the perfect predator. That much was clear from the meat-ripping points on its teeth, from the dried gore crusted beneath its claws, and from the distilled hatred spilling from its eyes.