Ends of the Earth by Bruce Hale Page A

for the thick stand of trees that bordered the lawn. They were tall enough, he noted, to easily conceal
the LOTUS estate from its neighbors.
    Just before he reached the little grove, Max noticed a long, low building tucked away in the bottommost area of the grounds. Unlike the rest of the structures, it was charmless, concrete, and
blocky, and when the wind blew from that direction, he caught a whiff of ripeness—something like wet straw and dog poop. The kennels, maybe? If so, Mrs. Frost must keep enough dogs to stage
her own private Iditarod race, he thought. Or maybe that was where they had stashed last night’s mystery pet.
    It was cooler among the trees, and when Max pushed aside a branch, it sprinkled him with moisture from the rain earlier that morning. The grove stood tall, but not so deep, and soon he passed
through it, fetching up against the brick wall that surrounded the property.
    And what a wall.
    The barrier stood a dozen feet high and was topped with two strands of razor wire—most likely electrified, Max guessed. All tree branches were trimmed far enough back that not even a
howler monkey on steroids could make the leap over the wall without hitting the wire.
    Max rubbed his forehead. As far as he knew, his family tree had a distinct lack of circus acrobats. There must be another way out….
    He walked a short distance along the path that ringed the perimeter. Kicking at the dirt, he wondered whether he might be able to dig a tunnel of some sort, and then he saw it: seven letters
scratched into the damp soil.
    Squatting for a closer inspection, Max made out:
G-A-M-B-A-R-E
. “Game-bear?” he muttered, sounding it out. Clearly, the message had been inscribed this morning, after the
rain. Was it encoded? And if so, who was it meant for?
    His train of thought was derailed when a savage barking erupted behind him.
    “Oi!” came a rough voice. “Where you think you’re going?”
    It was Styx, the turncoat S.P.I.E.S. agent, being pulled along by two massive, black-and-tan Rottweilers. The huge man wore a scowl like it was the latest Paris fashion. His glare was hot enough
to throw sparks.
    “Don’t have a thrombo,” said Max. He rose and casually smeared the letters with his foot as he wheeled about. “I’m only stretching my legs.”
    Styx stopped about eight feet away. Like iron filings in the presence of a magnet, the dogs pulled to the end of their leashes, eyes glued to Max, growling continuously.
    “Stretching your sodding legs?” Styx snarled. “What’s this look like, a bloody park?”
    Max took in all the manicured trees, the brick wall, and the impeccably groomed path between them. “Well,” he said, “yes.”
    “Har-bloody-har,” said the hulking spy. “No outdoor privileges for you. Boss lady said so.”
    “She’s afraid the sun will damage my delicate skin?” said Max.
    “She’s afraid you’ll hop the wall and sell us out to the highest bidder,” said Styx.
    Max acted offended. “You mean she doesn’t trust me? I’m wounded.”
    “Keep up the comedy, and my mates Wynken and Blynken will show you what wounded really means.”
    Max eyed the nearer dog. Its lips had peeled back from a seriously sharp set of fangs, and a rope of drool dangled from its chops. The growling continued unabated, like a pack of Hell’s
Angels revving their choppers.
    Lifting his hands in mock surrender, Max let Styx and his canine companions herd him back toward the mansion. As they crossed the lawn, he asked the big man, “So, how’s your new
employer working out?”

    “None of your business,” said Styx.
    “They giving you loads more responsibility? Respecting your mad skills?”
    Styx said nothing. His face was like a shuttered shop window on New Year’s Day.
    “No, then?” said Max as they skirted the fountain. “Don’t take it too hard, mate. Mrs. Frost hasn’t exactly handed me the keys to the kingdom either—not like
Hantai Annie did.”
    Styx grunted, eyes