The grenade detonated in a blast of compressed sound, instantaneously hurling eleven people to the farthest extremities of the room until they came into contact with various walls. The lucky ones hit partitions and went straight through. The unlucky ones collided with solid cinderblock walls. Things broke. Not the cinderblocks.
Artemis was safe in Butler’s bear hug. The bodyguard had anchored himself against a solid door frame, folding the flying boy into his arms. They had several other advantages over Spiro’s assassins: their teeth were intact, they did not suffer from any compound fractures, and the sonic filter sponges had sealed, saving their eardrums from perforation.
Butler surveyed the room. The assassins were all down, clutching their ears. They wouldn’t be uncrossing their eyes for several days. The manservant drew his Sig Sauer pistol from a shoulder holster.
“Stay here,” he commanded. “I’m going to check the kitchen.”
Artemis settled back into his chair, drawing several shaky breaths. All around was a chaos of dust and moans. But once again, Butler had saved them. All was not lost. It was even possible that they could catch Spiro before he left the country. Butler had a contact in Heathrow security, Sid Commons, an ex-Green Beret he’d served with on bodyguard duty in Monte Carlo.
A large figure blocked the sunlight. It was Butler, returned from his reconnoitering. Artemis breathed deeply, feelingly uncharacteristically emotional.
“Butler,” he began. “We really must talk regarding your salary. . . .”
But it wasn’t Butler. It was Arno Blunt. He had something in both hands. On his left palm, two tiny cones of yellow foam.
“Earplugs,” he spat through broken teeth. “I always wear ’em before a fire fight. Good thing too, eh?”
In his right hand, Blunt held a silenced pistol.
“You first,” he said. “Then the ape.”
Arno Blunt cocked the gun, took aim briefly, and fired.
CHAPTER 2
LOCKDOWN
Haven City, the Lower Elements
Though Artemis did not intend it, the Cube’s scan for surveillance beams was to have far-reaching repercussions. The search parameters were so vague that the Cube sent probes into deep space, and of course, deep underground.
Below the surface, the Lower Elements Police were stretched to their limits following the recent Goblin upprising. Three months after the attempted goblin takeover, most of the major players were in custody. But there were still isolated pockets of the B’wa Kell triad loping around Haven’s tunnels with illegal Softnose lasers.
Every available LEP officer had been drafted to help with Operation Mop-Up before the tourist season got started. The last thing the city council wanted was tourists spending their leisure gold in Atlantis because Haven’s pedestrianized central plaza was not safe to wander through. Tourism, after all, accounted for eighteen percent of the capital’s revenue.
Captain Holly Short was on loan from the Reconnaissance Squad. Generally, her job was to fly to the surface on the trail of fairies who had ventured aboveground without a visa. If even one renegade fairy got himself captured by the Mud Men, then Haven would cease to be a haven. So until every gang goblin was licking his eyeballs in Howler’s Peak correctional facility, Holly’s duties were the same as every other LEP officer: rapid response to any B’wa Kell alert.
Today, she was escorting four rowdy goblin hoods to Police Plaza for processing. They had been found asleep in an insect delicatessen, stomachs distended by a night of gluttony. It was lucky for them that Holly had arrived when she did, because the deli’s dwarf owner was on the point of lowering the scaly foursome into the deep-fat fryer.
Holly’s ride along for Operation Mop-Up was Corporal Grub Kelp, little brother to the famous Captain Trouble Kelp, one of the LEP’s most decorated officers. Grub did not share his brother’s stoic personality.
“I got a hangnail cuffing that last goblin,” said the junior officer, chewing on his thumb.
“Painful,” said Holly, trying to sound interested.
They were driving along a magnastrip to Police Plaza, with the perpetrators manacled in the rear of their LEP wagon. It wasn’t actually a regulation wagon. The B’wa Kell had managed to burn out so many police vehicles during their short-lived revolution that the LEP had been forced to commandeer anything with an engine and room in the back for a few prisoners. In reality, Holly was piloting a fast-food van with the LEP acorn symbol spray painted on the side. The motor-pool gnomes had simply bolted the serving hatch and removed the ovens. A pity they couldn’t remove the grease smell.
Grub studied his wounded finger. “Those cuffs have sharp edges. I should lodge a complaint.”