There were two guards in front of the main doors. They barely glanced down as Doodah swept past.
“Howdy, sheriff,” said one, grinning.
“Chocolate,” squeaked Doodah. From the little he knew about Beau, it seemed the appropriate thing to say.
He tapped the accelerator to bump himself over the lintel, then drove slowly across a streaked marble floor. The tires spun for grip on the sleek stone, which was a bit worrying—it could cost crucial seconds in the event that he had to make a quick getaway. But at least the corridor was wide enough for a U-turn if one became necessary.
Doodah motored down the hallway, past rows of towering potted palms and several bright abstract works of art, until he came to the corridor’s end. There was a camera mounted over an archway, pointed directly at the front hall. A cable snaked out from the box and into a conduit, which ran down to the base of the wall.
Doodah pulled his little car up to the conduit and hopped out. So far, his luck was holding. Nobody had challenged him. This human security was lame. In any fairy building he would have been laser-scanned a dozen times by now. The pixie yanked a section of conduit away, revealing the cable beneath. It took him mere seconds to twist the length of loaded fiber optics around the video cable. Job done. Smiling, Doodah climbed back into his stolen car. This had been a sweet deal. Amnesty for five minutes’ work. Time to go home and enjoy a life of freedom, until he broke the rules again.
“Beau Paradizo, you little brat. Come over here right now!”
Doodah froze momentarily, then checked his mirror. There was a girl behind him, glaring his way, hands on hips. This, he guessed, would be Minerva. If memory served, he was supposed to keep far away from Minerva.
“Beau. It’s time for your antibiotic. Do you want to have that chest infection forever?”
Doodah started the car and rolled it toward the arch and out of the Mud Girl’s sight line. Once around the corner, he could floor the accelerator.
“Don’t you dare drive away from me, Bobo.”
Bobo? No wonder I’m driving away, thought Doodah. Who would drive toward someone calling them Bobo?
“Eh . . . chocolate?” said the pixie hopefully.
It was the wrong thing to do. This girl knew her brother’s voice when she heard it, and that wasn’t it.
“Bobo? Is there something wrong with your voice?”
Doodah swore under his breath.
“Ches inflec-chun?” he said.
But Minerva wasn’t buying it. She pulled a walkietalkie from her pocket and took rapid strides toward the car.
“Pierre, can you come in here, please? Bring André and Louis.” And then to Doodah. “Just stay there, Bobo. I have a nice bar of chocolate for you.”
Sure, thought Doodah. Chocolate and a concrete cell.
He considered his options for a second, and came to a conclusion. The conclusion was: I would rather escape quickly than get captured and tortured to death.
I am out of here, thought Doodah, and floored the accelerator, sending several hundred horsepower shuddering down the fragile driveshaft. He had maybe a minute before the car fell apart, but by then he could be far away from this Mud Girl and her transparent promises of chocolate.
The car took off so fast that it left an image of itself where it had been.
Minerva stopped dead. “What?”
There was a corner coming up quick. Doodah pulled the wheel in as far as he could, but the vehicle’s turning circle was too wide.
“Gotta bounce it,” said Doodah through gritted teeth.
He leaned hard left, eased up on the accelerator, and hit the wall side-on. At the moment of impact he shifted his weight and stepped on the gas. The car lost a door, but shot out of the corner like a stone from a sling.
Beautiful, thought Doodah as soon as his head stopped ringing.
He had maybe seconds now before the girl could see him again, and who knew how many guards stood between him and freedom.
He was in a long straight corridor, opening onto a sitting room. Doodah could see a wall-mounted television and the top rim of a red velvet sofa. There must be steps down into the room. Not good. This car only had one more impact left in it.
“Where is Bobo?” shouted the girl. “What have you done with him?”
No point in subtlety now. Time to see what this buggy could do. Doodah jammed his foot on the accelerator then made a beeline for a window behind the velvet sofa. He patted the dash.
“You can do it, you little junk box. One jump. Your chance to be a thoroughbred.”
The car didn’t answer back. They never did. Though sometimes in times of extreme stress and oxygen deprivation, Doodah imagined they shared his cavalier attitude.
Minerva came around the corner. She was running hard and screaming into a walkie-talkie. Doodah heard the words apprehend, necessary violence, and interrogation. None of which boded well for him.
The toy car’s wheels spun on a long rug, then caught. The rug was shunted backward like a length of toffee from a roller. Minerva was bowled over, but kept talking as she went down.
“He’s headed for the library. Take him down! Shoot if necessary.”
Doodah grimly held on to the wheel, keeping his line. He was going out that window, closed or not. He entered the room at seventy miles per hour, flying off the top step. Not bad acceleration for a toy. There were two guards in the room, in the act of drawing their weapons. They wouldn’t shoot, though. It still appeared as though the car was being driven by a child.
Suckers, thought Doodah. Then the first bullet crashed into the chassis. Okay, maybe they would shoot the car.
He flew in a gentle arc toward the window. Two more bullets took plastic chunks from the bodywork, but it was too late to stop the tiny vehicle. It clipped the lower frame, lost a fender, and tumbled out through the open window.
Someone really should be filming this, thought Doodah, as he clenched his teeth for impact.
The crash shook him all the way from his toes to his skull. Stars danced before Doodah’s eyes for a moment, then he was in control again, careering toward the septic tank.
Mulch was waiting, his wild halo of hair quivering with impatience.
“Where have you been? I’m running out of sunblock.”
Doodah did not waste time with an answer. Instead he extricated himself from the all but demolished car, prying off his Mongocharger and mirror.
Mulch pointed a stubby finger at him. “I have a few more questions.”
A bullet fired from the open window ricocheted off the septic tank, throwing up concrete splinters.
“But they can wait. Hop on.”
Mulch turned, presenting Doodah with his back, and more besides. Doodah jumped on, grabbing thick hanks of Mulch’s beard.
“Go!” he shouted. “They’re right behind me!”
Mulch unhinged his jaw and went into the clay like a hairy torpedo.
But fast as he was, he and Doodah wouldn’t have made it. Armed guards were two paces away. They would have seen the gently snoring Beau and riddled the moving tunnel mound with bullets. They probably would have tossed in a few grenades for good measure. But they didn’t, because at that precise moment, all hell broke loose inside the chateau.
As soon as Doodah had twisted the loaded fiber optics around the video cable, hundreds of tiny spikes had punctured the rubber, making dozens of strong contacts with the wiring inside.
Seconds later in Section 8 HQ, information came flooding into Foaly’s terminal. He had video, alarm systems, waffle boxes, and communications all flashing up in separate windows on his screen.
Foaly cackled, cracking his knuckles like a concert pianist. He loved those old fiber-optic twists. Not as fancy as the new organic bugs, but twice as reliable.
“Okay,” he said into a reed mike on his desk. “I’m in control. What kind of nightmares would you like to give the Paradizos?”
In the South of France, Captain Holly Short spoke into her helmet mic
rophone. “Whatever you have. Storm troopers, helicopters. Overload their communications, blow out their waffle boxes. Set off all the alarms. I want them to believe they are under attack.”
Foaly called up several phantom files on his computer. The phantoms were one of his own pet projects. He would lift patterns from human movies—soldiers, explosions, whatever—and then use them universally in whatever scene he chose. In this case he sent a squad of French army special forces, the Commandement des Opérations Spéciales, or COS, to the Paradizo’s close-circuit system. That would do nicely for starters.
Inside the chateau, the Paradizo chief of security, Juan Soto, had a little problem. His little problem was that a couple of loose shots were being popped off in the house. This can only be seen as a little problem in relation to the very big problem that Foaly was sending his way.
Soto was speaking into a radio.
“Yes, Miss Paradizo,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “I realize that your brother may be missing. I say may be because that may be him in the toy car. It sure looks like him to me. Okay, okay, I take your point. It is unusual for toy cars to fly that far. It could be a malfunction.”
Soto resolved to have strong words with the two idiots who had actually fired on a toy car at Minerva’s command. He did not care how smart she was, no child was giving orders like that on his watch.
Even though Miss Minerva was nowhere near the security center and could not see him, Chief Soto adopted a stern face for the lecture he was about to give.