Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

“No peeking, Els! This is serious. You won’t have time to consult a map in the tower. You’ve got to commit this stuff to memory.” Her face was lined with worry; Elsie could sense her sister’s deep concern. “You can’t get caught, Elsie. You just can’t.”

Taki

ng a deep breath, Elsie continued, looking Rachel directly in the eye. “Through the break room. Down the hall. Service elevator. Wait for it to shut down.” She paused here and searched her sister’s face; this was to be Unthank’s responsibility. One of many. The entire operation seemed to hinge on his ability to perform several challenging tasks within the sanctum of Titan Tower. Rachel hadn’t looked up; Elsie continued, “Pry the door. The car will not be there. Climb the ladder up fifteen stories. That’s where the vent is, to the safe room. Break the grate and climb in. Then: Right. Straight. Left. Left. Straight. Right. Straight. And . . .”

“And?”

“There it is. Grate to the safe room. Climb in, emergency elevator is behind the bookshelf. Extract the captives, rendezvous outside at the eastern gate of the plaza.” The last sentence had been Jacques’s words; it had sounded cold and official. Elsie liked saying it.

“Good job, sis,” said Rachel, smiling. “I think you got it.”

“Merci,” said Elsie, in the manner of the Chapeaux.

Just then, a knock came at the door; it was Michael. “You guys done in there?”

“Just about,” shouted Rachel. “I think this one’s got the plan down.”

“Good. We need you. The rest of the Unadoptables are here.” He and Cynthia had made the journey back to the warehouse in the Forgotten Place; there, they’d distributed food from the Chapeaux and briefed everyone on the action. As promised, they’d recruited several of the kids for the advance on Titan Tower.

Elsie looked at her sister, wide-eyed. It seemed as if the thing was really happening. “We’re coming!” she shouted.

Outside in the main room, all was chaos. A flurry of black turtlenecks presided, a flock of black berets hovered above. The two girls waded into it uneasily; Michael sidestepped over to them, under a wooden spool of bomb fuse being carried by two saboteurs. He was followed by a trio of other children: the smallest and spryest of the young Unadoptables. They were Harry, Oz, and Ruthie. All were around nine years old and fairly short for their age. Harry was a thick kid, square-shouldered for one so young—but an indomitable force. The other kids called him Harry the Wall. Oz and Ruthie were close friends and shared an almost intuitive way of communication; it was decided that that sort of cunning would come in handy. Elsie sized up the crew and smiled. “Hey, guys,” she said. “You ready for this craziness?”

They barely had a chance to respond when Nico arrived with a stack of what looked like dark tablecloths. “One for each,” he said from behind the tower of cloth. He began to distribute them. “Smalls and extra smalls.”

Oz unfurled the thing that had been tossed to him; it was a black turtleneck, matching slacks, and beret.

“You might be Unadoptable,” said Nico, “but tonight, you’re part of the Chapeaux Noirs.”

“Yes, sir,” said Elsie reflexively. She wasn’t sure that was how they referred to one another. It just seemed right. She gamely fished the beret from her pile of clothes and perched it on her head, slightly askew. A chill of pride went down her spine.

“A natural,” said Nico, winking at her.

Elsie blushed; before long, the gathered Unadoptables had donned the outfits and made their transformation into junior saboteurs.

While Elsie turned to her fellow duct-rats, as their crew was going to be known, Rachel followed Nico across the room, where an assembly line of sorts had been organized: At one table, a group of men were unpacking what looked like black, opaque iron globes, the size of large snowballs, from wooden crates and were tossing them to a second table, where a powder was being poured into the globes’ cavities with a funnel. A third table, just adjacent, continued this assembly line: There, a crew of men carefully threaded wicks into the globes and sealed them with wax. Nico whistled to one of the men at the third table and proffered his hands; a finished bomb was thrown to him, and he weighed it in like a baseball.

“How’s this feel?” he asked, handing the thing to Rachel.

It was heavier than it looked, and she nearly dropped it when he set it in her hands. It was cold, too, and smelled of sulfur. She squared her shoulders, set her feet apart. “It feels good,” she said.

Nico seemed unimpressed. “How far do you suppose you can throw it?”

She juggled the bomb between her hands a few times, gauging the weight. “I don’t know,” she said. “A little ways, I guess.”

“Think you could hit that?” asked Nico, pointing to a pile of discarded flour sacks in the corner of the room. It was easily twenty feet away.

Rachel took a deep breath, gave a thoughtful smirk, and tossed the bomb as best she could, underhanded, as if she were throwing a softball in gym class. It tumbled to the cement floor several feet short of its mark.

“No, no, no,” chided Nico. He grabbed the bomb and walked it back to her side. He modeled the proper form by bending his arm and holding the black orb at his neck. He bent his knees, somewhat comically, before extending his arm in slow motion from his shoulder. “Like that,” he said. “The power all comes from your legs.” He handed the bomb back to Rachel.

She hoisted it to her shoulder and tried again; this time, the thing landed with a dull thump in the middle of the pile of sacks.

“Nice!” said Nico, clapping. “Remember: from les jambes.” He translated: “The legs, that is.”

As Rachel walked to retrieve her practice projectile, a new voice sounded behind her: “And you’ll need to double that distance. From here, you’re still in the blast radius.” She turned to see it was Jacques.

Rachel paled a little at the notion. “I’ll work on it,” she said.