Chix frowned. “Go back to the ‘knock me out’ part again.”
Mulch slammed one palm down on the table. “Listen, Verbil, Holly is in mortal danger right now. She may already be dead.”
“That’s what I heard,” interjected Chix.
“Well, she will definitely be dead if I don’t get down there right now.”
“Why don’t I just call this in?”
Mulch sighed dramatically. “Because, moron, by the time Police Plaza Retrieval team gets here, it will be too late. You know the rules: no LEP officer can act on the information of a convicted felon unless the information has been verified by another source.”
“No one pays any attention to that rule, and calling me moron isn’t helping.”
Mulch rose to his feet. “You are a sprite, for heaven’s sake. You are supposed to have this ancient code of chivalry. A female saved your life and now hers is in danger. You are honor bound, as a sprite, to do whatever it takes.”
Chix held Mulch’s gaze. “Is all of this true? Tell me, Mulch, because this will have repercussions. This isn’t some little jewelry heist.”
“It’s true,” said Mulch. “You have my word.”
Chix almost laughed. “Oh, whoopee. Mulch Diggums’s word. I can take that to the bank.” He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. “The chip is in my pocket. The code is written on the tab. Try not to break anything.”
“Don’t worry, I’m an excellent driver.”
Chix winced in anticipation. “I don’t mean the shuttle, stupid. I mean my face. The ladies like me the way I am.”
Mulch drew back one gnarled fist. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint the ladies,” he said, and knocked Chix Verbil from his chair.
Mulch expertly rifled through Chix’s pockets. The sprite was not actually unconscious, but he was pretending.
A wise move. In seconds, Mulch had removed the starter chip and stuffed it into his beard. A clump of beard hair wrapped itself tightly around the chip, forming a waterproof cocoon. He also relieved Verbil of his Neutrino, though that was not part of the deal. Mulch crossed the room in two strides and jammed a chair under the door handle. That should buy me a couple of seconds, he thought. He wrapped an arm around the water dispenser while simultaneously unbuttoning his bum-flap. Speed was vital now because whoever had been watching the interview through the two-way mirror was already hammering on the door. Mulch saw a black burn dot appear on the door; they were burning their way in.
He ripped the dispenser from the wall, allowing several gallons of cooled water to flood the interview room.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” moaned Chix from the floor. “It takes forever to dry these wings.”
“Shut up. You’re supposed to be unconscious.”
As soon as the water had drained from the supply pipe, Mulch dived into the pipe. He followed it to the first joint, then kicked it loose. Clumps of clay fell through, blocking the pipe. Mulch unhinged his jaw. He was back in the earth. No one could catch him now.
The shuttlebay was on the lower level, closest to the chute itself. Mulch angled himself downward, guided by his infallible dwarf internal compass. He had been in this terminal before, and the layout was burned into his memory, as was the layout of every building that he’d ever been in. Sixty seconds of chewing earth, stripping it of minerals, and ejecting waste at the other end brought Mulch face-to-face with an air duct. This particular duct led straight to the shuttlebay; the dwarf could even feel the vibration of the engines through his beard hair.
Generally he would burn through the duct’s metal paneling with a few drops of dwarf rock polish, but prison guards tended to confiscate items like that, so instead Mulch blasted a panel with a concentrated burst from the stolen handgun. The panel melted like a sheet of ice in front of a bar heater. He gave the molten metal a minute to solidify and cool, then slithered into the duct itself. Two left turns later, his face was pressed to the grille overlooking the shuttlebay itself. Red alarm lights were revolving over every door, and a harsh Klaxon made sure that everyone knew that there was some sort of emergency. The shuttlebay workers were gathered in front of the intranet screen, waiting for news.
Mulch dropped to the ground with more grace than his frame suggested was possible and creeped across to the LEP shuttle. The shuttle was suspended nose-up over a vertical supply tunnel. Mulch crept aboard, opening the passenger door with Chix Verbil’s chip. The controls were hugely complicated, but Mulch had a theory about vehicle controls: Ignore everything except the wheel and the pedals, and you’ll be fine. So far in his career, he had stolen more than fifty types of transportation, and his theory hadn’t let him down yet.
The dwarf thrust the starter chip into its socket, ignoring the computer’s advice that he run a systems’ check, and hit the release button. Eight tons of LEP shuttle dropped like a stone into the chute, spinning like an ice skater. The earth’s gravity grabbed hold of it, reeling it in toward the earth’s core.
Mulch’s foot jabbed the thruster pedal just enough to halt the drop.
The radio on the dash started talking to him. “You in the shuttle. You’d better come back here right now. I’m not kidding! In twenty seconds I personally am going to press the self-destruct button.”
Mulch spat a wad of dwarf spittle onto the speaker, muffling the irate voice. He gargled up another wad in his throat and deposited it on a circuit box below the radio. The circuits sparked and fizzled. So much for the self-destruct.
The controls were a bit heavier than Mulch was used to. Nevertheless, he managed to tame the machine after a few scrapes along the chute wall. If the LEP ever recovered the craft, it would need a fresh coat of paint, and perhaps a new starboard fender.
A bolt of sizzling laser energy flashed past the porthole.
That was his warning shot. One across the bows before they let the computer do the aiming. Time to be gone. Mulch kicked off his boots, wrapped his double-jointed toes around the pedals, and sped down the chute toward the rendezvous point.
Butler parked the Bentley fifteen miles northeast of Tara, near a cluster of rocks shaped like a clenched fist. The index finger rock was hollow, just as Mulch had told him it would be. However, the dwarf had neglected to mention that the opening would be cluttered with potato crisp bags and chewing-gum patties left over from a thousand teenagers’ picnics. Butler picked his way through the rubbish to discover two boys huddled at the rear, smoking secret cigarettes. A Labrador pup was asleep at their feet. Obviously these two had volunteered to walk the dog so they could sneak some cigarettes. Butler did not like smoking.
The boys looked up at the enormous figure looming above them, their jaded teenage expressions freezing on their faces.
Butler pointed at the cigarettes. “Those things will seriously damage your health,” he growled. “And if they don’t, I might.”
The teenagers stubbed out their cigarettes and scurried from the cave, which was exactly what Butler wanted them to do. He pushed aside a wizened scrub cluster at the rear of the cave to discover a mud wall.
“Punch right through the mud,” Mulch had told him. “Generally I eat through and patch it up afterward, but you might not want to do that.”
Butler jabbed four rigid fingers at the center of the mud wall, where cracks were beginning to spread, and sure enough the wall was only inches thick and crumbled easily under the pressure. The bodyguard pulled away chunks until there was sufficient space to squeeze through to the tunnel beyond.
To say there was sufficient space is perhaps a slight exaggeration; barely enough is probably more accurate. Butler’s bulky frame was compressed on all sides by uneven walls of black clay. Occasionally a jagged rock poked through, tearing a gash in his designer suit. That was two suits ruined in as many days. One in Munich, and now the second belowground in Ireland. Still, suits were the least of his worries. If Mulch was right, then Artemis was running around the Lower Elements right now with a group of bloodthirsty trolls on his trail. Butler ha
d fought a troll once, and the battle had very nearly killed him. He couldn’t even imagine fighting an entire group.
Butler dug his fingers into the earth, pulling himself forward through the tunnel. This particular tunnel, Mulch had informed him, was one of many illicit back doors into the Lower Elements chute system chewed out by fugitive dwarfs over the centuries. Mulch himself had excavated this one almost three hundred years ago, when he had needed to sneak back to Haven for his cousin’s birthday bash. Butler tried not to think about the dwarf’s recycling process as he went.
After several feet the tunnel widened into a bulb-shaped chamber. The walls glowed a gentle green. Mulch had explained that too. The walls were coated with dwarf spittle, which hardened on prolonged contact with air, and also glowed. Amazing. Drinking pores, living hairs, and now luminous saliva. What next? Explosive phlegm? He wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Who knew what secrets the dwarfs were hiding up their sleeves? Or in other places?
Butler kicked aside a pile of rabbit bones, the remains of previous dwarf snacks, and sat down to wait.
He checked the luminous face of his Omega wristwatch. He had dropped Mulch at Tara almost thirty minutes ago; the little man should be here by now. The bodyguard would have paced the chamber, but there was barely enough space for him to stand up, never mind pace. The bodyguard crossed his legs, settling down for a power nap. He hadn’t slept since the missile attack in Germany, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His heart rate and breathing slowed until eventually his chest barely moved at all.
Eight minutes later, the small chamber began to shake violently. Chunks of brittle spittle cracked from the wall, shattering on the floor. The ground beneath his feet glowed red, and a stream of insects and worms flowed away from the hot spot. Butler stood to one side, calmly brushing himself down. Moments later a cylindrical section of earth dropped cleanly out of the floor, leaving a steaming hole.
Mulch’s voice drifted through the hole, borne on the waves of the stolen shuttle’s amplification system.
“Let’s go, Mud Man. Move yourself. We have people to save, and the LEP are on my tail.”
On Mulch Diggums’s tail, thought Butler, shuddering. Not a nice place to be.
Nevertheless, the bodyguard lowered himself into the hole and through the open roof hatch of the hovering LEP shuttle. Police shuttles were cramped, even for fairies, but Butler could not even sit up straight in a chair, even if there had been a chair wide enough for him. He had to content himself with kneeling behind the command seat.
“All set?” he inquired.
Mulch picked a beetle from Butler’s shoulder. He shoved it into his beard, where the unfortunate insect was immediately cocooned by hair.