The commander whistled. “That’s one busy human.”
“Family,” corrected Foaly. “The Fowls have been subverting justice for generations. Racketeering, smuggling, armed robbery. Mostly corporate crime last century.”
“So do we have a location?”
“That was the easy part. Fowl Manor. On a two-hundred-acre estate on the outskirts of Dublin. Fowl Manor is only about twenty klicks from our current location.”
Root chewed his bottom lip.
“Only twenty? That means we could make it before first light.”
“Yep. Sort out this whole mess before it gets out of hand in the rays of the sun.”
The commander nodded. This was their first break. Fairies had not operated in natural light for centuries. Even when they had lived above ground, they were essentially night creatures. The sun diluted their magic like bleaching a photograph. If they had to wait another day before sending in a strike force, who knew what damage Fowl could achieve?
It was even possible that this whole affair was media-oriented, and by tomorrow evening Captain Short’s face would be on the cover of every publication on the planet. Root shuddered. That would spell the end of everything, unless the Mud People had learned to coexist with other species. And if history had taught any lessons it was that humans couldn’t get along with anyone, even themselves.
“Right. Everyone, lock and load. V flight pattern. Establish a perimeter inside the Manor grounds.”
The Retrieval Squad roared military-type affirmatives, coaxing as many metallic noises from their weapons as possible.
“Foaly, round up the techies. Follow us in the shuttle. And bring the big dishes. We’ll shut down the entire estate, give ourselves a bit of breathing room.”
“One thing, Commander,” mused Foaly.
“Yes?” said Root impatiently.
“Why did this human tell us who he was? He must have known we could find him.”
Root shrugged. “Maybe he’s not as clever as he thinks he is.”
“No. I don’t think that’s it. I don’t think that’s it at all. I think he’s been one step ahead of us all the way, and this is no different.”
“I don’t have time for theorizing now, Foaly. First light is approaching.”
“One more thing, Commander.”
“Is this important?”
“Yes, I think it is.”
“Well?”
Foaly tapped a key on his laptop, scrolling through Artemis’s vital statistics.
“This criminal mastermind, the one behind this elaborate scheme . . .”
“Yes, what about him?”
Foaly looked up, an almost admiring look in his golden eyes.
“Well, he’s only twelve years old. And that’s young, even for a human.”
Root snorted, jacking a new battery into his tribarreled blaster.
“Too much damned TV. Thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes.”
“That’s Professor Moriarty,” corrected Foaly.
“Holmes, Moriarty, they both look the same with the flesh scorched off their skulls.”
And with that elegant parting response, Root followed his squad into the night air.
The Retrieval Squad adopted the V goose formation with Root on point. They flew southwest, following the video feed e-mailed to their helmets. Foaly had even marked Fowl Manor with a red dot. Idiot-proof, he’d muttered into his mouthpiece, just loud enough for the commander to hear him.
The centerpiece of the Fowl estate was a renovated late-medieval/early-modern castle, built by Lord Hugh Fowl in the fifteenth century.
The Fowls had held on to Fowl Manor over the years, surviving war, civil unrest, and several tax audits. Artemis did not intend to be the one to lose it.
The estate was ringed by a ten-foot crenelated stone wall, complete with the original guard towers and walkways. The Retrieval Squad put down just inside the boundary and began an immediate scan for possible hostiles.
“Fifty feet apart,” instructed Root. “Sweep the area. Check in every sixty seconds. Clear?”
Retrieval nodded. Of course it was clear. They were professionals.
Lieutenant Cudgeon, Retrieval Squad’s leader, climbed a guard tower.
“You know what we should do, Julius?”
He and Root had been in the Academy together, brought up in the same tunnel. Cudgeon was one of perhaps five fairies who called Root by his first name.
“I know what you think we should do.”
“We should blast the whole place.”
“What a surprise.”
“The cleanest way. One blue rinse and our losses are minimum.”
Blue rinse was the slang term for the devastating biological bomb used on rare occasions by the force. The clever thing about a bio-bomb was that it destroyed only living tissue. The landscape was unchanged.
“That minimum loss you’re talking about happens to be one of my officers.”
“Oh yes,” tutted Cudgeon. “A female Recon officer. The test case. Well, I don’t think you’ll have any problem justifying a tactical solution.”
Root’s face took on that familiar purple hue.
“The best thing you can do right now is stay out of my way, or else I may be forced to ram that blue rinse straight into that morass you call a brain.”
Cudgeon was unperturbed. “Insulting me doesn’t change the facts, Julius. You know what the Book says. We cannot under any circumstances allow the Lower Elements to be compromised. One time-stop is all you get, after that . . .”
The lieutenant didn’t finish his statement. He didn’t have to.
“I know what the Book says,” snapped Root. “I just wish you weren’t so gung ho about it. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say there was some human blood in you.”
“There’s no call for that,” pouted Cudgeon. “I’m only doing my job.”
“Point taken,” conceded the commander. “I’m sorry.”
You didn’t often hear Root apologizing, but then it had been a deeply offensive insult.
Butler was on monitors.
“Anything?” asked Artemis.
Butler started; he hadn’t heard the young master come in.
“No. Nothing. Once or twice I thought I saw a flicker, but it turned out to be nothing.”
“Nothing is nothing,” commented Artemis cryptically. “Use the new camera.”
Butler nodded. Only last month, Master Fowl had purchased a cinecamera over the Internet. Two thousand frames a second, recently developed by Industrial Light and Magic for specialized nature shoots, hummingbird wings, and such. It processed images faster than the human eye could. Artemis had had it installed behind a cherub over the main entrance.
Butler activated the joypad.
“Where?”
“Try the avenue. I have a feeling visitors are on the way.”
The manservant manipulated the toothpick-sized stick with his massive fingers. A live image sprang into life on the digital monitor.
“Nothing,” muttered Butler. “Quiet as the grave.”
Artemis pointed to the control desk.
“Freeze it.”
Butler nearly questioned the order. Nearly. Instead he held his tongue and pressed the pad. On screen, the cherry trees froze, blossoms trapped in midair. More important, a dozen or so black-clad figures suddenly appeared on the avenue.