Mission: Lullaby Read online

  Contents

  Wednesday 0911 hours: Houses of Parliament, London, UK

  Wednesday 1101 hours: MP1 Headquarters, London, UK

  Wednesday 1150 hours: A Cafe, London, UK

  Wednesday 1653 hours: M6 Motorway, UK

  Wednesday 2004 hours: Bingo Bongo, Blackpool, UK

  Wednesday 2045 hours: House of Horrors, Blackpool, UK

  Wednesday 2145 hours: Bassey’s Karaoke Bar, Blackpool, UK

  Thursday 0718 hours: Caribbean Dreams, Blackpool, UK

  Thursday 0937 hours: National Bank, Blackpool, UK

  Thursday 1552 hours: GLOVE HQ, Location Unknown

  Thursday 1611 hours: GLOVE HQ, Big Ben, London, UK

  Thursday 1729 hours: Garden of 10 Downing Street, London, UK

  Thursday 2157 hours: South Bank, London, UK

  For Sue and Kev

  MP1 Personnel

  Agent Fangs Enigma

  World’s greatest vampire spy

  Agent Puppy Brown

  Wily werewolf and Fangs’s super sidekick

  Phlem

  Head of MP1

  Miss Bile

  Phlem’s personal secretary

  Professor Hubert Cubit, aka Cube

  Head of MP1’s technical division

  Wednesday 0911 hours: Houses of Parliament, London, UK

  59 … 58 … 57…

  Special Agent Fangs Enigma licked the tips of his sharp vampire teeth in concentration and then very carefully began to loosen the final screw in the cover of the bomb. He worked the screwdriver slowly, knowing that any sudden movement could cause the device to explode. Hearing footsteps running across the floor of the deserted House of Commons chamber, he looked over his shoulder to see a werewolf running towards him.

  “Everyone’s evacuated, boss,” said the werewolf and fellow secret agent Puppy Brown. Puppy and Fangs both worked for intelligence agency Monster Protection, 1st Unit, aka MP1. “The place is empty,” Puppy confirmed.

  “And the bomb squad?”

  “Six minutes away.”

  Fangs glanced down at the red LED timer on the bomb: 45 … 44 … 43… “We don’t have that long,” he said.

  “Lucky we were heading back to HQ when the bomb was found,” said Puppy. The entrance to MP1 Headquarters was in Parliament Square, which was right opposite the House of Commons.

  “Yep,” said Fangs. He pulled the screw out. “This is what I call lucky.” He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. Then he pressed his hands to the metal case and made to lift it off.

  Puppy placed a hand on his arm. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, boss?” she asked. “MP1 training doesn’t include classes in defusing bombs.”

  “Trust me.” The vampire smiled. “These things all work the same way. Inside here will be a circuit board and a mass of wires. You never cut the red wire – that’s a booby trap set by the bomb maker. The thing will explode if you do that. The green wire is fake. It’s just put there to confuse you.”

  “Which leaves?”

  “The blue wire,” said Fangs. “You always cut the blue wire.” After taking a deep breath, he slid the cover off and they both leaned in to peer inside. As predicted, there was a circuit board and a virtual bird’s nest of wiring.

  Only, all the wires were yellow.

  Fangs blinked. “I have to admit I wasn’t expecting that.”

  The LED timer counted down a few more seconds: 33 … 32 … 31…

  “What do we do now?” hissed Puppy.

  “Well,” said Fangs, “we haven’t got enough time to get outside, and the bomb squad will still be fighting its way through the traffic.” He produced a pocket knife from inside his cape and then winked at Puppy from behind his sunglasses. “What say we give it a go?”

  “And if we get it wrong?”

  “Then at least we go out with a bang.”

  27 … 26 … 25…

  Fangs used the tip of the knife to lift up one of the yellow wires to see where it connected to the circuit board. It was impossible to tell.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  Puppy shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she admitted. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “That sounds like the closest thing we have to a plan.”

  19 … 18 … 17…

  Puppy’s sensitive werewolf ears twitched. “I can hear sirens approaching,” she said. “The bomb squad is almost here.”

  “Just in time for the fireworks,” said Fangs. He began to touch each of the identical wires in turn with the knife. “Eeny … meeny … miney … mo.” A wire chosen, he twisted the knife and began to cut.

  12 … 11 … 10…

  “Boss,” whispered Puppy. “Just in case… Thanks. I’ve loved every minute of working with you at MP1.”

  Fangs wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulders and gave her a cuddle. “Me too.” He grinned.

  Then he cut through the wire.

  Nothing happened. The readout continued to count down.

  7 … 6 … 5…

  “It was worth a try,” said Fangs. He threw his vampire cape over himself and Puppy before clicking a button sewn inside the lining that turned the fabric solid. It would provide some protection against the explosion, but it was unlikely to be enough.

  3 … 2 … 1…

  BOING!

  Then silence…

  After a few seconds, Fangs released the switch and his cape reverted to soft, black material. He peeped out from beneath it. “Where was the BOOM?” he asked. “I was expecting a BOOM, not a—” He stopped mid-sentence.

  “What is it?” asked Puppy, emerging from beneath the cloak. She turned to look at the bomb, and her eyes widened.

  Broken pieces of circuit board lay scattered around, with charred lengths of smouldering wire still attached to it here and there. But that wasn’t what she and Fangs were staring at.

  A large metal spring coiled up from the centre of the device and there, wobbling gently at the top, was a single black glove.

  Wednesday 1101 hours: MP1 Headquarters, London, UK

  The MP1 security ogre put his hand out to stop us. “Passes,” he grunted.

  Fangs whipped open his vampire cape to reveal his security pass, which was clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket.

  I showed the ogre my pass and he let us into the lobby of MP1. I put the "bomb" we had recovered from the House of Commons down on the desk. Its glove bobbed from side to side at the top of the spring as though it was waving. The ogre eyed it suspiciously. “I think it likes you,” I quipped – only to get a stony expression in return. In all the time I’d been working here, I couldn’t remember the guard ever smiling.

  “I’ll just pop it through the scanner,” I said, moving the “bomb” onto the short conveyor belt of the machine that would X-ray it and check for residual traces of magic.

  Getting the device from the House of Commons to HQ hadn’t exactly been easy. The local police had wanted to take it for further examination, but we’d received orders from our boss not to let them have it. MP1 agents had made the device safe, so MP1 would be the ones to examine it.

  I had carried the device very carefully. We still weren’t sure whether there were explosives packed into its base. One bump and it could go off in my paws!

  Bomb or no bomb, you might be forgiven for thinking that the sight of a vampire and a werewolf crossing the road in the middle of London would cause a bit of a panic. However, since the supernatural equality laws were passed, creatures like Fangs and I were a common sight all over the world. Among the crowds behind the police cordon on Parliament Square, I spotted a school bus of young skeletons and a zombie collecting money for a charity which specialized in reuniting the undead with the
ir missing limbs.

  The warning lights above the security scanner lit up a mixture of red and yellow, telling us that the device contained some traces of magic but, thankfully, no live explosives. I picked up the glove again. We walked on and a few moments later, we were outside Phlem’s office.

  “FANGSH!” In a whirlwind of wild, grey hair, Phlem’s secretary, Miss Bile, scurried over to greet my boss. Fangs smiled pleasantly as the aged banshee helped him off with his cloak and carefully hung it up on the coat rack. “I HAVEN’T SHEEN YOU IN AGESH!” she bellowed, spraying the carpet with globs of saliva. “OR, AT LEASHT, IT SHEEMSH THAT WAY.”

  My boss took the banshee’s hand in his and gently kissed it. “You were never far from my thoughts, Miss Bile,” he crooned.

  The secretary’s eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted to the floor, her head wedging neatly in a waste-paper basket. She still had a smile on her semi-conscious face as I helped her back to her desk.

  The intercom barked into life. “Enough of the nonsense, Enigma. Get in here now.”

  We entered Phlem’s office. I set the device down on his desk. He bent to peer at it with dull, green eyes. No matter how many times I saw the head of MP1, it was always something of a shock. The rumour was that he was the only swamp beast ever to have survived away from the legendary black lagoon. Now his home was here in London, and his job was to run MP1 – an organization which was the thin, green line between ordinary humans and the world’s greatest criminal monsterminds.

  Fangs settled back into an armchair and accepted a drink – a glass of milk with just a drop of human blood. I chose orange juice and perched on the arm of the chair.

  “Gloves,” Phlem gurgled as he dropped a couple of ice cubes into his own drink – a healthy serving of liquid mud. “They’re everywhere.”

  “Gloves plural?” I asked. “You mean there are more?”

  Phlem nodded. “The mayor discovered one in his fridge at six a.m. Her Majesty the Queen was wearing a single black glove when she woke up, and this was waiting on my desk when I arrived this morning.” He slid open a drawer and took out a black leather glove. It was identical to the one which had sprung out of the device.

  “Well, they’re not getting around by themselves,” said Fangs. “Someone must have a hand in it.” He smirked, then he mumbled, “Suit yourselves,” when neither Phlem nor I laughed.

  “Have we got any leads?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Fangs. “Anyone we can finger for the crimes?”

  “It's not good news,” said Phlem.

  “Well, whoever it is, they’d better not try to palm the blame for what they’ve done onto anyone else,” said Fangs.

  Phlem glared at him. “Be serious, Agent Enigma. Take a look at this…”

  On the screen of his computer was the image of a single black glove on a green background and the words “Glorious League of Villainous Evil (GLOVE).”

  I gasped. “League… You don’t mean…?”

  “Yes,” said Phlem. “The bad guys are joining forces.”

  “What do we know about this GLOVE organization?” Fangs asked.

  “Not much,” admitted Phlem. “The website is encrypted, but we’ve had a team working on breaking the code for the past few hours. They’d just called to tell me they’d cracked it when you arrived. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

  He clicked on the image of the glove and then entered a long password into the resulting pop-up window. After a few seconds, the page changed. A gallery of photographs appeared – photographs of a few of the worst super-villains in the world.

  “That’s Carlos Trumpet,” I said, pointing to a picture of a skeleton.

  “He’s wanted for stealing a jewel-encrusted skull made by that artist Damien Hirst,” I added.

  “And General Rot,” Fangs said, pointing at the disfigured face of a zombie. “He threatened Australia with a missile made of his own body parts.”

  My eyes flicked over the rest of the screen in horror. “Arnold Goose, Betty Flame…”

  Fangs was equally shocked. “These are some of the top names from our wanted list.”

  “Correct, Agent Enigma,” glugged Phlem, after downing his glass of mud. “The idea of these criminals sharing information and resources doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “They could do anything,” said Fangs quietly. “Individually, they’re a nuisance, but nothing we can’t stop. Together, though, they could take over the entire world.”

  “But who’s organized all this?” I asked. “Who set up GLOVE and got all these villains in one place?”

  “He calls himself Mr Big,” said Phlem. “And that’s all we know.” He scrolled to the top of the screen. The cursor hovered over a silhouette, underneath which was written .

  “As you can see, Mr Big’s identity remains anonymous. We’ve never managed to capture him on camera. We need to fill in the blanks about his identity and what he’s planning,” said Phlem, “especially now that GLOVE is making itself known to the world. We have to find out what its plans are.”

  “So what do we do?” I asked.

  “You won’t be doing anything, Agent Brown,” Phlem replied. “Do you think I could trust you two after the mess you’ve just made with that bomb? Hand over your MP1 security passes, please. You’re both fired.”

  Fangs leapt to his feet. “Fired?” he demanded. “On what grounds?”

  Phlem clicked a button on his computer keyboard and the image changed to show CCTV footage of me and Fangs trying to disable the bomb. The sound quality wasn’t great, but I could hear my boss choosing which wire to cut.

  “Eeny … meeny … miney … mo.”

  Fangs sat down again. “Ah, you saw that bit, then?”

  “MP1 has eyes, ears and tentacles everywhere, Enigma,” Phlem said. “Your tomfoolery put hundreds of lives at risk.”

  “But…” began Fangs.

  “No buts,” snapped Phlem. “I showed you the GLOVE website to demonstrate the dire threat the world now faces. And I don’t think you two are up to the job of protecting it any longer.” He flicked a switch on his intercom. “Security. Please escort former agents Enigma and Brown off the premises.”

  Wednesday 1150 hours: A Cafe, London, UK

  I dropped a handful of change onto the counter of the small cafe. “A glass of milk and an orange juice, please.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any human blood, do you?” Fangs asked hopefully. “A-Positive, if possible.”

  The man behind the counter didn’t reply. He just snarled and rang up our order. “Bert!” he called into the kitchen. “One orange juice and one milk – plain.”

  Fangs and I found a table and sat down. “I can’t believe this is happening,” I said.

  “Me neither,” said my boss. “I’m the world’s greatest vampire spy! They can’t get rid of me.”

  “They already have,” I reminded him. “And me, too.”

  “It can’t be the way we dealt with that bomb,” said Fangs. “It has to be something else. Something Phlem isn’t telling us. If you hack into his computer, we may be able to find out the real reason he fired us.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “My laptop and utility belt were confiscated on the way out of the building.”

  I turned to watch the raindrops run down the cafe window and saw my own hairy reflection staring back at me. What would I do now that I was no longer a spy? I supposed I’d have to go back to school, and that wouldn’t be a very pleasant experience.

  You’ve probably read stories that tell you werewolves only transform once a month at full moon but live totally normal lives in between. Well, I’m the exact opposite. Something went wrong during my first transformation and I ended up permanently stuck with the fur and the fangs – except for once a month when I turn back into a girl.

  My school had some supernatural pupils, including a couple of werewolves, but unless you were with them at full moon, you never saw them as wolves. The fact that I was a wolf all
the time made school very difficult. For instance, I wasn’t allowed near the stoves in cookery class in case my fur caught alight, and I was banned from playing volleyball in PE because my claws kept puncturing the balls. I was miserable.

  Everything changed when I was recruited by MP1. Within days, I was learning to hack into computer systems, drive all manner of bizarre vehicles – and I was working with the world’s greatest vampire spy, Fangs Enigma (at least, that’s what it says on his business card). Now all that was over.

  “Boss…” I began, but then I stopped myself. Fangs wasn’t my boss any more. He was just a vampire I happened to know. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I quickly wiped them away (one of the few uses of hairy hands). “I don’t know what—”

  But I didn’t get to finish my sentence because a figure in a white apron and chef’s hat scurried over to our table. “One glass of orange juice for the werewolf…” he said, setting my drink down in front of me. “And a glass of milk, with just a dash of A-Positive blood – for sir.”

  “But the man behind the counter said…” I stared up at the chef and found a pair of friendly and familiar eyes smiling back at me from behind a set of square-framed glasses.

  “Cube!” I cried. It was Professor Hubert Cubit, the head of MP1’s technical division.

  “Ssshhh.” Cube pressed a finger to his lips as he sat down. Then he removed his white hat to reveal a square head.

  Early on in life, the professor had realized that facts and information only ever come in square things. “Books, computers, filing cabinets – all square and all filled with knowledge,” he told me during my first week of training. “Tennis balls, potatoes and scoops of ice cream – all round and hardly any knowledge in them at all.”