before it made a run at you boys on the mountain. There is a distressing pattern of thefts and hijackings of Tooms property these past few months. Mr. Nail worries it may escalate to kidnappings or assassinations.”
“Ah, no wonder Mom and Dad didn’t kick when we scooted off the reservation,” Dred said with a scowl. “Everybody wants me and Mac gone.”
“Miss your mama, huh?” Nestor grinned a trifle unkindly. “Yes, the powers got together and decided it’s best if you mischief-makers remain off the radar here in the Land of the Midnight Sun. The powers that be are investigating. This is serious as a heart attack, kiddies. I spied Mr. Shrike at HQ. He came out of a meeting with the Board. Damned near froze my blood.”
Dred choked on his drink. Mac inhaled sharply. Both wisely kept quiet. Nestor watched them, his sly grin broadening until it almost attained the malevolent grandiosity of Uncle Andronicus’s or Granddad’s devilish own. “As I said . . . This is serious business, in case you didn’t know already.”
Mr. Shrike was the codename of a legendary assassin who specialized in corporate warfare. Members of the Compact (the six most powerful corporations in existence, a reincarnated Hanseatic League, albeit commercial rivals rather than allies) employed him when times called for desperate measures. He commanded a prohibitive fee of goods and services in addition to cash and adhered to a severe code of ethics. Guild members agreed not to hire Mr. Shrike for direct assassinations or other disruptions as per the accord. This didn’t mean his presence augured anything pleasant for his employer’s rivals. Shrike’s presence didn’t even necessarily auger well for his own employer.
The boys had seduced Mr. Shrike’s dossier from Mr. Nail’s love-starved secretary, Ms. Parrish. Intelligence proved appallingly barren—a list of his known contracts and several muddy photographs. Mr. Shrike was tall, well-muscled, and enjoyed Italian suits. Possibly handsome; the pictures were slightly unfocused or blurred from his sudden motion.
“Any idea who’s coming after us?” Mac said, innocuous as could be. Had Nestor and the others tripped across mention of the Cult of the Demon Sultan? Nestor was the type to pay out rope for his nephew to hang himself.
“Lear and Nail will get to the bottom of it. Or Mr. Shrike will. Meanwhile, your granddad has questions. Why did you kids blow the barn to smithereens? Who killed the Navarro boys and their Nazi valet? What really happened at the henge? A few trivial inquiries.”
“Granddad sent you to interrogate Dred and me.”
Nestor drained his glass and sighed in appreciation. “I came, ostensibly, to debrief Dr. Slocum regarding his progress with uncovering useful information about whatever is under this ice. The real reason is, I’m fond of my nephews. Heed my warning, you impetuous little bastards—the Board will convene a star chamber when you return to New York. In fact, they may preemptively fetch you to New York if matters deteriorate. Get your stories straight, kids. There’ll only be one shot to not be shot.”
THE WORST DAD WE EVER HAD
Dred’s eyes rolled back in sleep and Dad visited him. For several weeks the boy’s dreams had featured the end of the world in seething acid smoke and rivers of blood. This was worse.
Since their exalted station and devotion to the shadowy arts of the Mountain Leopard Temple precluded a typical formal education, the boys received the majority of their curriculum via a hypnotic Dreamtime program. This program, designed by their great grandfather Atticus Tooms, involved oversized headsets and type X red crystal technology. Upon retiring for the night, on went the headsets. Into one ear streamed an ultra-high frequency transmission of history, great works of literature, and philosophy. Into the other went mathematics, science, and Sword Enterprises corporate propaganda. Neural pathways cored through the lads’
“Ah, no wonder Mom and Dad didn’t kick when we scooted off the reservation,” Dred said with a scowl. “Everybody wants me and Mac gone.”
“Miss your mama, huh?” Nestor grinned a trifle unkindly. “Yes, the powers got together and decided it’s best if you mischief-makers remain off the radar here in the Land of the Midnight Sun. The powers that be are investigating. This is serious as a heart attack, kiddies. I spied Mr. Shrike at HQ. He came out of a meeting with the Board. Damned near froze my blood.”
Dred choked on his drink. Mac inhaled sharply. Both wisely kept quiet. Nestor watched them, his sly grin broadening until it almost attained the malevolent grandiosity of Uncle Andronicus’s or Granddad’s devilish own. “As I said . . . This is serious business, in case you didn’t know already.”
Mr. Shrike was the codename of a legendary assassin who specialized in corporate warfare. Members of the Compact (the six most powerful corporations in existence, a reincarnated Hanseatic League, albeit commercial rivals rather than allies) employed him when times called for desperate measures. He commanded a prohibitive fee of goods and services in addition to cash and adhered to a severe code of ethics. Guild members agreed not to hire Mr. Shrike for direct assassinations or other disruptions as per the accord. This didn’t mean his presence augured anything pleasant for his employer’s rivals. Shrike’s presence didn’t even necessarily auger well for his own employer.
The boys had seduced Mr. Shrike’s dossier from Mr. Nail’s love-starved secretary, Ms. Parrish. Intelligence proved appallingly barren—a list of his known contracts and several muddy photographs. Mr. Shrike was tall, well-muscled, and enjoyed Italian suits. Possibly handsome; the pictures were slightly unfocused or blurred from his sudden motion.
“Any idea who’s coming after us?” Mac said, innocuous as could be. Had Nestor and the others tripped across mention of the Cult of the Demon Sultan? Nestor was the type to pay out rope for his nephew to hang himself.
“Lear and Nail will get to the bottom of it. Or Mr. Shrike will. Meanwhile, your granddad has questions. Why did you kids blow the barn to smithereens? Who killed the Navarro boys and their Nazi valet? What really happened at the henge? A few trivial inquiries.”
“Granddad sent you to interrogate Dred and me.”
Nestor drained his glass and sighed in appreciation. “I came, ostensibly, to debrief Dr. Slocum regarding his progress with uncovering useful information about whatever is under this ice. The real reason is, I’m fond of my nephews. Heed my warning, you impetuous little bastards—the Board will convene a star chamber when you return to New York. In fact, they may preemptively fetch you to New York if matters deteriorate. Get your stories straight, kids. There’ll only be one shot to not be shot.”
THE WORST DAD WE EVER HAD
Dred’s eyes rolled back in sleep and Dad visited him. For several weeks the boy’s dreams had featured the end of the world in seething acid smoke and rivers of blood. This was worse.
Since their exalted station and devotion to the shadowy arts of the Mountain Leopard Temple precluded a typical formal education, the boys received the majority of their curriculum via a hypnotic Dreamtime program. This program, designed by their great grandfather Atticus Tooms, involved oversized headsets and type X red crystal technology. Upon retiring for the night, on went the headsets. Into one ear streamed an ultra-high frequency transmission of history, great works of literature, and philosophy. Into the other went mathematics, science, and Sword Enterprises corporate propaganda. Neural pathways cored through the lads’
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