Cassidy Jones and the Secret Formula (31 page)

The van doors slammed. Their words still flowed in agitation but not urgency. I hadn’t been noticed. A buzzing sound filled the room as long, rectangular fluorescent lights hanging slightly below me came on. Huge rat droppings covered the tops of the lights.

Surveying the dark street, the man at the freight door pulled it shut. He joined the others, who congregated around two stacked wooden freights serving as a table under the fluorescent lights. On top of the makeshift table sat three pink pastry boxes and eleven open cans of soda. Breathing in the musty air, I picked up a whiff of cinnamon rolls. My stomach growled, reminding me of my neglect. The grumbling ceased when I glanced back at the rat droppings. Who knew what floated around in those open soda cans or who had helped themselves to the boxes’ contents?

Riled up and animated, the men spoke a million miles a minute, passionately slamming their fists on the table or kicking a crate periodically. Pausing from the rambling, Silver Tooth wrapped his injured hand in a dirty-looking rag. With his good hand, he flipped open one of the pink pastry tops, revealing several plump, generously frosted cinnamon rolls. Grabbing one of the rolls, he savagely sank his teeth into it, yanking a chunk off. Tossing the roll back into the box, he snapped up one of the open cans and took a swig. Visualizing what was scattered on the lights, I closed my eyes and covered my mouth to keep from hurling.

The freight door slid open. Silent and alert, the three men below pulled guns from their holsters. Apparently, they had extras. Two huge men with big guns of their own, dressed in tight black clothing, black boots, and black leather trench coats, stepped through the door. They were both maybe in their late twenties, with chiseled jaws, slicked-back hair, and blank expressions. Their void eyes mechanically moved through the room as they sidestepped from the door’s opening.

Two more stepped through the door with guns drawn. It didn’t surprise me to see her here—the missing card suit, Selma Heart. The man accompanying her appeared like the other two, expressionless and void, but Selma’s face lit up in mocking delight, that sardonic smile playing upon her lips. The khaki suit had not done her justice. Tall, slender, yet solid and well endowed, she wore a tight black dress that clung to her curves, high-heeled black leather boots that hugged her calves, and a black leather trench coat with a stiff collar sticking up.

Between them stood “The Circus,” or more like “The Freak Show.” King would have been hysterically funny if one didn’t look beyond the green and purple pinstriped suit and white dress shoes. His presentation appeared even more odd and surreal on his tiny frame. However, looking at the man himself and not his outfit, one would quickly realize there was nothing funny about him. Depravity oozed from his expression; insanity shone in his flinty eyes. I understood why Ben had downplayed King. He didn’t want to give us nightmares.

Observing the scene and cast of characters left my emotions strangely unstirred, perhaps because the situation was so surreal. I looked on as if watching a play, morbidly curious to see what would happen next.

Flanked closely by Selma and her partner, King sauntered in, looking around. “Like what you’ve done with the place.” His voice sounded nasal, as if his nostrils were clamped shut.

Though their guns remained drawn, Silver Tooth and his men were visibly shaken as their eyes followed the little man admiring their décor.

Approaching the table, King raised his hand in the air. “Please,
amigos
, lower your weapons. We’re all friends here, right? Come on, be more hospitable. Show me around, pour me a cup of coffee, and we’ll sit at your lovely table and have a nice chat.”

The three men glanced at one another uncertainly.

“Oh, come on, boys. Take a look at your itty-bitty guns and our big ones. There’s no contest here. Oh, this is all so silly. You know who’s callin’ the shots, amigos. Now put those ridiculous things away before I become impatient with you.”

Reluctant, but thoroughly intimidated, the men lowered their guns. One of the men, deciding to be hospitable, slowly picked up the open pink box, cautiously offering it to King.

“Oh, for me?” King cried in mock gratitude. “Oh, how classy of you, and here I thought you were a bunch of low-life buffoons. But you know, I do have a sweet tooth. Can’t seem to get enough goodies…Mr. Spade?”

The card suit standing next to him stepped forward, picked up a roll from the box, took a bite, and swallowed. King’s eyes narrowed on Mr. Spade’s vacant face. The room fell silent as we all waited for Mr. Spade to keel over. After a couple of tense moments, King shrugged, yanked the pastry from Mr. Spade’s hand, and took a bite.

Slowly rolling his eyes, King exclaimed, “Oh, amigos. This is really yummy. You have to tell me where you got these. I’ll have Mr. Spade pick me up a dozen. No.” His finger shot up in the air. “I’ll buy the whole stinkin’ bakery.”

The three men grunted in response.

King took a huge bite, smacking his lips and groaning. The room became still. All eyes watched his lunatic display. Anticipation grew, waiting for him to swallow.  

King licked his sticky fingers. “Okay, amigos, enough wining and dining. Get me what I came for.” He casually glanced around the room. “Hand over the video and the kid.”

The men glanced at one another nervously.

King’s trumped-up amiable expression twisted. “Come on, no more games. Is the kid in one of these boxes?” He motioned to the crates.

I cringed.

Silver Tooth cleared his throat. “Please,
Señor
King, we are sorry, but he is not here.”

King’s face continued to twist, but the tone in his voice remained pleasant. “Took care of him for me, huh? You know how I like to keep my fingers clean. Thoughtful of you . . .
Now, hand over the video
.” He said this slowly, enunciating each word.

“There is a problem, Señor King,” Silver Tooth said, his eyes watchful, moving between Miss Heart and Mr. Spade.

King took another bite of the roll. “Don’t mind them,” he said, his lips smacking as he waved lazily at his security officers. “They won’t be a problem as long as
your
problem doesn’t involve my video.” He thoughtfully licked his fingers. “Amigos, I’m a very busy man, so why don’t you run off and GET MY VIDEO SO I CAN GET OUT OF THIS PIT!”

My breath caught. The abrupt change in his voice was shocking. The way his face writhed reminded me of a rabid weasel.

“Señor King, please, listen,” Silver Tooth pleaded. “Please, we had Ben Johnson and the video when we were attacked by a very powerful man.”

“Oh, come now. Are you telling me three strappin’ fellows such as yourselves—
with guns
—couldn’t put down one man?” King’s face twisted into amusement. Looking around, he asked, smiling, “Okay, amigos, where are they?”

Terrified, the men looked around and at one another, confused.

“Señor King, it is only us,” Silver Tooth assured. “There is no one else here.”

Like those of a gleeful child, King’s eyes continued to bounce around.

“Please, Señor King, tell us who you are looking for.”

King’s face twisted with fury. “THE HIDDEN CAMERAS, STUPID! Do you think I’m such an idiot that I would believe the three of you couldn’t put down one man?”

Wide-eyed, Silver Tooth shook his head. “Señor King, please listen. This was no ordinary man. It was a ninja with skills I’ve never witnessed. Yes, he defeated us, but he had the strength of twenty. He moved like the wind, like a ghost.”

“WIND! GHOST! BLAH!” Sticking out his pointy tongue, King brought his fingers to his mouth like he was going to gag himself. Suddenly, his fingers paused and his body froze. His flinty eyes moved back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. “Would Takahashi dare?” he asked himself.

Selma looked doubtful. “Takahashi, sir?”

“Of course, Takahashi,
Heart
.” He spat her name like it tasted bad. “Who else would have access to ninjas of this caliber?” He smiled crookedly. “He’s not the only one with ninjas.” He grinned like a madman pushed over the edge.

Selma tried again. “Excuse me, sir. This isn’t Takahashi’s style,
and there is no possible way he would know about the assassin.”

“Oh, Heart, don’t be naïve,” he ridiculed. “We rich and powerful men have ways of finding these things out. He’s sending his assassin because he wants my assassin. Let him send all his ghost ninjas. I’m ready!” Then his voice took on a low, creepy tone. “And Takahashi will be the first honored with a visit from mine.” He howled with deranged laughter.

My ears picked up a slight scratching noise ahead of me. Lifting my eyes to the rafter, I met two little beady eyes. A scraggly, disease-ridden rat waddled toward me. I yelped.

Suddenly, bullets flew around me. Survival instinct kicked in, along with a rush of adrenaline. The bullets slowed around me, leaving a visible trail behind them. I dove to the rafter in front of me, using it as a springboard to the next. Like a ping-pong ball, I flipped from rafter to rafter, skirting bullets. During a leap, something blazed across my left arm. It felt like a hot iron had been pressed across my bicep, burning the flesh. The pain kicked me up to a new level of survival. I moved so rapidly that the villains below couldn’t track me to take proper aim.

The room became silent. They were out of ammunition.

Before they could reload, I dove toward the floor, flipping backwards and landing on my feet before King. Now that we were eye-to-eye, his mouth hung open. His forearms were awkwardly bent up like he’d been trying to cover his ears. His right hand still clutched the cinnamon roll.

Inspiration struck me. Snatching the roll from his tight fist, I leapt through the open freight door and disappeared into the night.

Twenty

Hopping down into my bedroom from the window ledge, it surprised me to see
9:54
glowing on the alarm clock on my nightstand. I had only leapt from my window two-and-a-half hours ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed.

My room was dark, empty, and lonely. This saddened me, until I caught a whiff of tomato sauce and yeast. Adjusting my eyes better, I saw on the dresser two slices of pepperoni pizza on a plate, with a napkin folded underneath and a glass of water next to it. The thoughtfulness of the gesture brought me to tears.
This crashing adrenaline really stinks.

Yanking the hood off before it became saturated, I walked to the dresser and picked up a cold slice. In my mouth, I tasted spicy pepperoni and the salt from my tears. I was ridiculous. The crash would have been much worse without the nice five-mile run home. Besides discovering I could dodge bullets, I found I had developed a keen sense of direction. The warehouse district wasn’t exactly in my neck of the woods, but my advanced senses had no problem guiding me out and back to more familiar ground. The tricky part had been finding darkened, quiet streets that didn’t take me too far off-course. Overall, though, I had made good timing.

I had gnawed down to the pizza crust on my second slice when I heard footsteps coming down the hall, and they weren’t Emery’s. In a panic, I rushed to my bed and flung the covers back. Shoving aside the pillows Emery had formed under the covers to look like a sleeping body, I jumped into bed, shoes and all, and pulled the bedding over my head.

The door creaked open, and the hall light flooded my room. Forcing myself to breathe, I mimicked deep sleep, snoring a bit.

As Mom walked toward me, I prayed she wouldn’t get the urge to kiss me goodnight or gaze at my sleeping face. I’d have a difficult time explaining why I was wearing Nate’s ninja costume and purple face paint.

Her feet paused. “Oh, Cassidy,” she whispered, irritation in her voice.

My mock snore caught.

Her feet moved quickly toward me, passing by the bed. I heard the window close. Then her feet moved toward my bed, pausing. She rested her hand on my back. With a moan, I wiggled like she was disturbing my sleep. Pulling her hand back, she left, closing the door quietly behind her.