Pete’s best shirt hung in tatters, exposing his hairy chest. He carefully angled the Farnsworth so that his ventilated clothing was not visible. “Nah,” he answered. “Just the usual.” The funny thing was, he wasn’t lying. Compared to some of their investigations, this had been a walk in the park. Nobody had blown up, spontaneously combusted, imploded, turned into glass, walked through walls, gone invisible, or been transported to another dimension. That kind of thing could really spoil your day. Chances were, Lainie Evers wouldn’t even remember what had happened here tonight. The Tesla tended to scramble people’s short-term memories. “Good.” Artie didn’t ask for details. He’d review their reports later. “Now get that cutlass back here as soon as you can. But by coach, remember. Not first class. The Regents are on my case about the budget.” Pete bit his lip. You’d think a top-secret organization whose origins stretched back to antiquity wouldn’t hold on to its purse strings quite so tightly, but by now he was used to Artie’s chronic frugality. Coach it was. Pete’s long legs cramped in anticipation. Maybe there would be a good in-flight movie? “Okay, Artie. See you soon. Say hello to Claudia and Leena for me.” “You can do that yourself, once you deliver that cutlass.” The transmission cut off abruptly. Pete put away the Farnsworth and took the silver bag off Myka’s hands. The cutlass weighed it down. A gust of air-conditioning rustled the sliced-up shirt. He picked at the butchered fabric. “Aw, man…” Myka smirked. “Maybe we can find you a souvenir T-shirt in the gift shop.
Perhaps one with Anne Bonny on it?” “Very funny,” Pete said. “Next time, you search the Hall of Infamy.” Myka let him vent. “Deal.”
CHAPTER
2
THE BADLANDS, SOUTH DAKOTA
Once a vast prehistoric ocean had covered the Great Plains, but that had dried up long before anyone was around to watch it gradually evolve into desert. Now the desolate scenery resembled a barren lunar landscape. Erosion had carved out thousands of acres of craggy hills, canyons, and cliffs. Gnarled rock formations cast weird, unearthly shadows upon the arid soil. Streaks of diversely colored stone laid bare the geologic history of the region, with each distinctive shade and hue serving as petrified evidence of a bygone era. Yucca, juniper, and other desert flora stubbornly set down roots. Patches of grass sprouted here and there.
The Sioux Indians had named this place mako sica, or “bad land.”
Warehouse 13 called it home. It had taken Myka a while to appreciate the unique natural beauty of the Badlands. When she had first been reassigned here two years ago, she couldn’t believe that she had been banished to some godforsaken wasteland in the middle of nowhere. But over time she had come to find the endless ochre hills and valleys both grand and comforting. She relaxed into the passenger seat of a black SUV as she and Pete drove past the familiar landmarks. It had been a long trip, but soon they-and Anne Bonny’s cutlass-would be back where they belonged. “Here we are,” Pete said from behind the wheel.
“Home sweet home.” Warehouse 13 was located at the end of a long dirt road past several swinging metal gates. An enormous hangar-like structure built into the base of a secluded hillside, it had the entire valley to itself. No other buildings were in sight. The nearest town was miles away and didn’t even have a name. No signs or markers pointed to the Warehouse. Even if you knew it existed, you might have trouble finding it. Which was the whole idea. Several stories high, the Warehouse’s rusty facade loomed over the desert. Riveted steel plates, deceptively dilapidated in appearance, guarded its contents.
Iron beams and girders, anchored by sturdy concrete foundations, buttressed the towering walls. Satellite disks pulled down data from the heavens. Angled tin roofs gave the building a roughly triangular shape, but what you saw from outside was only the tip of the iceberg.
The Warehouse extended deep into the hills as well as several levels beneath the ground. Myka had worked here for nearly two years now, but she still had trouble grasping just how big the Warehouse really was.
You could fit the Javits Center, the Louvre, and the entire Smithsonian inside the building and still have acres of room to spare.
There were entire levels, galleries, and annexes she had yet to explore. She wondered where exactly the cutlass would end up. A cherry-red Jaguar roadster and a vintage El Camino pickup truck were parked in front of the Warehouse. “Looks like everybody’s home,” Pete observed. Braking to a stop beside the other cars, he killed the engine. His stomach grumbled audibly. “You think Artie’s made cookies?” “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Myka smiled at her partner. Pete’s appetite was practically supernatural in its own right. “Remind me again how you keep your girlish figure?” “Clean living, what else? Plus, lots of running for my life.” They stepped out of the car into the blinding glare of a hot August afternoon. The scorching heat came as a shock after the air-conditioned comfort of the car. Sunlight reflected off the Warehouse’s tarnished metal walls.
Myka was grateful for her tinted sunglasses, which were a necessity in this part of the country. It felt good to stretch her legs. A solitary cow, grazing on a measly patch of grass, lowed in welcome. A hot breeze carried with it the distinctive aroma of a large heap of manure piled high a few yards away. Myka had once mistaken the heap for a small hill. She hadn’t made that mistake again. “Right back at you,”
Pete addressed the cow. He retrieved the cutlass, still securely bagged, from the rear of the SUV. They approached the Warehouse. The front door was the same rusty metal color as the oxidized steel sheets around it, so that it blended in almost as though camouflaged. Myka clicked a button on a compact handheld remote. Ancient hinges creaked as it swung open. “After you,” Pete said. Myka strolled inside.
Compared to the Warehouse’s weather-beaten facade, the sterile white umbilicus looked like something designed by NASA. A flexible metal tube, barely wide enough to allow two people to pass through side by side, accordioned ahead of her for fifty yards or so. Fluorescent lights lit up the tunnel, which wobbled slightly beneath their tread like an enormous slinky. Explosive charges, mounted at both ends of the umbilicus, could be detonated if the Warehouse needed to be sealed off in a hurry. Myka wished the bombs weren’t quite so visible. She had already seen them in action once. She knew how much firepower they packed. Thank heavens nobody had died the last time the bombs went off. At least, not permanently. The tube led to a locked white door. A metal box was attached to the wall next to the door. She opened its lid to expose a glowing blue retinal scanner. Myka positioned her right eye in front of the scanner. By now, the elaborate security measures were second nature to her. An electronic chip confirmed that she was indeed herself. The door swung open. “We’re back,” she called out. Beyond the umbilicus was a cluttered office that resembled a cross between a musty old antique shop and the back room of a museum.
Wooden file cabinets, shelves, and bookcases were crammed against the exposed brickwork. A bulletin board was covered with tacked-up index cards, photos, and newspaper clippings. A pull-down map of the world occupied one wall, not far from an antique harpsichord. Overstuffed shelves and display cases sagged beneath the weight of various exotic relics and curios, including a Viking helmet, a fossilized dinosaur skull, a crystal ball, a gold record, a vintage Roy Rogers lunch box, a bedpan, and a monkey’s paw. A suit of armor, that had once belonged to Richard the Lion-Hearted, stood guard in a corner. A news ticker, like the one in Times Square, offered an endlessly scrolling update on world events. Hanging lamps cast a warm glow over the office. A ratty Persian rug protected the floor. Shuttered windows at the far end of the office blocked her view of the mezzanine beyond, which looked out over the main floor of the Warehouse. A spiral staircase led to Artie’s private quarters one floor up. Paperwork was piled high on the desks, which boasted a jarring mixture of high-tech computer screens and antiquated, retro-looking keypads. A souvenir snow globe was being used as a paperweight. Frost coated the outside of the globe. A micro- blizzard swirled inside it. Myka barely noticed the eclectic decor, which was old hat to her. She looked instead to see who was waiting for her. Her smile widened as she saw that the whole gang was present. “Hey! America’s best-kept secret agents return!” Claudia Donovan sprang from an upholstered wingback chair, nearly spilling her laptop onto the floor. The teenage whiz kid was ten years younger than Myka, as evidenced by her funkier attire and style. Bobbed red hair was accented by a dyed blue swoop. A vintage biker vest was layered over her blue tank top. Novelty pins and buttons added flair to the vest. Her slim legs were tucked into a pair of skinny black jeans. She carelessly tossed the laptop onto the chair before rushing over to greet Myka. “What’s up, girlfriend? How was ye olde pirate museum?”
“The staff was a little overly enthusiastic, but nothing we couldn’t handle.” Myka grinned back at Claudia
