Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer [63]
“Blow ’er, Chix. Blow the door off its damn hinges.”
“Yessir. Off its damn hinges. That’s a roger.”
Cudgeon winced. There’d be a general meeting tomorrow. First thing. By then he’d have the commander’s icon on his lapel. Even a sprite might be less likely to curse with the triple acorn logo winking in his face.
Chix pulled down his shrapnel goggles, even though the cab had a quartz windscreen. The goggles were cool. Girls loved them. Or so the driver thought. In his mind’s eye he saw himself as a grim-faced daredevil. Sprites were like that. Give a fairy a pair of wings and he thinks he’s God’s gift to women. But Chix Verbil’s ill-fated quest to impress the dames is, once again, another story. In this particular tale, he serves only one purpose. And that is to melodramatically push the detonate button. Which he does, with great aplomb.
Two dozen controlled charges detonated in their chambers, driving two dozen alloy cylinders out of their mounts at over a thousand miles per hour. Upon impact, each bar pulverized the contact area plus the surrounding fifteen centimeters, effectively blowing the door off its damn hinges. As the captain would say.
When the dust settled, the handlers winched back the containment wall inside the cage and began hammering the side panels with the flats of their hands.
Cudgeon peeped out from behind the blast shield.
“All clear, Captain?”
“Just a damn second, Commander. Chix? How’re we doin’?”
Chix checked the cab’s monitor.
“He’s movin’. The hammerin’ is spookin’ him. The claws are comin’ out. My, he’s a big sucker. I wouldn’t wanna be that Recon babe if she gets in the way of this.”
Cudgeon felt a momentary pang of guilt, which he dispelled with his favorite daydream—a vision of himself sinking into a beige-velour Council seat.
The cage heaved violently, almost dislodging Chix from his seat. He held on like a rodeo rider.
“Whoa! He’s on the move. Lock and load, boys. I have a feeling that any second we’re going to be gettin’ a cry for help.”
Cudgeon didn’t bother locking and loading. He preferred to leave that sort of thing to the foot soldiers. The Acting Commander considered himself too important to be risked in an insecure situation. For the good of the People in general, it was better he remain outside the op zone.
Butler took the stairs four at a time. It was possibly the first time he had ever abandoned Master Artemis in a time of crisis. But Juliet was family, and there was obviously something seriously wrong with his baby sister. That fairy had said something to her, and now she was just sitting in the cell giggling. Butler feared the worst. If anything were to happen to Juliet, he didn’t know how he’d live with himself.
He felt a dribble of sweat slide down the crown of his shaven head. This whole situation was shooting off in bizarre directions. Fairies, magic, and now a hostage loose in the manor. How could he be expected to control things? It took a four-man team to guard the lowliest politician, but he was expected to contain this impossible situation on his own.
Butler sprinted down the corridor into what had until recently been Captain Short’s cell. Juliet was sprawled on the cot, enraptured by a concrete wall.
“What are you doing?” he gasped, drawing the Sig Sauer nine-millimeter with practiced ease.
His sister barely spared him a glance. “Quiet, you big ape. Louie the Love Machine is on. He ain’t so tough, I could take him.”
Butler blinked. She was talking gibberish. Obviously drugged.
“Let’s go. Artemis wants us upstairs in the situations room.”
Juliet pointed a manicured finger at the wall.
“Artemis can wait. This is for the intercontinental title. And it’s a grudge match. Louie ate the Hogman’s pet piggie.”
The manservant studied the wall. It was definitely blank. He didn’t have time for this.
“Right. Let’s go,” he growled, slinging his sister over a broad shoulder.
“Nooo! You big bully,” she protested, hammering his back with tiny fists. “Not now. Hogman! Hogmaaaan!”
Butler ignored the objections,