The Trap (The Magnificent 12 #2)(12)

Or in Nine Iron’s case, a slow kill.

Panicky vendors were trying desperately to save squids and snakes-on-a-stick from the threatening flames. All the commotion was lit by cheery neon lights shining off candy-striped awnings.

Stefan had powerful legs. But the weight of a not-exactly-steady Mack flailing all over the handlebars slowed him down a bit.

Mack didn’t snap entirely back to reality until he saw Nine Iron’s cane-sword within about eight feet of skewering him like a fried scorpion.

“Hey!” he yelled.

Stefan tried to veer right to pass the safe side of the pedicab, but quick-peddling Tong Elves cut him off.

“Left! Closer!” Mack shouted.

Maybe Stefan obeyed or maybe he just wobbled, but either way Mack’s left hand came just close enough to a tray of mixed skewers.

He snatched them up, transferred them to his right hand, and with Nine Iron’s deadly sword just two feet from his heart, flung the skewers like darts.

The sudden movement sent Stefan even farther left, crashing through a grease fire and slip-sliding through a couple of dozen frantic lobsters who were no doubt hoping to reach the ocean. (Sorry: no.)

The sword missed by millimeters.

The skewers did not. In a flash of neon, Mack saw that a skewer of fried sea horses had stuck in Nine Iron’s gaunt cheek. And a skewer of fried silkworm cocoons had stuck in Nine Iron’s green bowler hat.

They flashed past the pedicab and gained speed. Jarrah was alongside, pedaling hard.

“Why am I riding on the handlebars?” Mack cried.

“Look out! Here they come!” Jarrah cried, jerking her chin back toward the Tong Elves. With a glance, Mack could see that the pedicab driver had spun his vehicle sharply, making a teetering two-wheel turn, and now raced after the fleeing bikes.

Ahead was a tall, red-lacquered double door studded with brass bolts as big as a baby’s head. Two uniformed guards were just closing a massive filigreed gate behind a departing cleaning crew.

Mack, Stefan, and Jarrah shot through the gap, pursued by Chinese shouts of outrage. Which aren’t that different from American shouts of outrage because outrage is a universal language.

The guards slammed the gates closed behind them, locking out Nine Iron and the elves on bikes.

Unfortunately now the guards were yelling at Mack, Stefan, and Jarrah, and blowing police whistles, so while things looked better than they had, they still didn’t look good.

“We have to hide!” Jarrah said.

They were in a vast square. Buildings all around formed the edges of a cobblestoned courtyard. The walls on all sides were reddish, although in the dim light it was hard to see very clearly.

Mack was trying to picture the map of the Forbidden City in his mind. He’d glanced at the map but he hadn’t exactly memorized the place. After all, it’s a huge complex full of numerous palaces—some big, some small, all fabulously decorated with dragons and filigree and Chinese characters.

And still, even now, Mack was thinking just a little bit about Toaster Strudel.

“Which way?” Stefan asked.

They were easily outpacing the guards, who were on foot. But Mack had no illusion that these were the only guards. In a few minutes the place would be swarming with guards and cops and, for all he knew, the entire Chinese army.

Things had loosened up a bit at the Forbidden City, but not so much that they’d let two Yanks and an Aussie ride bikes around the place at night.

“Just keep riding!” Mack yelled.

They were pedaling up a long ramp that led to one of the central palaces.

“If there’s ten thousand rooms,” Jarrah said, “we should be able to find someplace to hide.”

“Nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine rooms,” Mack corrected her. “The palace of the gods was ten thousand, and emperors didn’t want to look presumptuous by equaling it.”

Jarrah stared at him. Mack shrugged. “What? I notice these things.”

“We have to ditch the bikes,” Jarrah said. “We can hide easier on foot.”

They ducked inside through one of the less grandiose entrances. The lights had been turned off, but emergency exits still glowed and a single distant overhead light shone. They saw a museum, a square chamber filled with ornate clocks and other bits of furniture, which on closer examination also turned out to be clocks.

“Clock museum,” Mack whispered. He had his iPhone out and was frantically web surfing, trying to pull up a map of the Forbidden City.

“Cool,” Jarrah said. “The kind of place Mum would love.”

Stefan backed into a massive, incredibly fragile-looking clock that rocked back on its pedestal.

Mack heard the sound of running footsteps.

He dimmed the screen on his phone.

“This way,” Jarrah said. “Shine a little phone light on this.”

It was a cabinet at the bottom of an armoire-sized clock decorated with elephants and griffins and little gold leaves. The clock was maybe nine feet tall. But the cabinet wasn’t much bigger than a large toy box.

“We could hide in there,” Stefan said. “The guards are closing in on this place.”

“Are you nuts?” Mack whispered back. “I’m not getting in there! It’s tiny! We could be locked in there forever. No air. Suffocating! I won’t be able to breathe. . . . Already I can’t breathe. . . . Like being buried alive! I can’t!”