The men stamped out their cigarettes and spread slowly into a semi-circle. It was six against one.
You had to feel sorry for them. Butler wasn't finished yet.
'Now before we get into anything, ladies, no scratching, no spitting and no tattling to mummy.'
It was the last straw. The men howled and attacked as one. If they had been paying any attention
to their adversary in that moment before contact, they might have noticed that he shifted his weight
to lower his centre of gravity. They might also have seen that the hands he drew out of his pockets
were the size and approximate shape of spades. But no one was paying attention to Butler - too busy
watching their comrades, making sure they weren't alone in the assault.
The thing about a diversion is that it has to be diverting. Big. Crude. Not Butler's style at all. He
would have preferred to take these gentlemen out from 500 metres with a dart rifle. Failing that, if
contact was absolutely necessary, a series of thumb jabs to the nerve cluster at the base of the neck
would be his chosen modus operandi - quiet as a whisper. But that would be defeating the purpose
of the exercise.
And so Butler went against his training, screaming like a demon and utilizing the most vulgar
combat actions. Vulgar they may have been, but that's not to say they weren't effective. Perhaps a
Shao Lin priest could have anticipated some of the more exaggerated movements, but these men
were hardly trained adversaries. In fairness, they weren't even completely sober.
Butler dropped the first with a roundhouse punch. Two more had their heads clapped together,
cartoon style. The fourth was, to Butler's eternal shame, dispatched with a spinning kick. But the
most ostentatious was saved for the last pair. The manservant rolled on to his back, caught them by
the collars of their donkey jackets and flipped them into Dublin harbour. Big splashes, plenty of
wailing. Perfect.
Two headlights poked from the black shadow of a cargo container and a government saloon
screeched along the quay. As anticipated, a Customs and Excise team on stakeout. Butler grinned
with grim satisfaction and ducked around the corner. He was long gone before the agents had
flipped their badges or begun inquiries. Not that their interrogations would yield much. 'Big as a
house' was hardly an adequate description to track him down.
By the time Butler reached the car, Artemis had already returned from his mission.
'Well done, old friend,' he commented. 'Although I'm certain your martial-arts sensei is turning in
his grave. A spinning kick? How could you?'
Butler bit his tongue, reversing the four-wheel drive off the wooden works. As they crossed the
overpass, he couldn't resist glancing down at the chaos he had created. The government men were
hauling a sodden docker from the polluted waters.
Artemis had needed this diversion for something. But Butler knew there was no point in asking
what. His employer did not share his plans with anyone until he thought the time was right. And if
Artemis Fowl thought the time was right, then it usually was.
Root emerged shaking from the pod. He didn't remember it being like this in his time. Although
truth be told, it had probably been an awful lot worse. Back in the shillelagh days, there were no
fancy polymer harnesses, no auto thrusters and certainly no external monitors. It was just gut
instinct and a touch of enchantment. In some ways Root preferred it like that. Science was taking
the magic out of everything.
He stumbled down the tunnel into the terminal. As the number-one preferred destination, Tara
had a fully fledged passenger lounge. Six shuttles a week came in from Haven City alone. Not on the
flares, of course. Paying tourists didn't like to be jostled around quite that much, unless of course
they were on an illegal jaunt to Disneyland.
The fairy fort was crammed with full-moon overnighters complaining about the shuttle
suspensions. A beleaguered sprite was sheltering behind her ticket desk, besieged by angry gremlins.
'There's no point hexing me,' squealed the sprite, 'there's the elf you want right there.'
She pointed a quivering green finger at the approaching commander. The gremlin mob turned on
Root, and when they saw the triple-barrelled blaster on his hip, they kept right on turning.
Root grabbed the PA stand from behind the desk, and hauled it out to the extent of its cable.
'Now hear this,' he growled, his gravelly tones echoing around the terminal. 'This is Commander
Root of the LEP. We have a serious situation above ground and I would appreciate cooperation
from all you civilians. First, I would like you all to stop your yapping so I can hear myself think!'
Root paused to make certain his wishes were being respected. They were.
'Secondly, I would like every single one of you, including those squawling infants, to sit down on
the courtesy benches until I have gone on my way. Then you can get back to griping or stuffing your
faces. Or whatever else it is civilians do.'
No one had ever accused Root of political correctness. No one was ever likely to either.
'And I want whoever's in charge to get over here. Now!'
Root tossed the stand on to the desk. A blare of whistling feedback grated on every eardrum in
the building. Within fractions of a second, an out-of-breath elf/goblin hybrid was bobbing at his
elbow.
'Anything we can do, Commander?'
Root nodded, twisting a thick cigar into the hole beneath his nose.
'I want you to open a tunnel straight through this place. I don't want to be bothered by Customs
or Immigration. Start moving everybody below after my boys get here.'
The shuttle port director swallowed. 'Everybody?'
'Yes. That includes terminal personnel. And take everything you can carry. Full evacuation.' He
stopped and glared into the director's mauve eyes. 'This is not a drill.'
'You mean -'
'Yes,' said Root, continuing down the access ramp. 'The Mud People have committed an overtly
hostile act. Who knows where this is going?'
The elf/goblin combo watched as Root disappeared in a cloud of cigar smoke. An overtly hostile
act? It could mean war. He punched in his accountant's number on his mobile.
'Bark? Yes. This is Nimbus. I want you to sell all my shares in the shuttle port. Yes, all of them. I
have a hunch the price is about to take a severe dive.'
Captain Holly Short felt as though a sucker slug was drawing her brain out through her earhole.
She tried to figure out what could possibly have caused such agony, but her faculties didn't stretch
to memory just yet. Breathing and lying down were about all she could manage.
Time to attempt a word. Something short and pertinent. Help, she decided, would be the one to
go for. She took a trembling breath and opened her mouth.
'Mummlp,' said her treacherous lips. No good. Incomprehensible even by a drunken gnome's
standards.
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