Free The Trap by Michael Grant Page B

Magnificent Twelve and save the world.”
    It was a beautiful moment. Mack wished he had the nerve to take a picture.
    But the moment didn’t last long.
    There came a thump. Like a bomb going off, but not right in the room.
    And suddenly there was another dragon rushing into the room. Not quite as big as Huang Long, but definitely greener and somehow more feminine.
    â€œMother!” Xiao cried.
    Mother dragon yelled something in a language Mack did not understand. Huang Long’s head snapped up. His eyes blazed.
    Xiao spun to Mack and said, “Invaders! They’ve blown up the nine-dragon wall!”

Chapter Fourteen
    STILL A LONG TIME AGO . . .
    S ix Toes Ricotta was the capo di tutti capi , the head Black Hand boss for New York. He was accompanied by two of his boys, Bad Breath Caprino and Fatface Pecarino.
    Despite his usual caution, Paddy was excited by the invitation. It could only be a job offer. Lately the Black Hand had been growing quickly—more quickly than the Nafia—and Paddy thought he might have a better career with them.
    Plus, the Black Hand had recently begun allowing its members to date. Which meant that Black Hand members could go see movies without looking lonely and pathetic. They could go out to restaurants without the waiters looking at them with pity.
    The Black Hand believed you could be a ruthless killer and still find love. But the Nafia was sticking to its traditional position, which was opposed to any chance at personal happiness.
    It was a beautiful day. The sun was high in the sky as the four of them drove in a steam-powered car to the golf course.
    Paddy had never been on a golf course before. It was green and lush and clean. It reminded him a little of County Grind. But with fewer hovels and no pigs.
    Fatface had brought a cooler. Of course, this being a long time ago, it was a steam-powered cooler.
    â€œHave a drink, Paddy,” Six Toes said. “Fatface! Give the kid a drink.”
    And standing there on that endless green grass with a glass of chilled wine in his hand, Paddy felt mighty good.
    â€œYou play much golf?” Six Toes asked politely.
    â€œNo. But back in the Old Country we had a game we played called gopher-and-hole.” Paddy took a refreshing swig and almost smiled at the memory. “We’d cut the head off a gopher, carry it a hundred paces away, and try to knock the head back into the gopher’s hole using clubs made out of starched pig intestines.”
    The three Black Hand criminals stared at him.
    â€œSure an’ it were a grand sport, so it was, so it was,” Paddy reminisced.
    But the three hoods erupted into derisive laughter. “Starched pig intestines? Ah-ha-ha-ha!”
    â€œYou’re really a rube, aren’t you?” Bad Breath Caprino said.
    â€œWhat a bumpkin!”
    â€œHeh,” Six Toes snarked, “what can you expect from an oat eater?”
    Paddy’s smile disappeared. A small fire was burning inside him. He blushed. Which he had never done before.
    â€œLet’s get started,” Six Toes said. And then he spoke the words that would change his own life and Paddy’s, too. He said, “Grab me my driver from my golf bag. Oh, wait! You wouldn’t recognize a driver, would you? It’s not the same as a pig intestine. Ha-ha-ha. You wouldn’t know a driver from a . . . from a nine iron.”
    Paddy swallowed his boiling rage.
    He went to the steam-powered golf cart, found the golf bag, rummaged through for a few seconds, found what he was looking for, and stalked back to the three laughing Black Handers.
    â€œThis,” Paddy said, “is a driver.”
    He swung the driver so hard that Fatface wasn’t fat anymore.
    â€œNo! No!” Six Toes cried.
    Paddy tossed the driver aside.
    â€œAnd this,” Paddy said, “is a nine iron.”
    It’s best not to dwell on what Paddy did with the nine iron. Suffice it to say that five