Free The Supernaturalist by Eoin Colfer Page A

gung-ho now, but would shortly feel very stupid.
    Ditto chuckled. ‘The oldest trick in the book. We have a crate of those walkie-talkies in the warehouse. I remember when lawyers were smarter.’
    Mona peeped over the rim. ‘Some of them are.’
    Two of the lawyers were coming this way, lightning rod rifles drawn tight against their shoulders.
    ‘Beautiful equipment,’ said Ditto. ‘Those abseiling rigs are hands-free. And the rods can shoot forever. Nothing short of Electromagnetic Pulse will stop those weapons firing.’
    Cosmo was too busy being scared to admire their equipment.
    ‘They’re coming. What are we going to do?’
    Stefan unhooked his backpack, placing his lightning rod on the roof.
    ‘We surrender.’
    Mona grinned. ‘Watch this, Cosmo. A thing of beauty.’
    Cosmo noticed that both Mona and Ditto were switching cartridges in their weapons.
    Stefan rose slowly to his feet, hands raised high above his head.
    ‘Don’t shoot!’ he cried. ‘I’m unarmed.’
    The lawyers split apart, becoming two targets. Both guns were pointed at Stefan’s head.
    ‘You fled the scene,’ one shouted across the divide. ‘We’re legally entitled to wrap you.’
    ‘I know, but come on, guys. I just wanted to see the show. I didn’t touch anything. Anyway, my dad’s an ambassador. We have diplomatic immunity.’
    The lawyers started. Diplomatic immunity was more or less redundant since the One World Treaty, but there was still the odd remote republic that held on to its rights. If you wrapped a genuine diplomat, you’d spendthe next five years in court and the twenty after that in prison.
    ‘If you have diplomatic immunity, why are you wearing that fuzz plate?’
    Fuzz plate was the slang for the night-vision masks Stefan and his team were wearing. The low level radiation in the plastic meant that they could not only repel X-rays, but also wipe video. Even if the Supernaturalists were caught on camera, their heads would only show up as static fuzz.
    ‘Ultraviolet protection, that’s all. I swear. I don’t want to get my brain fried.’
    One of the lawyers cocked his weapon.
    ‘UV? At night? OK, Mr Diplomatic Immunity. Let’s see some diplomatic identification. And it better not be fake, or you won’t see a vat until morning.’
    Stefan reached inside his overcoat and, using two fingers only, withdrew an ID card.
    ‘I’m going to throw it across. Ready? Don’t get trigger-happy. My dad knows Mayor Shine.’
    ‘One hand. Put the other one on top of your head.’
    Stefan did as he was told, flicking the ID card high into the air. The wind caught it, spinning the plastic rectangle another twenty metres up.
    ‘Moron,’ said lawyer number one, his eyes tracking the card.
    ‘I got it,’ said number two.
    At that moment, while both lawyers were watchingthe card, Ditto and Mona popped up simultaneously, squeezing off one round from their new cartridges.
    Two green slugs sped across to the Stromberg Building, viscous trails in their wake. They splatted on to the lawyers’ visors, green goo spreading across their heads and shoulders. The two rapid-response lawyers keeled over, clawing at the blinding gunk.
    ‘Gumballs,’ explained Mona, smiling her dazzling smile. ‘The most disgusting substance on the planet. Those helmets are history. I got clipped with a gumball one time, ruined my favourite flak jacket. Those guys are out of the game until their squad shows up.’
    Stefan watched the blank plastic card spiral towards the streets of Satellite City. Then his phone pulsed gently in his pocket. He pulled it out, consulting the small screen.
    ‘A message from the computer. A citizen has pressed her panic button down on Journey and Eighth. Let’s go. We’ll take the street.’
    ‘One second,’ said Ditto. He laid down a bridge and quickly relieved the struggling lawyers of their abseiling rigs and weapons. The Supernaturalists were on a budget and this equipment was too good to pass up. In seconds the