CHERUB: Shadow Wave Read online

  Robert Muchamore was born in 1972 and spent thirteen years working as a private investigator. CHERUB: Shadow Wave is his twelfth novel in the series.

  The CHERUB series has won numerous awards, including the Red House Children’s Book Award. For more information on Robert and his work, visit www.muchamore.com

  Praise for the CHERUB series:

  ‘If you can’t bear to read another story about elves, princesses or spoiled rich kids who never go to the toilet, try this. You won’t regret it.’ The Ultimate Teen Book Guide

  ‘My sixteen-year-old son read The Recruit in one sitting, then went out the next day and got the sequel.’ Sophie Smiley, teacher and children’s author

  ‘So good I forced my friends to read it, and they’re glad I did!’ Helen, age 14

  ‘CHERUB is the first book I ever read cover to cover. It was amazing.’ Scott, age 13

  ‘The best book ever.’ Madeline, age 12

  ‘CHERUB is a must for Alex Rider lovers.’ Travis, age 14

  BY ROBERT MUCHAMORE

  The Henderson’s Boys series:

  1. The Escape

  2. Eagle Day

  3. Secret Army

  4. Grey Wolves

  5. The Prisoner

  … and coming soon:

  6. One Shot Kill

  The CHERUB series:

  1. The Recruit

  2. Class A

  3. Maximum Security

  4. The Killing

  5. Divine Madness

  6. Man vs Beast

  7. The Fall

  8. Mad Dogs

  9. The Sleepwalker

  10. The General

  11. Brigands M.C.

  12. Shadow Wave

  CHERUB series 2:

  1. People’s Republic

  … and coming soon:

  2. Guardian Angel

  www.hodderchildrens.co.uk

  Copyright © 2010 Robert Muchamore

  First published in Great Britain in 2010

  by Hodder Children’s Books

  This eBook edition published in 2012

  The right of Robert Muchamore to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means with prior permission in writing from the publishers or in the case of reprographic production in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency and may not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 444 91055 1

  Hodder Children’s Books

  A Division of Hachette Children’s Books

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  An Hachette UK company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  WHAT IS CHERUB?

  CHERUB is a branch of British Intelligence. Its agents are aged between ten and seventeen years. Cherubs are mainly orphans who have been taken out of care homes and trained to work undercover. They live on CHERUB campus, a secret facility hidden in the English countryside.

  WHAT USE ARE KIDS?

  Quite a lot. Nobody realises kids do undercover missions, which means they can get away with all kinds of stuff that adults can’t.

  WHO ARE THEY?

  About three hundred children live on CHERUB campus. JAMES ADAMS is our seventeen-year-old hero. He’s a well-respected CHERUB agent with many successful missions under his belt. Hong Kong-born KERRY CHANG is James’ girlfriend. His other close friends include BRUCE NORRIS and SHAKEEL DAJANI.

  James’ sister, LAUREN ADAMS, is fourteen and regarded as an outstanding CHERUB agent. She hangs out with boyfriend GREG ‘RAT’ RATHBONE and her best mate BETHANY PARKER.

  CHERUB STAFF

  With its large grounds, specialist training facilities and combined role as a boarding school and intelligence operation, CHERUB actually has more staff than pupils. They range from cooks and gardeners, to teachers, training instructors, nurses, psychiatrists and mission specialists. CHERUB is run by its chairwoman, ZARA ASKER.

  CHERUB T-SHIRTS

  Cherubs are ranked according to the colour of the T-shirts they wear on campus. ORANGE is for visitors. RED is for kids who live on CHERUB campus but are too young to qualify as agents (the minimum age is ten). BLUE is for kids undergoing CHERUB’s tough one-hundred-day basic training regime. A GREY T-shirt means you’re qualified for missions. NAVY is a reward for outstanding performance on a single mission. The BLACK T-shirt is the ultimate recognition for outstanding achievement over a number of missions. When you retire, you get the WHITE T-shirt, which is also worn by staff.

  May 2009

  1. BRIGANDS

  Violent altercations at the biker music festival known as the Rebel Tea Party in August 2008 led to a brutal gang war between the Brigands Motorcycle Club and their bitter rivals the Vengeful Bastards. The stabbings, shootings and property destruction climaxed in October when Brigands national president Ralph ‘the Führer’ Donnington ordered a series of successful arson attacks on Vengeful Bastard clubhouses.

  But the Brigands’ triumph was short-lived. A random police stop on a suspicious vehicle unearthed homemade incendiaries intended for another Brigands attack. Two members of South Devon Brigands were arrested and a search of their London hotel room led to the seizure of firearms, sixty thousand pounds in cash and a laptop containing incriminating e-mails. The messages mentioned the arson attacks on clubhouses and contained financial records relating to South Devon Brigands’ illegal weapons-smuggling operation.

  Eight of the nineteen full members of South Devon Brigands were arrested and charged. Further searches led to more evidence of criminal activity and the arrest of twenty additional bikers, from other Brigands chapters and associate gangs.

  Despite this success the Führer remains in control of the Brigands. But with many close associates in jail he can no longer separate himself from his gang’s day-to-day criminal activities. After years of evading imprisonment the Führer is more vulnerable than ever before.

  Excerpt from an internal police memo written by Chief Inspector Ross Johnson, head of the National Police Biker Task Force (NPBTF) January 2009.

  *

  James Adams cupped his hands under a mixer tap, splashed tepid water up towards his face and looked at his reflection in a mirrored bathroom cabinet. He’d let his hair grow shaggy and had straw-coloured bristles across his face. His acne was behaving itself, except for the red volcano near his Adam’s apple.

  James was going for the biker look, wearing wrecked Nikes, oil-stained jeans and a sleeveless AC/DC T-shirt. The effect was completed by an oversized chrome belt buckle shaped like a skull. He flexed his thick arms and felt good about the way he looked: muscular shoulders, big biceps and thick tufts of hair in his pits. A recent growth spurt would be his last and had left him dead on six feet tall.

  ‘Hey there beautiful,’ James told himself. Then he tried to look menacing. He shot a fist towards the mirror. ‘What are you staring at?’ he shouted. ‘You wanna start something? See where it gets you, you Tottenham-supporting nerd. Bang!’

  James laughed as the imaginary Tottenham fan crumpled to the ground, but there was no one else in the house to hear. He’d established his identity as James Raven the previous sum
mer while living here with a mission controller and two younger agents, but he was living alone on this second phase of the mission. The back story was that he’d fought with his parents, quit studying A-levels and absconded to his family’s Devon holiday home to pursue a career as a full-time rebel.

  James grabbed a black leather jacket and slid it up his arms as he bolted downstairs. He then took his keys and mobile from a crystal bowl by the front door. Hash sixty-nine took him into the handset’s hidden phonebook where he tapped the number for his mission controller, John Jones.

  ‘No sign of the Führer yet, boss,’ James told him. ‘Gonna be at least fifteen minutes late.’

  John’s placid voice came back down the phone. ‘When was the Führer ever on time?’

  ‘Is everything at your end set?’ James asked. ‘Kerry OK?’

  ‘Tickety-boo,’ John agreed. ‘Kerry knows her stuff.’

  ‘We can’t let the Führer off the hook,’ James said seriously. ‘I’ve been on his arse for more than ten months.’

  ‘Any butterflies?’ John asked.

  ‘Sweaty palms, stomach churning,’ James admitted. ‘I’ve done enough missions now, but there’s always a few tense moments.’

  John laughed. ‘Expect it’ll be your last time if this goes down right.’

  ‘Better go, they’ll be here soon,’ James said, feeling stunned as he dropped the Samsung into his jeans.

  Your last time.

  The three words made James feel like someone had smashed a brick around his head. He thought about his missions: Help Earth, KMG, Arizona Max, Leon Tarasov, the Survivors, the AFA, Denis Obidin, Mad Dogs, Street Action Group. Was the Führer his last target? Was today the final act of his CHERUB career?

  The idea sent a sad ache through James, and remembering what he’d seen in the mirror upstairs made him sadder still. CHERUB agents were kids. They were effective because they were small and innocent and adults didn’t suspect them. But James was no child. He was seventeen years old. He had the kind of imposing physique that people crossed the road to avoid and his stubbly face and bent nose looked about as innocent as a Russian battle tank.

  A tear welled, but the adrenaline kick nixed it when he heard the Führer’s Mercedes. It rumbled into his cul-de-sac, skimming past fancy houses before crunching up the gravel drive. The E-class saloon was a brute. Top of the line AMG sports model, with a V8, blacked-out windows, fat tyres and fancy alloys.

  James recognised the three men inside as he grabbed a rear door on the passenger side. The Führer was in the driving seat, short and poisonous with his miniature Hitler-style moustache. The front passenger was Rhino, a biker and long-time Brigands associate who’d never actually joined the gang. In the back was Dirty Dave. Bald and with a thick moustache, he owned half of the strip clubs and massage parlours in South Devon.

  ‘Morning all,’ James said, as he lowered himself on to the tan leather.

  He was surprised to get shoved back out by Dirty Dave. ‘What’s on your back?’ he barked angrily.

  James panicked as he realised he was still wearing his biker jacket. It bore the patch of the Monster Bunch, marking James out as a member of this feeder gang to the Brigands.

  ‘Wear your patch in a car,’ the Führer growled, shaking his head contemptuously as he reached under the dashboard and pulled the lever to open the boot. ‘Shit for brains.’

  For outlaw bikers the coloured insignia on the back of their jackets was sacred. They often travelled in cars, but it was against the rules to wear your club patch while travelling on more than two wheels.

  James backed up and jogged to the rear of the car. The interior of the boot was huge. There was a pink golf bag belonging to the Führer’s wife and two leather Brigands jackets folded lovingly so that the patches were on display. More significantly James saw two baseball bats, a pair of crowbars and a cricket bag bulging with guns and ammunition boxes.

  ‘Let’s go make money!’ Rhino said cheerfully, as James slammed his door and the eighteen-inch alloys spun in the gravel.

  *

  Their destination was Kam’s Surf Club, a dozen miles east of Salcombe. Two storeys high, the restaurant hung precariously close to a cliffs edge, its blue planks weathered by salt spray off the sea below. Kam’s food was a mix of noodles and burgers, with a fifties-style counter, vintage jukebox and surf memorabilia hanging off the walls.

  The joint would be packed out come tourist season, but that was a couple of months off and the only customers at two on a Tuesday afternoon were German backpackers, cocooned in a romantic bubble as they shared a calamari platter and watched waves crashing in the rocky cove below.

  ‘Service!’ the Führer boomed, as he came through the door. ‘Mr Kam, stop frying them rats and get your dirty yellow can out here.’

  The Germans were unnerved by the presence of four aggressive looking bikers. James was last through the swinging doors, eyeing the tanned legs emerging from the female backpacker’s cut-off jeans as he recognised Johnny Cash playing Ring of Fire on the jukebox.

  The chef and owner came out of his kitchen. Kam was stocky, with his straight black hair tied in a ponytail and a striped apron around his waist. He smiled at the Führer, but body language made it clear he was the last person Kam wanted to see.

  The Führer turned to James. ‘Get the VHS.’

  As James headed towards the service counter, Dirty Dave stepped up to the two backpackers. The girl looked at her boyfriend. He was chunky, going for the lumberjack look in his plaid shirt and Aran sweater, but he’d never thrown a punch in his life.

  ‘I don’t want trouble,’ the German said in stilted English as he raised his hands.

  Dirty Dave stopped half a step shy of the table. The Germans recoiled as he reached over and rammed a piece of battered calamari in his mouth.

  ‘Tasty,’ he said, nodding as he chewed. ‘Dirty Dave likes a bit of the old octopus.’

  The female backpacker glanced anxiously at her man. James spoke no German, but it didn’t take a genius to translate let’s get the hell out of here.

  Dirty Dave reached towards his trousers. The German flinched, thinking he was going for a weapon, but instead Dave hooked his thumbs around his belt loops and yanked down his jeans. The woman caught the briefest glance of Dirty Dave’s flopping penis before shooting back from the table and screaming.

  ‘How’s about some English sausage?’ Dirty Dave sneered. ‘Let me show you the real reason we won the war.’

  The male backpacker took a twenty from his wallet and threw it at the table, before grabbing his girlfriend and the backpacks and hurrying towards the exit.

  ‘Aww, come on baby,’ Dirty Dave shouted, as he waddled after them with his filthy jeans around his knees. ‘Why play so hard to get?’

  Rhino and the Führer howled with laughter as James stepped behind the counter. Amidst the dishwashers and beer kegs was a dilapidated security recorder. James ejected the VHS and held it in the air.

  ‘Got the tape, boss,’ he called.

  ‘Don’t leave it behind,’ the Führer ordered, then turned towards Kam wearing a sarcastic grin. ‘Why the sour face?’ he teased.

  ‘How can I pay you when you throw out my customers?’ Kam shouted furiously.

  The Führer laughed. ‘Two customers makes a difference? You had this place heaving all last summer. You owe me three weeks. That’s seven hundred nicker.’

  ‘Four fifty,’ Kam corrected.

  ‘Price shoots up when you don’t pay me,’ the Führer snarled menacingly, before grabbing Kam’s apron and pulling him close. ‘Don’t think that I’m letting things slip, just because a couple of my men are behind bars.’

  ‘I can’t pay so much in winter,’ Kam squirmed. ‘You see how many customers I have.’

  ‘These old wooden buildings burn easy,’ the Führer threatened, as his hands made the shape of an explosion. ‘Poof.’

  ‘Who else is home?’ Rhino asked.

  ‘Just my wife and the translat
or you asked for,’ Kam answered. ‘Back in the kitchen.’

  ‘Get ‘em out here in plain sight,’ Rhino shouted to James.

  As James forced the VHS tape into his leather jacket, he stepped through an archway into a spacious and impeccably clean kitchen. The first woman he saw was Kam’s wife, Alison. She was dressed to wait on tables in white pumps and a pale blue mini-dress. The other woman was Kerry Chang. Kerry was a sixteen-year-old CHERUB agent and James’ current girlfriend, but he couldn’t let on that he knew her and they avoided eye contact.

  ‘You two bitches get out here,’ James said forcefully.

  Alison stepped out of the kitchen as James checked around to make sure nobody was hiding. As Kerry walked by, she gave James a tiny smile and silently mouthed, ‘All good.’

  ‘Aww, look at this little piece!’ Dirty Dave leered, admiring Kerry as she emerged from the kitchen. ‘Mag-bloody-nificent, though a boob job wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Kerry was self-conscious about her small chest and James felt like punching Dirty Dave’s face in as the moustachioed biker sidled up to his girlfriend.

  ‘So you’re our little ching-chong Chinese translator?’ Dave asked, placing one hand on Kerry’s shoulder and sliding it down her back. ‘You want my number baby? Me dig Asian girls.’

  Dirty Dave made Kerry’s stomach churn. He not only had cigar breath and BO, but she’d read police reports about girls who’d been abused inside his clubs, but were too scared to give evidence against a member of the Brigands. Kerry had the skills to flip Dirty Dave like a pancake, but she was on a mission and had to play her part by backing off and looking suitably repulsed.

  ‘She’s a bit young,’ Rhino commented, as he looked at Kam. ‘You sure she’s up to translating?’