CHAPTER 59

“Zolin will meet us upstairs in the penthouse,” said Uncle Timothy.

Mom arched an eyebrow. “Does he know we’re coming?”

“Affirmative. I thought it best to let him know. We don’t want him siccing those wolfhounds on us, so I called ahead.”

“I don’t think that was our best play, Timothy.”

“Relax, Sue. Calm down.”

Mom’s ears turned pink. She hates it when somebody tells her to calm down. (Yep. Storm inherited most of her stormy temperament from Mom.)

“Besides,” said Uncle Timothy, gesturing toward his six colleagues, “we have backup. Zolin’s just a kid. My men are all very heavily armed.”

When Uncle Timothy said that, his six henchmen tapped their chests, bellies, butts, and shins—all the places they were concealing clinking weaponry.

All we Kidds had brought with us were our quick wits, our keen minds, and our martial arts expertise. Luckily, Uncle Timothy and his army of musclemen were on our side.

We stepped over some wolfhound poop in the lobby and rode a gold-plated elevator up to the tenth floor.

The elevator doors opened directly into a lavish penthouse suite. Viktor Zolin, the teenage oil billionaire, was waiting for us in a giant living room where the ceiling looked like the topping on a lemon meringue pie.

And, of course, he was weeping.