Chapter Twenty

Don Juan admired his reflection in a miniature paneled mirror.

He turned to view every angle of his perfect design. “Your hair, as shiny as a stallion’s mane. Your eyes, the azul of the sea. And your buttocks like the burn of a fresh jalapeño that’s just about to pop—”

“Do not finish that sentence please!” Gustafson reared up from his seat and loomed over the toy matador, hands splayed on his glossy desktop.

At that moment, guards in green uniforms studded with gold buttons marched into the office and stood at rapt attention.

“There are kids in the factory,” one said. “They’ve taken the crate with the robot.”

“Who cares!” Gustafson growled as he sank down in his chair and threw his arms out. “It’s a failed invention! Let them have it.”

“¡Ay! ¡Dios mío! If it were failed, then why would they be trying to recover it?” Don Juan said. “They wouldn’t!”

Gustafson’s pout gave way to wide-eyed comprehension.

Maestro Don Juan Diego was rarely wrong.

“Stop them at once!” Gustafson ordered.