A renegade faction of the world’s most powerful villains is intent on destroying G.L.O.V.E. (Global League Of Villainous Enterprises) and showing the world the true face of evil. The Disciples begin by hijacking Diabolus Darkdoom’s Airborne command post, then they kidnap his son and his son’s best friend. Unfortunately for them, Nigel Darkdoom (and Franz) also happen to be Otto’s friends. Heading out to America, Otto, Wing et al embark on a perilous and highly unauthorised rescue operation. Cut off from the support of H.I.V.E. and on the run from American security forces the hunt for their friends leads to one of the US military’s most secret facilities. It becomes clear that the Disciples are not all they appear and in a desperate race against time Otto must work out who his real friends are and prevent the Disciples from completing their true objective. Only Otto can save the world from domination by a sinister new world order but it might be that the price he has to pay is just too high. When it comes to the crunch will he be prepared to sacrifice himself? Mark Walden spent a decade as a video game designer and producer before becoming a fulltime writer and father. He has a BA in English literature and an MA in 20th-century literature, film, and television, both from Newcastle University. He is the author of the H.I.V.E. series and the Earthfall Trilogy and lives with his family in the United Kingdom. Dreadnought chapter one The young girl ran through the knee-deep snow, her breath escaping in ragged gasps, leaving a trail of thin white clouds that hung in the air. She could hear the sounds of pursuit all too close behind her, the barks and snarls of dogs and the coarse shouts of the men who followed them. She could hardly feel her bare feet and lower legs anymore as she plunged on through the deep icy powder, the dark ancient trees of the forest surrounding her in all directions. She wore nothing but a tattered dark blue dress made of a rough material that offered little protection from the biting cold. As she ran over the crest of a small hill, the girl tripped on a rock concealed beneath the blanket of snow and fell, tumbling down the slope. Staggering to her feet, she spotted the vague outline of a cottage, its dark walls half buried beneath deep white drifts. She stumbled toward it, desperately rattling the handle of its only door. It was locked. The girl gritted her teeth and kicked the wooden door hard, ignoring the pain in her foot. The door refused to budge. She cursed under her breath and kicked again, harder. The ancient lock gave way and as the door flew inward the girl half staggered, half fell inside. She quickly shut the door behind her and looked around the darkened room. It was obviously a hunting lodge: stuffed animal heads were mounted on the walls and animal skins were scattered on the floor and chairs, but there were no signs of life. Everything was covered by a thick layer of dust which the girl disturbed as she frantically searched the ground floor for anything she could use as a weapon. Outside, several men in heavy cold-weather outfits ran toward the cottage, led by the vicious snarling dogs straining at the leashes they held. “The trail ends here,” the first man said in Russian. “She’s inside.” “Go get her,” said the tall man at the rear of the group. The men on either side of him unslung the rifles that hung across their backs and headed toward the house. They pushed the door open and cautiously entered. Seconds later a single shot rang out from somewhere inside the cottage. Then silence returned to the snowcovered forest. “Vasilly? Gregor?” the tall man called out, but there was no reply. “Send the dogs in,” he said with a frown. Two large, heavily muscled dogs sprinted across the snow and into the cottage. There was sudden noisy barking and then a quick panicked whimpering sound before silence descended once again. “What should we do, Mr. Furan?” one of the dog handlers asked, staring at the darkened windows of the cottage. “Wait here,” the tall man replied and pulled a handgun from his belt. He walked toward the house and went inside. “How old is she?” the first dog handler asked. “I don’t know,” the other man replied. “Ten, eleven years old maybe?” “She’s not going to make it to twelve if Furan has anything to say about it.” Suddenly, there was a pained yell from inside the house and one of the windows shattered, exploding outward in a shower of glass as a wooden stool flew through it. The girl dived out through the jagged hole and rolled to her feet, sprinting off through the snow, darting between the trees. Furan staggered out of the cottage, blood streaming from under the hand clutched to his right eye. He raised the pistol and took careful aim at the fleeing girl. He squeezed the trigger, the shot seeming unusually loud in the quiet of the snowy forest. The girl spun, the bullet striking her in the shoulder, and she collapsed onto the snow.