Thick as Thieves (10 page)

SOMETHING STUNG JOE'S CHEEK. He tried to wave it away, but it stung him again. Finally he opened his eyes a crack—then he parted them wide.

Frank was kneeling over him, gently bringing him around. He saw dark smudges on Frank's face, and his clothes were tattered, but he was alive!

"You're still breathing, brother," Frank said, smiling. "We both made it."

Joe sat up and saw Chavo standing impatiently behind Frank. Frank turned to the Mexican and said, "Go ahead. We'll catch up in a few minutes." As Chavo left, Frank helped Joe to his feet.

"What happened?" Joe asked. "That bomb knocked me clear across the room. You couldn't have survived if you'd been right on top of it."

"You should have seen all the great electronic equipment in there." Frank laughed. Then his face turned serious. "A fan's dream, all this radio and TV stuff — very bulky. When I realized I couldn't get out of the room, I put the bomb in one end and pushed the equipment to the other."

Joe began to grin. "And you hid behind the equipment when the bomb went off." He shook his head. "It's just like you to leave me to take the worst of it."

"The equipment took the worst. There's not much of it left," Frank said. His face grew grim. "I'm really glad to see you, Joe. I thought you were dead."

"I thought you were, too." Joe gave his brother a big hug. "Let's try never to go through that again, okay?"

"Deal," Frank said. "Now let's find Chavo."

When the Hardys caught up to him, Frank asked, "Do you trust us to get the Director while you try to reach the police?"

"I suppose I do not have a choice," Chavo replied with a grin. "I will have to find another working radio at another hotel."

"Good." Frank cocked his head toward the door and glanced at Joe. "Now, why don't we go round up the Director."

The hotel was empty, except for the still-unconscious guests and staff. Every room had been stripped, every safe-deposit box looted. The Director's plan had worked almost flawlessly.

"Get back," Frank said. They both jumped for the shadows as two criminals, loaded down with bags, walked by. "They'll probably lead us to the Director as well as anyone." Staying out of sight, they followed the two thieves to the town square, where everyone had lined up to pour jewelry and money into an old dump truck.

"A truck?" said Frank.

"Jolly said something about this," Joe explained. "It's supposed to get all this stuff off the island."

"How can a truck get out?" Frank said in disbelief. "It doesn't look very seaworthy."

"That's what we were told," Joe said. "I guess we'll find out soon enough."

"Come on." Frank glanced around. "I've got an idea." Quickly he led Joe to the nearest building. Frank jumped up, catching the fire escape. They climbed up three sets of metal stairs, until they were on a roof overlooking the bizarre scene.

They watched for a while.

"Look," Joe said, breaking the silence.

Out on the ocean, a fleet of lights grew brighter and brighter as they approached the island. A high-pitched whine became louder, then softer, then louder still.

"It's the police," Joe said.

"Then Chavo did find another radio." Frank nodded. "But the Director planned on this. Hang on, little brother. I think we're about to catch the ride of our lives."

On the ground, the criminals were reacting to the oncoming sirens. Joe watched in amusement as they frantically pointed out to sea. Several rushed the truck and tried to get into the driver's cabin, but the doors were locked.

"That's not the Director driving," Joe said.

"No, but I bet he'll be where the truck's going," Frank said, watching it careen down the street. "Get ready."

"What are we supposed to do from up here?"

"Jump," said Frank.

"Jump?"

"Jump!"

Together, they leapt.

The Hardys fell three stories, to smash into a lumpy pile of loot. They were in the back of the old dump truck, speeding through Puerto de Oro at a breakneck pace.

As he bounced around on the jewelry and cash, Frank imagined the look on the Director's face when he got to his destination and found them waiting for him.

The truck turned off the street and onto a dirt road, heading for the heart of the island. Far behind were the casinos, criminals, and police. Now the scenery was tropical forest so thick that it was almost jungle, and the road turned to a trail barely wide enough for the vehicle. It looked as if no one had ever lived on this part of the island. It was almost wilderness.

The police would never look for the Director here.

They rode up a mountain, then down the other side. Joe stood and looked out over the hood of the dump truck. The truck was heading toward a small inlet, lit orange and purple by the rising sun. There was a long stretch of beach beside the water, and on the sand, a dark winged object.

"You're not going to believe this," Joe said. "I guess you can get anything from government surplus if you try hard enough."

Frank took a look. "I believe it. It's the only way his plan could work."

The truck rolled onto the beach and into the fuselage of the cargo plane waiting there.

The Hardys lay flat on the loot as the aircraft's engines started one by one. The truck door slammed, and Frank could hear the Director barking orders. The ramp up to the airplane was pulled in, and the entrance bay closed. Then the plane started to move. Frank and Joe began to slide over the loot as the plane rose into the air.

"Frank," Joe began as the plane leveled off, but Frank clapped a hand over Joe's mouth, silencing him. The Director's triumphant laughter echoed in the belly of the plane.

Then came a grinding noise. "Oh, no!" Frank yelled, no longer caring if he were heard or not.

The front of the dump truck began to tip up.

Frank and Joe crawled through the loot, trying to reach what was now becoming the top of the mound, but the farther they crawled forward, the more the slipping pile of riches carried them back. The back gate of the truck opened, the loot spilling onto the floor of the airplane. The Director danced around the pile with joy.

Then he saw the Hardys, and his face changed. "Nick! Charlie!" he called, going for the pistol stuck inside his belt.

Joe dived, tackling him. A shot rang out, ricocheting off the wall of the plane. Then Joe reached the Director, grabbed his gun hand, and tore the pistol from his grip.

"Drop it," a voice snarled. "Hands where we can see them." Joe spun, pistol ready, to find himself facing two unshaven men with automatic rifles. The one who spoke wore a T-shirt, and his black hair was cut close to his head, almost like a skullcap. His gun was aimed straight at Joe. The second gunman trained a rifle on Frank.

Sagging, Joe dropped the pistol and raised his hands.

"This one's no problem, Nick," the other man said as he shoved Frank to Joe's side. The Director picked up his fallen pistol.

"The Hardys," the Director said. "Is there no getting rid of you?"

"Smarter guys than you have tried," Joe answered defiantly.

A slow smile spread over the Director's face. "That may be true. But I'll be the one to succeed." He signaled the two other men, who nudged Frank and Joe toward the bay door.

"Let me introduce Nick and Charlie," the Director went on. "They've had quite a bit of experience with smuggling by air. For instance, do you know what they do with contraband when the police are closing in?"

He hit a switch, and the bay doors opened. Frank and Joe looked out over the dark Pacific, half a mile below.

"We dump it," Nick said with a grin.

The Director grinned back. He pointed to the bay door, then turned to the Hardys. "To have gotten into the truck, you must be good at jumping."

The smugglers cocked their automatic rifles and pressed them in the Hardys' ribs.

"I'd like to see a demonstration," the Director said. "So jump."

"A HIGH-DIVE COMPETITION is no fun with just two people, Director," a woman's voice said. "Maybe you should join them."

The Director and the Hardys all turned at once, shock on their faces.

"Charity!" Joe yelled.

"Get her!" the Director shouted to the smugglers. Nick just turned where he was, training his rifle on his supposed boss.

Charity stepped from the cockpit. "I don't think your men will follow your orders anymore, Director. I've bought them off."

"Impp-ossible." The Director stuttered over the word. "I offered them a cut of the loot! How could you top that?"

Charity shrugged. "I offered them half the loot. Once we take it from you, of course. Now, if you'd be so kind—" She waved them toward the open bay door.

"You can't!" Joe said.

She laughed. "True enough." To the Director she said, "Close that door. I've never killed anybody, and I don't want to pick up bad habits."

"Any more bad habits?" Joe sneered.

Charity feigned a brokenhearted look. "Why, Joe. And after I just saved your life. How ungentlemanly." She signaled, and the two smugglers shoved the Hardys and the Director into the plane's interior. Charity reached into her pocket, pulling out two pairs of handcuffs.

"Souvenirs from police I've run into," she explained.

The smuggler named Nick opened the driver's door of the dump truck, lowering the window. He stuck Joe on one side of the open door and Frank on the other, holding their hands up. Then Charity snapped the cuffs over their wrists. They were stuck, trapped by the door. The smuggler named Charlie handcuffed the Director to the truck's rear bumper, just out of reach of the loot.

"You lied to me," Joe accused Charity. "You're no government agent."

She began to laugh. "Of course I lied. I'm a thief. It worked out so much better this way."

"I can understand why you wanted to rip off the Director," Frank said, looking back at the loot. "But why bring us into it?"

"The oldest reason in the world, Frank," Charity said. "Misdirection — keeping the enemy off guard. You were the wild cards. While the Director was busy watching you, he couldn't keep an eye on me."

"So you pulled that heist in Bayport just to lure us in." Frank was talking out loud to explain it to himself.

"I think you'll agree it worked out well." She studied Joe's angry scowl. "Or maybe not. We don't have to agree on everything."

The Director sat on the floor, his tear-filled eyes fixed and staring. "How did you know? How did you know?"

"You're going to think this is funny," Charity explained. "I was in Puerto de Oro six months ago, when you were planning this caper. You write everything down, did you know that? It's the sort of thing that will get you in trouble one of these days."

"I destroyed all those notes!" the Director burst out. "No one ever saw them except me."

"And the woman who robbed your safe," Charity added, to the man's surprise. "Me. It was a good plan, but I think mine was better."

The Director sank into silence, his face gray with shame.

"What are you going to do with us?" Frank asked. "You can't let us go. We know too much."

"What do you know?" Charity countered. "You don't know who I am or where I'm going. No, you really can't do me much harm at all." She looked wistfully out the window. "We'll be in Guatemala before too long. The plane will land there, we'll take the loot out, and leave you with the plane. How's that?"

"Just great," Joe said sourly.

She patted him gently on the cheek, trying to raise his spirits. "Don't take it like that, Joe. You'll get free pretty quickly. I'll see to that. Then all you have to do is find the Guatemalan police and explain everything to them, and by the time you do that, I'll be long gone.

"It's a shame, really," Charity said, looking at the Hardys. "We made such a good team. Maybe we can work together again someday."

"Over my dead body," Joe muttered.

"Don't say things like that," Charity scolded him. "Someday you'll run into someone who'll take that suggestion seriously."

Like the Director, Joe sank into silence and fumed. He couldn't believe it. Charity had outwitted them again.

The plane dipped, and Frank saw light coming from around the front end of the plane, streaks of bright red. The sun was almost up, but it had risen to the right of them.

She's lying again, he thought to himself. If the sun is to the right, we're flying northeast. That means we're over the United States.

"This is where I get out," Charity said. The plane landed, skidding along a landing strip crudely scratched out of the desert. When the plane came to a halt, Nick opened the bay doors.

A man stood at the bottom of the ramp, half-hidden in the morning grayness. He was short and thin, with thinning dark hair that formed a widow's peak. His thick glasses reflected the lights from inside the plane. Behind him was a rent-a-van, the kind used by millions of people throughout the country. Once they got on the highway with that, Frank knew, the thieves would vanish without a trace.

The man walked up the ramp, into the lit area.

"Renner!" Joe shouted. Forgetting the handcuffs, he lunged for the insurance investigator but jerked back abruptly, stopped by the end of his chain.

Renner frowned. "What are they doing here? This ruins everything. They'll destroy my career."

"You'll be rich, remember?" Charity reminded him. "You won't need a career. Let them be."

Nick went outside and backed the rent-a-van to the cargo-bay doors. A third smuggler, the pilot, came out of the cockpit and, with Renner, Charity, and the others, shoveled the loot into boxes, piling them in the back of the van.

Frank and Joe watched this without comment. The Director, on his knees with one hand cuffed to the truck, desperately scratched and clawed at any loose baubles or money that fell as they were loaded. Laughing, the smugglers let him keep whatever he could grab.

Renner, though, snatched the loot away from the Director and stuffed it into the last box.

When the final box was in the van, Charity blew goodbye kisses to the Hardys. "Thank you, boys," she said. "I couldn't have done it without you." She walked down the ramp out the bay door to the van.