Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Thick as Thieves (8 page)
One of the men holding Chavo landed a fist in Chavo's stomach, and the Mexican dropped to his knees, gasping. Another man lifted up Chavo's head.
"Talk," the man said.
Chavo curled his lip into a sneer.
"No go," Jolly told the radio. "Now can I cut?"
"By all means," the radio said. "Be my guest."
Jolly lifted the candle and ran the knife blade up and down the flame. "You know," he told Frank as he approached, "if a knife is hot enough, any wound that it opens will burn shut." Jolly spat on the end of the blade, and Frank heard a quick sizzle. "Unfortunately for you, my young friend, a mere candle will never make a blade that hot."
He stabbed the knife at Frank's bare chest.
As the blade moved, Brady and Everest flinched, and for just an instant Frank felt their grips loosen. Before they could react, he kicked out, catching Jolly in the elbow.
Jolly howled, and the knife flew out of his hand. At the same time, Frank threw his arms straight up in the air, and dropped, using his weight to pull himself out of the grip of Brady and Everest. As he dropped, he grabbed their collars, and they jerked forward. Their heads smacked together with a loud thud.
Frank let go and rolled, knocking Jolly's feet out from under him. The heavy set man, still smarting from the kick in the elbow, collapsed to the floor of the hold.
Then Chavo hurled himself backward, dragging his captors off balance. He rolled into a backward somersault and was free. He sprang to his feet, driving an uppercut into the jaw of the man closest to him.
Frank drove a right hook into the other—and both men fell.
Brady and Everest were already scrambling to their feet, murder in their eyes. Jolly crawled along the floor, frantically trying to find his blade.
Frank rushed forward, head down, and caught Brady in a football tackle, shoving him back against the wall. As they broke apart, Frank clamped his hands together and drove a two-fisted smash into Brady's jaw. The criminal sagged and slid down the wall. He was too dazed to react to anything.
In the meantime Chavo had grabbed Everest around the leg and shoulder and, as the man sputtered in disbelief, lifted him up in the air. Then Chavo lurched forward, body-slamming Everest to the floor. Everest flattened out.
"Pretty impressive," Frank said.
"I watch a lot of wrestling on television," Chavo replied.
Jolly shook the fog from his eyes and lurched to his feet. He waved his knife in front of him as he faced Chavo and Frank. But the heavy set man's confidence was gone.
"Should we flip a coin to see who gets to take the knife away from him?" Frank asked.
With a feeble grin, Jolly flipped the knife around and handed it to Frank hilt - first. "I believe I'm outnumbered."
Chavo tapped his knuckles against Jolly's jaw, and the heavy set man gave out a soft cry, more of surprise than of pain, before he fainted. Frank folded the knife and put it in his pocket.
From above there was a sudden banging sound, as the hold hatch was slammed down.
"They're locking us in," Frank said. He raced up the ladder and started pounding on the hatch cover, but it was no use. Someone had bolted it in place.
"Who?" Chavo asked. "Everyone's down here except Chrome, and he's steering the ship. Who could have put that hatch cover in place?"
"Beats me," Frank said. He eyed the men sprawled unconscious throughout the hold. "I'm more worried about them. When they wake up, they're going to want our hides. We sort of took them by surprise, and I don't think that's going to happen again.
"Si," Chavo agreed. He began to tear open crates. "We must get that hatch open or find something to tie them with. Help me."
Feverishly Frank and Chavo pulled open crates. There was nothing in them that would help their situation. "What'd you find?" Frank asked.
"One of the crates is filled with guns, another with gas masks." Chavo paused, stroking his chin and staring thoughtfully at nothing. "Gas masks. I begin to understand."
As Chavo grabbed two masks from the crate, Frank pulled out a pouch-size plastic wad. "Look at this. Inflatable life raft." He lifted two small plastic oars from the same crate. "If we ever get out of here, we can use this to get off the boat."
"We will not get out," Chavo said. Already, Brady was beginning to stir. "We need a lever to pry the hatch open."
"Why didn't I think of that?" Frank asked, and leaned back against a crate. It slid away from him, and he turned to see why. The box had been resting on something, and when he pushed against it, it rolled off. The metal something was a crowbar — probably there to pry open the crates.
"Will this do?"
Chavo grinned and dashed up the ladder. He jammed the bar into the small space between the hatch cover and the deck, and with all his strength, using his weight for leverage, Chavo strained at it.
"Hurry!" Frank shouted, picking up the life raft. Brady was on his feet, and the others were moving and groaning. Chavo also groaned as he strained, but the hatch cover stayed in place.
Brady staggered forward, almost blindly, and grabbed at Frank. Frank kicked him away, and the man staggered back to sit again.
"Almost!" Chavo said. He squinted and strained with the effort. The hatch budged.
It flew open all of a sudden, almost knocking Chavo off the ladder.
They emerged onto the deck, tensed and ready for action. There was no one there. Where was the person who had locked them in? Frank's eyes drifted toward the captain's tower, where Chrome Lasker was standing, talking with someone.
Frank shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He was imagining things. The man in the captain's tower with Lasker looked like Joe.
"Jump," Chavo ordered. They could hear the others stirring down below. Chavo leapt over the railing, and Frank followed, pulling the inflation cord on the life raft. It expanded as he fell.
They splashed into the water, and he and Chavo pulled themselves into the life raft and began paddling away from the barge.
To the west, Frank could see the lights of the island of Puerto de Oro. It shimmered on the sea like a giant jewel, a fantasyland unaware of what was coming to it. All the lights reminded him of Fourth of July fireworks, and he imagined that he could hear the loud popping.
They're shooting at us, he realized.
He crouched down, making himself less of a target, and paddled harder until they were out of sight. The moon had cooperated and was now hidden behind a heavy cloud cover.
***
"It's good to see you, too, Lasker," Joe said.
Lasker laughed at his joke and tossed the gun on the control panel. Then he took his foot away from Joe's throat, and offered him a hand to help Joe to his feet. "Why are you crashing into my control room, Kid? I thought you were on the other end of the mission."
"I was," Joe explained, half-telling the truth. "In all the action on the other ship, I got thrown overboard. I drifted for a long time, until I spotted this ship, and I climbed aboard. I figured I'd capture it and get to Puerto de Oro that way. How did I know it belonged to the Director?"
"Well, you know now," Lasker said. "Some people are just born lucky, Kid."
As Joe stood, movement outside the window caught his eye. Someone had leapt over the side of the railing. "There's something going on down there." Then in a minute he saw the others, gathered at the railing, shooting into the ocean. Almost as one, they turned and raced to the captain's tower.
"Trouble," Jolly began to tell Lasker. He spotted Joe, and a pleased smile crossed his face. "Kid! Where did you come from?"
"What's the problem?" Lasker asked.
"Chavo has escaped." To Joe he explained, "He double-crossed us. And now he's escaping. We can't see his raft anymore, and our guns won't shoot far enough."
Lasker gave a big belly laugh and reached under the control panel. He pulled out a pair of night binoculars and a flare gun. "Let him escape this. This baby's got a range on it you wouldn't believe, and the flare on it'll burn that raft right off the sea."
"Chavo," Joe muttered, and again he pictured his brother being shot by the Mexican. He grabbed the flare gun.
"That direction, Kid," Jolly said, and he raised the special binoculars to Joe's eyes. Joe could make out a life raft, barely visible against the ocean. A man was in it. Yes, it was Chavo, all right.
Chavo, the man who had killed his brother. Joe knew this might be his only chance to make his brother's murderer pay for that crime.
Carefully he took aim at the raft.
WHAT AM I DOING? Joe thought with a jolt just before he pulled the trigger. He was about to kill a man, and killing wasn't his style. He wanted to bring Chavo to justice, real justice.
That's what Frank would have wanted, he told himself.
He lowered the nose of the flare gun as he fired. An arc of flame shot across the night and exploded in fire and smoke on the ocean. In the blaze, he could no longer see the tiny life raft.
Jolly raised the binoculars to his eyes. "As near as I can tell, a perfect hit." He set them down and patted Joe's shoulder while the others cheered. "Welcome back, Kid. Now we've got to prepare for the main event. The world, as they say, is ours."
***
Something burst on the ocean.
Frank raised his head in alarm, to see that the sea was on fire just behind the raft. "What was that?" he asked.
Chavo ignored it. "Flare. We were the target. Let's use it to our advantage, as cover for an escape." He took one of the oars from Frank and began paddling. "So that's how he's going to do it."
"You mean the Director? You've figured out the caper?"
"Si," said Chavo. "Puerto de Oro is a self-contained island. It has few police and few buildings. If one were to take, say, the gas stolen from the naval base, and flood the buildings with it, then—"
"Then once you've knocked everyone out, you could wander through the buildings at will and take whatever you wanted," Frank continued. "Everyone would be dead. No witnesses."
"And they'll have plenty of time to leave the island without anyone contacting the mainland police. It's the perfect crime."
"Good thing you waited to figure this out until there's no possibility we can get help," Frank said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
"I'd hate to think we might need some backup to invade an island that's entirely cut off from the outside world and might be controlled by criminals."
"When we reach Puerto de Oro," said Chavo, "there I will get help."
"Chavo," Frank asked, "can I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"Are you really a cop, or what?"
A burst of laughter erupted from the Mexican, and he said nothing else the rest of the way.
"Welcome to Puerto de Oro," Chavo said as they stepped onto the land ahead of the group on the barge. They had left the life raft in a massive harbor filled with private yachts and walked the rest of the way to the beach. Frank marveled at the sight of casinos and hotels styled like medieval castles, yet gleaming white, even at night. Electric lights made the streets of Puerto de Oro almost as bright as day.
But there was no one on the streets.
"This way," Chavo said, motioning down a street. "We must reach the police station and warn them. There's a radio, too. Men are waiting on the mainland for my orders."
As he ran, Frank's feet slid and skidded across cobblestones moistened by the sea air. Which men did Chavo mean? Was he really going to call the Federales, or did he have some gang of his own stashed in Tijuana, waiting to come and horn in on the Director's master plan?
Frank resolved he would not turn his back on Chavo until he had the answer.
The police station was plainer than the other buildings, a simple box of stucco and stone. There were bars on all the windows. From inside came the tinny sounds of a mariachi band, played either on an old record player or a cheap radio. It seemed as peaceful and quaint as the rest of the island.
Chavo knocked on the door, yelling something in Spanish. From inside, a voice yelled, "Que desea us ted?" Chavo shook his head.
"He asked us what we want," Chavo said.
Frank pushed past him. "Your problem is that this is a resort that caters to rich Americans. Let me give it a try." He pounded on the door, shouting, "Help! Robbery!" Frank looked at Chavo. "How do you say I want to report a theft'?"
"Quiero denunciar un robo," Chavo replied.
"Quiero denunciar un robo," Frank repeated, pounding again at the door.
Finally the door opened a crack and a single brown eye peered out. "Come back tomorrow," a Hispanic voice called. "We cannot help you now."
Chavo hurled himself into the door, shoving it open. The figure at the door fell backward, and Frank and Chavo pushed their way in.
Frank helped the man on the floor to his feet. He was in his twenties, scrawny, and dressed in the uniform of a Mexican police deputy. Quickly he pulled his hand away from Frank and nervously brushed some dust off his khakis. In the meantime Chavo began to rummage frantically through the office. It was as small as it looked from outside, but it was packed with file cabinets. Next to the main desk was a teletypewriter. Chavo ripped pages from the teletypewriter, scanned them, and scowled.
"The radio," he insisted. "Where is your radio?" When the deputy refused to answer, Chavo stormed into the next room, toward the jail.
Frank expected the deputy to be angry about the breakin, but instead there was nothing but fear in his eyes. Those eyes weren't focused on Frank, but on the room that Chavo had just entered. He wondered why the deputy was so uneasy. There could be only one reason.
"Chavo!" Frank yelled as he flung the deputy aside. "It's a trap." He sprinted toward the door, but a man appeared in his way. The man was dressed in a white suit. A thick mustache adorned his upper lip, and grim mirth danced in the man's black, ratlike eyes.
It was Cat Willeford.
"Come in," he said, waving a gun at Frank. He motioned to the deputy. "You too."
"You won't shoot us," Frank said. "You'd bring the whole island down on you."
Willeford raised the pistol and fired at the ceiling. Powdered plaster rained down like a dust storm as the deafening roar echoed through the police station.
"Coming?" Willeford asked, and Frank and the deputy filed past him to the jail area.
Two others of the gang were also in there, tossing an unconscious Chavo into a cell. "Too bad," said Willeford. "I had to quiet him down." He flagged Frank and the deputy into the cell and slammed the door.
In the next cell Frank saw the chief of police and another deputy. He assumed that was all the law on the island.
"You're going to leave us here?" he asked Willeford.
"Not quite," the rat-eyed man answered before he vanished with his cronies into the outer office. Willeford returned a moment later, wearing a gas mask and holding a canister. He lifted up the mask. "Pleasant dreams." It sounded like a farewell.
Then he slipped the mask back on and crouched down. With a flip of his thumb he knocked open the valve on the canister. A white gas began spraying into the police station.
With a cheerful motion, Willeford dropped the cell-door keys on the floor outside Frank's cell, and then left.
As soon as the door closed, Frank was on his stomach, reaching through the bars. He stretched to grab the keys, but Willeford had dropped them just outside his reach. They lay there, tantalizing him, as the white cloud filled the room.
Coughing, his eyes stinging from the gas, Frank slapped Chavo. He wouldn't wake up. Frank slapped him again. Finally, the cell blurring before his eyes as the gas threatened to overcome him, Frank clamped a hand over Chavo's mouth and pinched his nose shut.
Chavo gasped awake, choking from the lack of air to his lungs. Before Frank could explain, he sized up the situation. The police chief and the deputies were flat on the floor, trying to reach the keys.
Chavo gave it a try and failed. He started to stand up, and then he sniffed at the gas. His eyes widened in terror, and he dropped back to his knees. Frank thought he looked sick.
"Knockout gas?" Frank asked, but he saw by the look in Chavo's eyes it wasn't so.
"Poison gas," Chavo replied weakly. "To kill us."
He threw himself against the bars, straining for the keys just out of reach as the cloud of death descended. Chavo slumped and shook his head. "It's no use."
They were trapped.
