Blood Relations (8 page)

"She really say that?" said Frank, ignoring the ringing for a second.

"She really admires you," Linda Rawley assured him. "She talked about nothing but you while we were here."

Beaming, Frank picked up the phone and said hello. But his face fell instantly when he heard who was on the other end. He identified himself to the caller, then silently listened for a long time. Finally he said in a clipped voice, "Yeah, I hear you," and hung up.

He didn't have to tell the others who had called. They knew from the look on his face.

"The kidnappers want the microfilm fast—or else we get Callie back fast, in a box," he announced grimly. "They also say we shouldn't even think of making a copy of the film, since they're going to be watching us all the time. Personally, I think they're bluffing about that — but I'm not sure enough to risk Callie's life." He paused to see if the others agreed. They nodded. Then he added, "One more thing. They said they don't care what we tell the police about Clark. Seems they've done a real thorough houseclean-ing job. There's not a trace of the crime left — no corpse, not even a fingerprint."

"They don't miss a trick," said Dunn, shaking his head.

"So what," Joe said with a hint of anger in his voice. "Frank and I are pros. And we've been up against some of the best. These guys will make a mistake somewhere along the line. And when they do, we'll jump on it with both feet."

Frank, thinking of Callie, said, "I hope you're right."

So do I, Joe thought silently. But out loud he said, "Like I keep telling you, Frank, you've got to have faith."

At two A. M. Joe was still waiting for the kidnappers to make their first mistake.

He was standing hidden behind a stairway at one end of the platform inside a deserted subway station in the farthest reaches of Brooklyn.

At the other end of the platform Frank was hiding beneath an identical stairway.

Dunn was at the center of the platform with a briefcase containing the microfilm canister.

Their orders had been simple. Frank was supposed to show up with the microfilm and stand in the center of the platform. There the exchange would take place: the microfilm would be traded for Callie. After that, they were to forget all that had happened. This was to assure Callie's future safety. There would be no evidence to convince the police to pursue the matter. The Lichtenstein corporation, the Bahamas checking account, and the numbered Swiss savings account had all ceased to exist already.

Hearing the plan, Dunn had said, "That means we have to catch these people now. They're already dismantling the operation. Once they do, it'll be impossible to pin anything on them that'll stick."

Frank nodded. "We have to get our hands on at least one of them. But we have to make sure we get Callie safely out of it first. Otherwise, she's dead. With a murder rap for his first wife hanging over his head, Rawley won't have anything to lose by ordering another."

Dunn thought a moment. Then his face lit up. "I think I might know how we can pull it off."

He'd go with Frank and Joe to the exchange. Greg and Mike were to stay with their mother to guard against any attempt to take her again. Dunn would wait in the center of the platform, taking Frank's place, since he was the least athletic of the three. When the crooks arrived with Callie, Dunn would hand them the microfilm. While they were checking it, Joe and Frank would come charging in, creating a diversion that would let Dunn pull his gun and grab Callie.

"Of course, if it's clear they're on guard against a move like that, we won't try to pull it off," Dunn said.

"Right," said Frank. "We can't put Callie in any more danger than she's already in."

"If it looks like it won't come off, I'll drop my briefcase, as if by accident. That'll be your signal to hold back. They should just think I'm nervous."

"One thing still puzzles me," said Frank, working at figuring out all the angles. "What was this Clark guy doing with the microfilm in the first place?"

"Don't know. Maybe he was going to blackmail Rawley," said Dunn. "It wouldn't be the first time an employee tried to put the bite on his boss. Or he might have just found out about Rawley's secrets and been gathering evidence to turn him in to the authorities. Either way, Clark didn't figure how savage Rawley could be."

"I can hardly wait to get my hands on these guys," Joe said. "Starting with the kidnappers and going right up to the top. I'll show them savage."

But after a half hour of waiting in the dilapidated station, Joe was beginning to doubt that he and the others were going anywhere except back to Bayport empty-handed. He had virtually memorized the spray-painted graffiti that covered every inch of the grimy walls.

It had been at least half an hour since the last train had arrived, virtually empty. It had made its brief stop without anyone getting off, then rumbled away.

Now, in the distance, from far down the tracks, Joe heard the echoing rumble of another train approaching. He tensed. The kidnappers hadn't said how they'd arrive in this station, but after seeing how deserted the station was, Joe had a strong hunch they'd come by train. It would be the perfect way to get in and out fast.

The rumbling grew louder, and Joe leaned forward, his attention fixed on Dunn. When the train arrived and the kidnappers made their move, Joe would have to move faster than they could.

Then, abruptly, before the train made it to the station, the rumbling stopped.

The train was experiencing what the New York Transit Authority like to call "a temporary delay."

But if that was bad news for the passengers, it was good luck for Joe.

If the train had kept rumbling along, he never would have heard the footsteps coming up behind him.

He whirled around to face a man who stood with his arm upraised, about to bring a blackjack down on Joe's head. In that split second, Joe's brain registered that the man was dressed in a black jogging suit and black ski mask—just like the goons who had jumped him and Frank the night before.

But there was no time for Joe to think about it. There was just time for him to react.

His hand shot out and grabbed the attacker's wrist and gave it a sharp yank in the direction it was already moving. When the attacker was off balance, Joe wrenched his wrist again, and the blackjack dropped to the concrete platform.

Meanwhile, the rumble of the train had resumed. Joe, though, couldn't turn to see what was happening down the platform. He still had to deal with the masked goon, who had managed to twist his hand free and throw a right cross toward Joe's chin.

Joe blocked it with his left forearm and drove his own right deep into the goon's stomach. The masked man collapsed like a balloon losing air.

Joe followed his right with a left hook to the point of the goon's jaw.

A deep grunt emerged from the ski mask. The guy had a head like a rock, Joe thought angrily, and he lashed out with a right to the jaw, putting every ounce of his muscle behind it.

The goon shook his head again, as if he couldn't believe this was happening to him. He started to cock his fist as if Joe hadn't even touched him. Then slowly his fist turned limp and fell, and he crumpled slowly to the platform.

Joe didn't pause to savor his triumph. He turned around fast—and saw that the doors of the train had finished closing, and the subway was moving away with a sudden burst of speed, as if to make up for the time lost by its delay.

At the same time, Joe saw something else — something that made him run to catch up with the departing train.

The platform was empty. Dunn and the microfilm were gone.

Then the train was gone too. Joe couldn't catch up with it.

He stood watching the rear light until it vanished in the darkness—until another thought hit him.

Frank.

He had never run faster than he did in making a dash for the other end of the platform where Frank had been stationed.

But even as he ran, he had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

The feeling was right.

Frank was gone too.

They had jumped him, dragged him away.

Joe didn't have time to check his attacker. He had to find a phone, call the Rawleys, warn them. He spotted one on the platform and raced for it. When he got to it, he saw the Out of Order sign.

Joe went up the subway stairs three at a time. He had to hunt for a phone out on the street, or maybe in an all-night grocery, if one was around.

He emerged from the subway and stood a moment, taking in deep lungfuls of cool night air. He looked around him, and down the deserted street he saw a phone booth. He ran to it, pulled open the door, and grabbed the receiver off the hook with one hand while he reached into his pocket for change with his other.

He had no hands free when he heard the booth door yanked open behind him.

He had only time enough to turn to see the recovered ski-masked goon standing there with one hand on the door handle and the other bunched into a fist heading straight for his jaw.

The fist seemed to explode in the center of Joe's brain, and Joe saw—nothing.

Nothing but shooting stars of pain in endless pitch-blackness!

IT WAS ANIMAL instinct that made Joe grab his attacker's knees as he went down.

It was animal instinct—the will to survive— that made him tighten his grip and hold on as the attacker tried to kick himself free.

Joe's head began to clear.

With returning strength flooding through him with every beat of his heart, Joe pulled his attacker down.

Locked together, they rolled out onto the sidewalk.

Joe broke free of the attacker's hold on his head. He was on his feet a split second before the attacker managed to get on his.

The man in black never made it all the way up. Joe's hand chopped down on the back of his neck. Joe had to admit that the martial-arts training that Frank had pushed him into taking paid off now and then—and this was one of those times.

Panting, his head still slightly fuzzy, Joe tried to focus on what he should do next. But before he could, the question was answered for him. Another man in a black jogging suit and ski mask emerged from the subway, carrying a gun.

Unfortunately, the goon spotted Joe at the same time as Joe saw him.

Joe had to run for it. But he knew he couldn't run in a straight line. He could beat the guy in a flat-out race — Joe was the fastest running back in Bayport High history. But there was no way he could outrun a bullet.

Instead he ran weaving down the sidewalk until he reached the first alleyway and ducked into it.

He didn't go far down it, though. Instead he pressed himself flat against the wall near the entrance and waited.

The goon did exactly what Joe hoped he would. He ran into the alley in hot pursuit.

His gun was still drawn but he didn't get to use it. Because that was the first thing Joe took care of when he jumped him. Joe gave the guy's wrist a vicious chop, and the gun fell to the ground. Joe continued to hang on to him.

So far, so good—but then things that Joe hadn't planned on started happening.

The first thing was, the goon was bigger than Joe had thought. Bigger, and stronger. A lot stronger. And quick.

He shook Joe off like a dog shaking off water. He didn't bother bending down for his gun—he went after Joe with bare hands.

Joe put everything he had into a left jab, then a right cross—but his one-two added up to zero. The masked man merely shook his head as if a gnat had given him a slightly annoying bite, then he bore in on Joe.

His massive arms circled Joe in a powerful bear hug. Joe struggled for a second before he knew it was hopeless. The man's arms felt as if they were made of steel, and they were tightening like a vise. Already Joe couldn't breathe. In another couple of seconds, his ribs were going to crack. Joe didn't want to think what would happen after that.

There was only one thing Joe thought to try — a move he had never tried before.

He had seen it in kung fu movies and could only hope he had understood it.

Here goes nothing, he thought on the verge of blacking out.

He stretched his neck backward as a rattler would rear back before striking.

Then he brought his head forward so that his forehead bashed against the goon's.

In the shattering pain that followed, he only had time for one thought: If the other guy's head is as hard as yours, which one of you goes down?