Island of Thieves (18 page)

While Arturo was gone, Otto kept his gun trained on us, making sure we didn't get any clever ideas.

After a couple of minutes, Arturo returned with our bags, one in each hand. He dumped them both on the floor.

Otto looked at our dirty, dusty bags. “You say there's twenty million dollars in here?”

“At least twenty million and maybe a lot more.”

“I wanna see it.”

“Of course. Let me have the manuscript.”

“Where is it? In here?”

“No, in that one.” Uncle Harvey nodded at my bag.

Otto reached for the bag. Then he stopped, his arm outstretched, his fingers resting on the zipper. He glanced at us, then the bag. I could see him wondering what was going on. Was this a trap? If so, what sort? What was inside the bag? Would a bomb blow the hands off whoever pulled the zip? Would a snake spring out and bury its fangs in a thief's face? A more cautious man might have left the bag behind or taken it away to open elsewhere, but Otto was too impatient, too eager. Maybe he was less interested in the manuscript than discovering what kind of trap we might have set for him; he wanted to know how clever we were. And prove that he was even cleverer. He nodded at me. “You. Open it.”

“I can't,” I said.

“Why not?”

“My hands are tied together. You put handcuffs on me, remember?”

Otto turned to Arturo and said a few words in Spanish.

Arturo put his gun on the table and pulled a couple of small keys from his pocket. He turned me around and unlocked one of my handcuffs, leaving the other hanging from my wrist. Then he swiveled me back and shoved me toward the bags.

I kneeled down, undid the zip, and reached inside. Otto leaned forward to watch me lifting the manuscript from the bag. Arturo must have been watching me too, because he didn't see my uncle taking two quick steps and lashing out with his right foot.

That wasn't the plan. We didn't
have
a plan. I didn't, anyway. Or, if I did, it was simply to try and stay alive for as long as possible. But Uncle Harvey must have decided that now was the best possible moment to try something. You have to take your chances when you can, and he took his, lashing out and kicking Arturo between the legs. There was only one problem. He missed. Not completely. His foot connected with Arturo. But he didn't get him between the legs. He got his thigh instead. It must have hurt, but not enough. Arturo wasn't disabled. Just infuriated. Quick as a flash, he whirled around and punched my uncle in the face.

Uncle Harvey stumbled backwards, trying to keep his balance. Arturo leaped at him for a second attempt. Otto eagerly joined the fight. Forgotten by both of them, I darted at the table. The gun was lying there, just where Arturo had put it. I picked it up and swung around, pointing the barrel at Otto's chest.

“Hands up,” I said.

I'd always wanted to say that.

Sadly, my words didn't have quite the effect that I'd been hoping for. Otto didn't put his hands in the air. Neither did Arturo. Instead, they burst out laughing. Both of them. They giggled. They chortled. They chuckled. As if I were joking. As if I were a joke. They must have guessed that I didn't have a clue what to do with a gun.

They were right, of course. But a pistol is a pistol, even if it's in the hands of a boy who doesn't really know how to use it, and I thought they really should have given me a bit more respect.

“Put your hands in the air,” I said, speaking louder this time, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

Otto's smile got even wider. “You better be careful, Tom. Didn't no one ever tell you not to play with guns?”

“I'm not playing. I'm serious. Put your hands up.”

“Give it to me,” he said, taking a step toward me.

“Don't move! Stay there!”

“Come on, Tom. Give me that.”

He took another step forward and reached for the gun.

I pulled the trigger.

The momentum jerked my arms backwards with such violence that I thought I must have broken at least one of my fingers. The bang was so loud, the whole room seemed to shake. My ears fizzed.

For a moment, Otto carried on smiling. Then he realized that there was a man on the ground behind him, screaming and spilling scarlet blood all over the nice clean floor.

Look, I never wanted to shoot anyone. But it was a choice between them and me. If I didn't pull the trigger, they would have taken the pistol out of my hands and blown my head off. So I shot him in the leg.

Sorry, Arturo.

I could see Otto calculating his next move. He didn't want to be shot. He knew I might go for the head or the heart this time.

I don't know if I would have. Or could have. Even if I had, I probably would have missed. Luckily I didn't have to make the choice. Otto backed away and put his hands in the air. “No problem, Tom. Let's keep calm, huh?”

“I'm very calm,” I said.

“Good. So let's talk. What you want? Money?”

“No. I want to get out of here.”

“You wanna car? Or a plane? How 'bout that, Tom? You wanna borrow my plane?”

“Give us the keys,” said my uncle.

“What keys?” asked Otto.

“The keys to your car.”

“I don't have no keys.”

“Then where are they?”

“I don't know. Anyway, forget the keys. You don't need no car. You can have my plane. How 'bout that? Don't you want my plane?”

I realized what he was doing. The hotel was probably full of his men, who must have heard the shot. They'd come running. If Otto could keep us talking for a minute or two, we'd be outnumbered.

I swung the gun at the wall just above his head and pulled the trigger. This time, the bang was even louder. My ears were ringing.

I turned the gun on Otto.

“Give me the keys,” I said.

“No problem. Here you go.” He stepped toward me, pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket.

“Stay there!”

He stopped. I saw his eyes skittering around the room, resting for an instant on Uncle Harvey, then on Arturo, who was still in a heap on the floor, clutching his leg, trying to stop the flow of blood. Otto's eyes came back to me and I could see him measuring his chances, wondering what would happen if he jumped at me.

“Put the keys on the ground,” I said. “Push them over here.”

Very slowly, he kneeled down and scooted the keys across the floor toward me.

They were at my feet. I didn't pick them up.

“Turn around,” I said.

“You gonna shoot me?” said Otto.

“No.”

“You better not.”

“I said I won't.”

“Let me tell you, Tom, if you—”

“Turn around!”

He looked at me for a long moment. What could he do? Run away? Fight me? Try to make a deal? Finally he accepted that he didn't have any choice. He turned and faced the wall.

Did Otto really think
I'd shoot him in the back of the head?

Of course he did. Because if he'd been me, that was exactly what he would have done. Bang! Bang! Two bullets to the brain. All problems solved. But murdering people really wasn't my style. I grabbed the keys from the floor and headed for the door. Then I remembered the manuscript. I darted back, scooped it up, and ran after Uncle Harvey, who was already sprinting out of the kitchen.

I followed him down the corridor and through the door. In the yard, Uncle Harvey was standing beside the Toyota. He yelled: “Unlock it!”

“There's no time,” I shouted back. “Let's just run.”

“Why do we need to run? We've got a car.”

“You can't drive. Your hands are tied together.”

“
You're
going to drive.”

“Me?”

“Stop making that stupid face, Tom, and open the doors!”

“Arturo's got the keys to your handcuffs,” I said. “Why don't I run back in there and—”

“Open the doors!” yelled Uncle Harvey.

I went through the keys, looking for the right one. My head felt light and airy. As if I'd been holding my breath for a long time. My hands were shaking and my fingers still hurt. I said, “I don't know which one it is.”

“Come here.”

I ran to my uncle. He nodded at the keys. “That one. No, that one! Yes. Point it at the car and press that button.”

I did as I was told. The indicator lights flashed twice. I opened the door and helped my uncle inside. I could hear shouts coming from the hotel. I looked up. In one of the second-floor windows, I saw the shape of a man. He was trying to open the catch. As I watched him, he gave up the struggle and smashed the glass with the butt of his pistol. Then he leaned out and pointed a gun at me.

I ran around the front of the car.

There was a bang. Gravel spurted near my feet. I yanked the door open.

Another bang. I didn't see where that bullet went. I swung the manuscript inside and hurled myself after it, landing in a heap on the driver's seat.

The Toyota was designed for someone bigger than me, but with a bit of stretching, I managed to put my hands and feet in the right places. I could even see where I was going. Just.

I'd never actually driven a car before. I'd often asked Dad to teach me. He always said no. Told me to wait till I was seventeen. But I'd been driven a million times by him and Mom, and I'd carefully watched what they did, preparing myself for the moment that I could have a go. Luckily the Toyota was an automatic, just like theirs, so I knew exactly what to do. I slid the keys into the ignition, turned on the engine, put the gearstick into drive and rammed my foot on the accelerator. The car juddered and whined like a dog straining at the leash.

“The brake!” yelled Uncle Harvey.

Oh, yes. Good point. I'd forgotten that.

Once I took off the emergency brake and pushed my toe on the accelerator again, the Toyota sprang across the courtyard and, with a mighty crash, drove straight into the side of a white van. Glass tinkled. Metal squealed. I thrust my foot deeper onto the accelerator and hauled the wheel to the left. I caught a quick glimpse of the van, its flank dented, its window smashed, and then we were rushing toward the exit.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard another bang, but I didn't have time to worry about bullets now. If one hit me, I'd know about it soon enough. With an agonizing squeal of metal scraping against brick, we shuddered against the gate post, losing one of our side mirrors. Then we were on the road.

Right ahead of me, I saw a man with a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm, sauntering along the street. He stopped. Stared at us. Opened his mouth to scream. And, just in time, remembered to throw himself out of our way.

“How're you doing?” shouted Uncle Harvey.

“Good, thanks.”

And I was. Considering this was my first time driving a car, I thought things were going quite well. No one had been hurt and the Toyota was moving faster all the time. Then I saw Otto.

He was standing in the middle of the road. I don't know how he got there so fast, or where he found a gun, but he was prepared for us. Ready and waiting. His hands were raised. He was pointing the pistol directly at me. I could see its small black eye. Which was suddenly obscured by a red flash.

Right in front of me, a hole appeared in the glass. I felt something brush my cheek. As gentle as a finger.

There wasn't time to think. I couldn't make a decision, let alone consult with my uncle. I just carried on doing what I was doing and headed straight for Otto.

Another bang. Another red flash. Cracks splintered the windshield. Cold air rushed over my face and the car was full of noise.

A third shot would have killed me, but Otto didn't have time to pull the trigger again before the front of the car rammed into him. There was a thud. And a loud scream. Then we were past him and roaring down the main street. My uncle shifted in his seat, looking back, but I kept facing forward, my hands on the wheel, my foot on the accelerator. A kid on a bike swerved, fell off, and rolled across the road, missing us by a millimeter. I drove past women with shopping bags, and a man in a white apron, and a waitress with a tray of glasses, all of them stopping and staring, their faces carved open by astonishment. Then they were behind us. Soon the town was too. We were careening along the coast road, palm trees on one side and the sea on the other.

“Should I stop?” I yelled.

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“Soon. Just keep doing what you're doing. It's perfect.”

I drove for about ten minutes without hitting anything. Then Uncle Harvey said, “You see that gas station?”

“Yes.”

“That's where we'll stop.”

“Fine,” I said. And then: “How do I do that?”

“How do you do what?”

“How do I stop?”

“Lift your foot gently off the accelerator and apply it smoothly but firmly to the brake.”

I tried to do exactly what he told me, but I couldn't have got it quite right, because the car swerved, skidded, and smashed into a tree. A shower of leaves fluttered down onto the windshield. A mechanic came running out of the garage and stood in front, staring at us and wiping his oily hands on his blue overalls.

“Perfect,” said Uncle Harvey. “Where did you learn to drive like that?”

“Actually, it was my first time.”

“I'd never have guessed. Now let's ask this nice man if he can lend us a chisel.”

Uncle Harvey was a much better driver than I was.
We roared up the road away from the garage, leaving the mechanic in a cloud of dust. In exchange for a damp fifty-dollar bill, he'd happily hammered the handcuffs from our wrists.

I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was on 150 and still climbing. That was kilometers per hour, not miles, but even so, we were moving exceedingly fast. The headlights were smashed, the side mirrors had gone, and the windshield was peppered with bullet holes, but that big black Toyota still went like a rocket.