Thick as Thieves (3 page)

They pushed through the double doors into darkness. As the doors slammed shut behind them, each of the Hardys felt something thin and cool wrap around his throat. Frank and Joe felt hot breath raise the hairs on the backs of their necks. The men behind them were taller than they were, and, if they could go by the grip the men had, they were a lot bigger too.

Wires held in strong hands tightened and began to bite into the Hardys' throats, slowly squeezing the life out of them.

JOE HARDY RAISED a foot and brought it down as hard as he could on the toes of the man strangling him. The man howled and loosened his grip on the wire. Joe rammed an elbow into the man's stomach.

Pain shot through Joe's arm, as if he'd just smashed into a rock. With a grunt and a laugh, the man rapped Joe on the side of the head, knocking the younger Hardy off his feet. The wire caught him around the neck again and tightened.

Joe dangled there, trying to brace his feet again, feeling his weight drag him into the strangling wire. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his lungs burned for air. Nearby, he watched Frank struggle, with no more success than he was having.

Something — a foot, Joe figured—smacked into the back of his knees, knocking his legs out from under him. He knew the man holding the wire wasn't about to let him get his balance again.

There was a click, and instantly light streamed through the darkness and widened. A woman's shadow fell across them, but Joe, almost unconscious, could see nothing. He heard two dull thuds, and air rushed into his lungs as he fell to the floor and the wire slid from his neck.

"Frank!" Joe called as he wobbled to his feet. "You all right?"

Next to him, Frank rolled over and sat up, coughing and rubbing his neck. "I'm okay. What happened?"

Joe looked at his and his brother's attackers lying at their feet. They weren't the men the Hardys had been following, but rather tan, muscular giants. One had a tattoo of an anchor on his forearm. Both were unconscious now, sprawled on the floor.

"Sailors of some sort, I'd guess." Joe's voice croaked out of a throat that still stung from the bite of the wire. "When the doors opened, there was this shadow, and — "

"Charity!" they said at the same time.

"I'm starting to get real tired of her." Frank fumed.

But Joe wasn't listening. He was out the door and back in the main terminal, looking for any sign of Charity. Other planes had unloaded passengers, and the terminal was filled. If Charity was there, Joe realized, she would be well hidden by the crowd.

"Kid!" a voice nearby called out, followed by murmured protests from the passersby on Joe's left. He turned to see what the commotion was about.

A heavyset man with a round face was pushing against the flow of the crowd, jostling people in his hurry to get to Joe. He smiled and waved, and Joe thought about turning tail and running. But it was too late. The cheery man clasped Joe's hand and shook it fiercely. Joe stared at the man, puzzled.

"Kid!" the man cried. "Don't you recognize me? It's Jolly!"

"Jolly?" Joe replied.

The man named Jolly nudged him in the ribs and lowered his voice. "Sure. You remember. That job we pulled on the French Riviera?"

"Oh," Joe answered, smiling nervously. "The French Riviera job. How've you been?"

Jolly winked at him. "I don't blame you for not recognizing me. We only met once, and that was a good ten years ago. But I never forget a face, kid." He ran a finger along Joe's cheek and nodded admiringly. "Great lift job. I can only just make out the scars.

"As for how I've been, well, it's been slow. I was thinking of getting a real job when this came up." For a moment Jolly's face fell into a frown, but then the smile returned. "A score like this should put us both on easy street for the rest of our lives. You want to ride with me to the meet?"

Joe glanced over his shoulder. Frank stood against a wall, watching them with the same puzzled expression that Joe felt he must have. Joe shrugged slightly and caught Frank's eye. Nodding, Frank faded back.

"Sure," Joe said.

Jolly led him out of the airport to the taxi stand, talking about old times and old scores. Joe decided to let Jolly do the talking, since Joe didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about.

He settled back in the cab, listening to Jolly and wondering where they were going.

The cab pulled up in front of a warehouse along the docks on San Diego's Embarcadero. "Sure this is where you want to go?" the driver asked. "This place has been shut down for years."

"Sure, I'm sure," Jolly said, handing the driver a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change, pal."

As the taxi drove off, Joe looked around. The street was all warehouses, but to the northwest Joe could see the tall buildings of downtown San Diego. Behind the warehouses was the shining blue of San Diego Bay - he could smell the ocean in the air.

"This way," Jolly said, gesturing toward a warehouse with a steel door painted red. "Didn't they give you instructions?"

"Let's just say I had to leave the dump where I was staying in a hurry," Joe lied. "Everything got left behind, including my luggage and the instructions."

"Well, that's one of the hazards," Jolly said. He pulled open the warehouse door.

Joe was expecting darkness inside, but instead the warehouse was filled with a soft blue light. "Come in," said a deep voice. They went in, letting the door close softly behind them.

A tall man stood just inside. He wore an expensive gray silk suit, white-on-white shirt, and a deadly gleam in his eye. A razor-thin scar, dead white, traced a line on his tanned face from the bottom of his left ear to the corner of his mouth. As he turned to face the newcomers, the outline of a large gun in a shoulder holster showed in the fabric of his suit coat.

"Names?" he asked with a faint Hispanic accent.

"I'm Jolly," Jolly said. He clapped a hand on Joe's shoulder. "This is my main man, the Kid. We're expected."

The scarred man nodded but didn't smile. "You're the last. Go in."

Joe and Jolly stepped past him, and the man followed them into the warehouse. A dozen or more men stood there, or sat on crates. No one spoke. Their eyes were riveted on a five-foot projection television screen that hung from the ceiling. The screen, empty of any picture but still on, was the source of the blue light.

The scarred man stepped in front of the screen and clapped his hands twice. All eyes were on him. "Greetings," he said. "I am Chavo. Your host, my employer will join us shortly.

"You, gentlemen—and lady—are the world's finest thieves. Perhaps the best that ever were. You all know why we are gathered here. If we are successful, we will all be rich beyond our wildest dreams. This means that we must work together, without fear of betrayal. Is there anyone here who feels he can't do that?"

A short man with red hair piped up. "I don't trust anyone I've never met. The name's Brady."

"Everest," the man next to him said.

The next man stood up, the blue light bouncing off his shiny skull, and Joe swallowed hard. It was Chrome Lasker. But Lasker stared straight at Joe and identified himself. There was nothing in his face. Their two-second encounter at the airport hadn't been enough for him to recognize Joe.

" 'Cat' Willeford," said the man sitting on the crate with him, and Joe recognized Willeford as the mustached man who'd been talking to Lasker at the airport.

It went on and on, until everyone had identified himself.

Then Jolly stepped forward, bowing to the crowd as if they were an audience. "The name's Jolly," he said, "specialist in all things - crystal and silver. And this," — he pointed at Joe — "is the Kid."

Everyone was growing bored by then, but at the mention of the Kid's name, all heads popped up, eyeing him.

"You got to a score just before I did," Everest growled.

"Sorry about that," Joe said, clenching his fists. He could feel a fight coming on.

"Forget it," Everest replied, and his scowl turned to a smile. "Just don't cut me out of this one, or ... " He ran a fingernail across his throat, leaving a bright red streak. Joe nodded.

"Don't let him throw you, Kid," Brady said admiringly. "You're a legend. We study your capers.

"Now," Chavo continued, "if there's nothing else ... "

"Don't forget me," said a melodic voice, and Joe's blood ran cold. From the shadows stepped Charity, dressed now in a blouse and skirt. Calmly she strolled across the room, moving toward Joe.

He stood still, not knowing what to do as she said, "Someone here is hiding something."

The rest of the thieves in the room began to move, some nervous, some scowling. Several slipped things out of pockets — knives, blackjacks, brass knuckles — the weapons of their trade. Joe knew that when Charity fingered him, the others would descend on him and tear him to pieces. She kept walking, moving steadily toward him.

"I know," she said as she put her arms around Joe's neck, "who you really are."

JOE'S STOMACH KNOTTED as if a fist had been driven into it, but to Joe's surprise, Charity leaned over and kissed his cheek. Putting an arm around his waist, she swung back to face the others. A shiver ran through him, and he tried to breathe, but he couldn't. He could feel the hot breath of death on his face.

"The Kid and I pulled a caper together once. We got very close. I even learned his real name." She flashed him a catlike smile.

"You can't," Joe muttered, but he knew she wouldn't listen. He flexed his fingers, determined to take as many of them with him as possible.

"The Kid's real name is Crawford Laird Pulansky."

For a moment Joe couldn't understand what he had heard. She had lied for him! Why? Relief and shock washed over him, and his legs grew rubbery, but he locked his knees and forced himself to stand.

"Crawford." One of the thieves let out a guffaw. Then everyone in the room was roaring with laughter, until Chavo clapped his hands again. "If we are done with the entertainment portion of our program ... "

Joe leaned over to Charity and whispered, "Is that the Kid's real name?"

"How should I know?" Charity whispered back. "I never met the guy."

Chavo hit a switch. A tiny dot of light formed in the center of the video screen and spread out until it formed a picture. It was a head and shoulders, but Joe couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. The face on the screen was covered by a brown hood. Joe guessed that eyeholes had been cut into it, because the brown hood had dark glasses over the eyes. The voice was scrambled electronically, so it came out sounding like a robot's voice.

"Welcome," it said. "Welcome to the perfect crime. You may call me the Director."

The crooks began to murmur, but Chavo shouted, "Silence!" and they turned their attention back to the screen.

"For reasons of security, I can't tell you where we are going to strike, or when. The operation will be divided into sections. Chavo will tell you who is needed, and for what.

"I want to thank everyone for being here. I can guarantee that if you follow instructions, this venture will be satisfactorily profitable for everyone.

"Now, go have a good day, see San Diego if you wish, stay out of trouble, and be back here at nine this evening. That is all."

The light blinked out, and the screen went dead.

Joe stood there for a moment, staring at the screen in bewilderment. What have I stumbled into? he wondered. He decided that, for the moment, it wasn't important. The first thing he had to do was bring in Charity. She was right beside him, and he could walk out with her now and she wouldn't be able to say a word. If this band of cutthroats ever got the idea that she had lied to them, she'd be dead. He had a hold on her.

But when he turned to grab Charity, she was gone.

He joined the others as they filed out into the street and looked all around. Again, no sign of Charity.

But he did notice something he'd missed before. On top of the warehouse was a satellite television dish.

"So, want to hang out with me today?" he heard Jolly say.

"Thanks," Joe replied. "But I've got a lot of things to do. Buy some new clothes, rent a room — "

"Yeah," Jolly agreed. "I understand. That would take up a lot of time. Well, I'll see you again tonight." He walked off.

Joe hoped Frank had managed to follow them. He wished he could talk to Frank now, but the others were still too close. If Frank contacted him now, it could be fatal for both of them.

He walked down the street, heading for the buildings in the distance. No sign of Frank on the empty streets. Here and there he passed other people, but they paid no attention to him.

Only one man nodded at Joe as he passed, a man in slacks and shirtsleeves, with his coat draped over his arm. Looking at the guy, Joe realized for the first time how hot he was himself. The weather had been cooling off in Bayport, but in San Diego it was just like summer.

Joe continued looking for any sign of Frank but saw none. He did see the man with the coat over his arm again. There was something strangely familiar about the guy.

No one I've met, Joe decided. The guy was blond haired and blue eyed, just over six feet tall, broad and muscular. From a distance he looked like a teenager, but as he came closer, Joe saw the man's looks could be the result of cosmetic surgery. Joe knew he was much older than his unlined face would indicate.

"Excuse me. Do you have the time?" the man asked, stopping next to Joe.

Joe raised his arm to look at his watch, and started to say, "A little after — " when he felt a heavy nudge in his ribs.

"That's a Smith and Wesson persuader in your side," the man said in a low, deadly calm voice. Out of the corner of his eye Joe caught the dark polished glint of gunmetal. "Walk."

"I don't have much money on me," Joe began, but another nudge shut him up.

"This isn't about money," the man said. "Make a move and I'll blow you away. Just do what I tell you." The man shoved Joe toward a car parked at the curb.

"I'll make any move I want," Joe threatened. "You wouldn't dare shoot me in front of other people."