"Didn't they tell you, Kid? There's a central collection point, a truck out in the town square. We take everything there."
"And?" Joe asked.
"I don't get you."
"How do we get paid? And how's a truck going to help us? This is an island."
"You worry too much," Jolly replied. "The Director wouldn't be dumb enough to run out on us. There are enough guys here who'd be glad to track him to the ends of the earth to make him pay.
"On the other hand ..." Jolly rubbed the back of his neck, still thinking about Joe's question. "That point about the truck is well-taken. I hope nothing is wrong. I get most unpleasant when someone betrays me."
"Sorry to hear about that," Joe said. Whipping around, he swung up, knocking the gas mask from Jolly's face. His fist landed in the heavyset man's stomach, and Jolly sucked in a lungful of pink gas.
"Kid," Jolly said softly, sadness in his voice. He opened his mouth again, as if to shout, and then dropped to the floor. The gas had taken effect.
Joe glanced around the room. No one had noticed his scene with Jolly. He stashed Jolly under a blackjack table, then picked up the bag of loot Jolly had been carrying. The heavyset man had been right about one thing. Joe would be a lot less conspicuous if he were carrying a bag.
He wanted to stay inconspicuous — he had a lot of scores to settle, starting with Cat Willeford.
A big bag tossed over his shoulder, Willeford left the casino and headed into the dining room next door. Joe followed. None of the others paid any attention to them. And if they found Jolly lying there? Would they raise the alarm?
No, Joe decided. They'd probably rob him of any valuables he had left.
Willeford was in the kitchen when Joe caught up with him. Joe called his name, and the rat-eyed man looked up.
"I've been looking forward to this," Joe said.
"Who are you?" asked Willeford.
Joe lifted his gas mask for a moment, and Willeford smiled. "Kid, you've got almost as many lives as I do."
"The name's not Kid. It's Joe Hardy. You should never have tried to kill me." Joe clenched his fists and took a step toward Willeford. "You're out of lives now, Cat."
Willeford ran. He and Joe left their bags sitting in the kitchen, and Joe chased him into the main hallway. Other criminals watched them as they ran, and Joe could hear them laughing. He knew none of them would lift a hand to help Willeford. They were too interested in their loot.
Joe stopped dead in his tracks as he reached the hallway. Two masked figures were starting up the stairs, and one of them turned his face just enough for Joe to recognize the eyes. He'd never forget those eyes.
That was Chavo, the guy who'd killed his brother. Joe started after Chavo.
Willeford took advantage of Joe's shift of attention, catching Joe under the chin with his forearm. The blow knocked Joe off his feet and sent him crashing on his back on the floor. Willeford dropped down like a piledriver, smashing both fists into Joe's chest.
Joe tried to shake off the haze that was swallowing him. Somewhere he was dimly aware that Willeford was clawing at his face, trying to slip his mask off. Struggling to keep the mask on, Joe tried to stand. Willeford went for a new hold, wrapping an arm around Joe's head while Joe was still bent over.
Joe stood suddenly, locking one hand under Willeford's shoulder and the other in the man's belt. He kicked backward, and Willeford was in the air as Joe tucked himself into a roll. They both crashed to the floor on their backs.
Willeford hit first, and he hit hard. While the crook thrashed around, trying to pull himself together, Joe punched him again. Willeford stopped moving and lay still.
Joe turned his eyes to the stairs. Now it was Chavo's turn.
***
"You're robbing your own resort?" Frank said in disbelief.
"Certain financial setbacks make it necessary," the Director said. "Everything was planned, except for the interference from you and your brother."
As the Director spoke to Frank, Chavo inched toward him. The Director calmly turned and pointed the gun at Chavo's heart. "Uh - uh," he said. "Please don't interrupt."
Frank and Chavo stood back as the Director continued.
"Take Mr. Chavo here, a Federale operating undercover as a criminal. He was the perfect tool. I could use him to recruit the people I needed and set up the operation. And he fell right in line, eager to arrest large numbers of crooks in the commission of a crime."
"You knew about Chavo all along?" Frank asked.
"My boy, he's the most important part of my plan. When the Mexican authorities raid this island and capture the army of criminals I've assembled, I won't have to pay any of them. I, and the millions of dollars collected here tonight, will simply disappear."
"That's why you relayed everything through radio or television," Frank said, "and why you appeared fully masked. Why would anyone associate a hotel manager with the mastermind who robbed the place? You're in the clear."
"Except for us," Chavo said tensely. "We know who you are."
The Director picked up a shoebox, pressed a button on it, and slid it across the floor of the secret room. "I was coming to that. The final part of my plan is for my office to be bombed. It's the perfect way to cover my tracks. Of course, it would appear to all as if I'd been killed in the blast — "
"Of course," Frank said.
"Now it seems your bodies will be found in the wreckage. The thief who planted the bomb," — the Director gestured to Frank, then to Chavo — "and the brave policeman who tried to stop him. How tragic."
The Director checked his watch. "Five minutes. I really must be going." He stepped back, and the secret door began to close.
Frank leapt for the Director, but he was too slow. The man swung his gun, cracking Frank on the skull. He fell back, unconscious, but Chavo moved, knocking the Director back before he could pull the trigger. They tumbled together out of the radio room, and the pistol slipped from the Director's grip, skittering across the floor. When they stopped rolling, Chavo was on top of the Director, pinning his arms down.
"It's all over," Chavo said.
But another masked figure appeared from nowhere and slammed the back of Chavo's head. He slumped weakly to the floor. The Director scrambled to his feet, racing out the door as Chavo, clutching his head, looked up.
Joe Hardy stood over him, ready for business. "You killed my brother, you slime."
Beneath the gas mask, Chavo's eyes widened at the sound of Joe's voice. He tried to get to his feet, but Joe held him down. Then Joe grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up, knocking the gas mask from Chavo's face.
Joe planted a punch on Chavo's jaw, and Chavo staggered back but remained on his feet.
"Your brother's alive."
Joe could barely hear Chavo's voice.
"What?" Joe said. He couldn't believe his ears. "You're just saying that to save your skin."
"No. Please. You must listen if you want to save him." Chavo half-raised a hand and pointed to the secret room. "Behind that wall—I was just with him." He took a faltering step forward, dread written all over his face. "He's in there with a bomb."
He's lying, Joe told himself. But there was a look of true panic on Chavo's face, and Joe knew he couldn't pass up even the slightest chance that Frank still lived. He lunged for the secret door.
It was too late. The wall disintegrated from the force of the blast.
He flew back into darkness, hoping against hope that Chavo had been lying about Frank.
Chapter 16
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."
Chapter 17
"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 o
ver 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."
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