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."
"I destroyed all those notes!" the Director burst out. "No one ever saw them except me."
"And the woman who robbed your safe," Charity added, to the man's surprise. "Me. It was a good plan, but I think mine was better."
The Director sank into silence, his face gray with shame.
"What are you going to do with us?" Frank asked. "You can't let us go. We know too much."
"What do you know?" Charity countered. "You don't know who I am or where I'm going. No, you really can't do me much harm at all." She looked wistfully out the window. "We'll be in Guatemala before too long. The plane will land there, we'll take the loot out, and leave you with the plane. How's that?"
"Just great," Joe said sourly.
She patted him gently on the cheek, trying to raise his spirits. "Don't take it like that, Joe. You'll get free pretty quickly. I'll see to that. Then all you have to do is find the Guatemalan police and explain everything to them, and by the time you do that, I'll be long gone.
"It's a shame, really," Charity said, looking at the Hardys. "We made such a good team. Maybe we can work together again someday."
"Over my dead body," Joe muttered.
"Don't say things like that," Charity scolded him. "Someday you'll run into someone who'll take that suggestion seriously."
Like the Director, Joe sank into silence and fumed. He couldn't believe it. Charity had outwitted them again.
The plane dipped, and Frank saw light coming from around the front end of the plane, streaks of bright red. The sun was almost up, but it had risen to the right of them.
She's lying again, he thought to himself. If the sun is to the right, we're flying northeast. That means we're over the United States.
"This is where I get out," Charity said. The plane landed, skidding along a landing strip crudely scratched out of the desert. When the plane came to a halt, Nick opened the bay doors.
A man stood at the bottom of the ramp, half-hidden in the morning grayness. He was short and thin, with thinning dark hair that formed a widow's peak. His thick glasses reflected the lights from inside the plane. Behind him was a rent-a-van, the kind used by millions of people throughout the country. Once they got on the highway with that, Frank knew, the thieves would vanish without a trace.
The man walked up the ramp, into the lit area.
"Renner!" Joe shouted. Forgetting the handcuffs, he lunged for the insurance investigator but jerked back abruptly, stopped by the end of his chain.
Renner frowned. "What are they doing here? This ruins everything. They'll destroy my career."
"You'll be rich, remember?" Charity reminded him. "You won't need a career. Let them be."
Nick went outside and backed the rent-a-van to the cargo-bay doors. A third smuggler, the pilot, came out of the cockpit and, with Renner, Charity, and the others, shoveled the loot into boxes, piling them in the back of the van.
Frank and Joe watched this without comment. The Director, on his knees with one hand cuffed to the truck, desperately scratched and clawed at any loose baubles or money that fell as they were loaded. Laughing, the smugglers let him keep whatever he could grab.
Renner, though, snatched the loot away from the Director and stuffed it into the last box.
When the final box was in the van, Charity blew goodbye kisses to the Hardys. "Thank you, boys," she said. "I couldn't have done it without you." She walked down the ramp out the bay door to the van.
Renner called the smugglers into the cockpit of the plane. There were three dull thuds, and
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."
"I destroyed all those notes!" the Director burst out. "No one ever saw them except me."
"And the woman who robbed your safe," Charity added, to the man's surprise. "Me. It was a good plan, but I think mine was better."
The Director sank into silence, his face gray with shame.
"What are you going to do with us?" Frank asked. "You can't let us go. We know too much."
"What do you know?" Charity countered. "You don't know who I am or where I'm going. No, you really can't do me much harm at all." She looked wistfully out the window. "We'll be in Guatemala before too long. The plane will land there, we'll take the loot out, and leave you with the plane. How's that?"
"Just great," Joe said sourly.
She patted him gently on the cheek, trying to raise his spirits. "Don't take it like that, Joe. You'll get free pretty quickly. I'll see to that. Then all you have to do is find the Guatemalan police and explain everything to them, and by the time you do that, I'll be long gone.
"It's a shame, really," Charity said, looking at the Hardys. "We made such a good team. Maybe we can work together again someday."
"Over my dead body," Joe muttered.
"Don't say things like that," Charity scolded him. "Someday you'll run into someone who'll take that suggestion seriously."
Like the Director, Joe sank into silence and fumed. He couldn't believe it. Charity had outwitted them again.
The plane dipped, and Frank saw light coming from around the front end of the plane, streaks of bright red. The sun was almost up, but it had risen to the right of them.
She's lying again, he thought to himself. If the sun is to the right, we're flying northeast. That means we're over the United States.
"This is where I get out," Charity said. The plane landed, skidding along a landing strip crudely scratched out of the desert. When the plane came to a halt, Nick opened the bay doors.
A man stood at the bottom of the ramp, half-hidden in the morning grayness. He was short and thin, with thinning dark hair that formed a widow's peak. His thick glasses reflected the lights from inside the plane. Behind him was a rent-a-van, the kind used by millions of people throughout the country. Once they got on the highway with that, Frank knew, the thieves would vanish without a trace.
The man walked up the ramp, into the lit area.
"Renner!" Joe shouted. Forgetting the handcuffs, he lunged for the insurance investigator but jerked back abruptly, stopped by the end of his chain.
Renner frowned. "What are they doing here? This ruins everything. They'll destroy my career."
"You'll be rich, remember?" Charity reminded him. "You won't need a career. Let them be."
Nick went outside and backed the rent-a-van to the cargo-bay doors. A third smuggler, the pilot, came out of the cockpit and, with Renner, Charity, and the others, shoveled the loot into boxes, piling them in the back of the van.
Frank and Joe watched this without comment. The Director, on his knees with one hand cuffed to the truck, desperately scratched and clawed at any loose baubles or money that fell as they were loaded. Laughing, the smugglers let him keep whatever he could grab.
Renner, though, snatched the loot away from the Director and stuffed it into the last box.
When the final box was in the van, Charity blew goodbye kisses to the Hardys. "Thank you, boys," she said. "I couldn't have done it without you." She walked down the ramp out the bay door to the van.
Renner called the smugglers into the cockpit of the plane. There were three dull thuds, and
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