Boosting - Chapter 29

Fenton whistled appreciatively, cast a look around to check he wasn't being observed and stepped inside the open container to have a closer look at the yellow car – a car that wouldn't have looked out of place in a museum.

It was so gorgeous he refused himself permission to touch lest he break the spell, happy to look through the windows and admire its sunny elegance. He was pretty sure it was a Dodge Brother's touring car, though the year of manufacture was anyone's guess.

"I'll be back for you later, Queenie," he said and tongue clicked lasciviously before exiting. He shut the doors and put the padlock on again so that if anyone came along, they wouldn't know of his discovery.

Now he'd confirmed where the gang were storing the cars, it was time to broaden his search and locate their base of operations. He returned to his disappointing rental and, by taking a circular route from the container, worked his way outwards until he came across the tiny office building; conspicuous in comparison to the other larger buildings he'd already seen.

That was when he'd sandwiched his car between two containers, largely out of sight and far enough away so not to be noticed, and waited.

An hour or so later, his assumption was rewarded when the door was propped open and two men began carrying and dragging boxes outside to stack them up haphazardly and urgently…odd behaviour for an export business, especially on a Sunday! If Fenton had been a betting man, he'd have wagered that they were closing up shop!...

Fenton was yanked back to the present by the arrival of the talked about truck, which drew to a halt outside the building. Its air brakes loudly hissed and nearly burst Fenton's eardrum through his earpiece. He yanked it out to replace it with a finger. "Yowch!" he muttered, wiggling and pulling on his lobe.

Three men jumped down from the cab. Two of them joined the men at the front of the building and the remaining man moved to the rear and opened the back door. On board were a further three men, two of whom the worse for wear – one had a black eye, a swollen nose, and a prominent limp (he had to sit down and slide off the back rather than jump), the other man's injury was to his arm, which was trussed up in a sling and clumsily bandaged.

"A-ha!" Fenton muttered. "Did you two have a tussle with a certain ex-police dog and a certain ex-police lieutenant?"

Checking his watch, Fenton did a calculation. Even with a trip to a hospital – which was doubtful, judging by the questionably applied dressings – they would have had time to get from Bayport by road to River Heights if they'd travelled through the night.

All eight men came together into a huddle to talk, so Fenton popped his earpiece back in to snoop. Unfortunately, the truck's engine was still running so he was missing chunks of what was being said, but enough was cutting through, especially when they became argumentative.

"If you're not goin' to do it…one of us has to….we can't take her with us!" one shouted suddenly, making Fenton sit up straighter.

"You're not touching her…your brains!…better for us alive than dead…bargaining chip if need be…game, this is murder you're talking about!"

The man who'd shouted first took a spin and stormed about before turning back to the man he was arguing with.

"Is she still in the container?"

"Yes, but I'm not...boxes on the back of the truck…I'll then get her." He made a hand gesture, which Fenton didn't catch and the other man backed down throwing his hands up. The man went to the nearest box, picked it up and frustratingly slung it onto the back of the truck. The others joined in except for Limpy and One-arm.

Fenton took the earpiece out and removed the amplifier, shoving the whole lot into the glove box. He twisted and looked through his rear window, wishing to see Joe arriving but knowing that it was too soon. So he sat forward again and considered his options with his palms lightly resting on the wheel.

A wise man would have waited for back up, but from the way the gang had been talking; at least one of them didn't want the problem of Bobbie Shandley. Although the supposed leader had talked him down, there was no guarantee the impasse would last. No, Fenton had to find the girl and get her out.

So, keeping one eye on the preoccupied men, Fenton ever so carefully opened his door and, keeping low, slid out – none of the gang so much as glanced in his direction. Fenton put his shoulder against the door and eased it shut, barely making a noise. He took off running on the balls of his feet and made his way behind the containers until he was far enough along as to not be overlooked or overheard. Weaving his way between, he backtracked until he came to the crate that housed the Dodge car.

Fenton theorised that if the man had imprisoned Bobbie in one of the containers, than it wouldn't be too far from the Dodge, and because of the recent rains, he hoped her whereabouts would be betrayed by footprints. Standing in front of the crate he'd already opened, he cast his eyes along the ground, first right, and then left. Frowning, he could see something uneven between the containers across the other side so headed in that direction.

There he found a batch of well-defined footprints that had been trooping backwards and forwards. Most had obviously been made by larger and heavier male feet, but mixed in amongst them were much smaller, daintier ones – unmistakably feminine. They all carried on around to the front of the storage container, a container with one of those large padlocks on it.

Fenton went straight to it and extracted his lock picking equipment from his back pocket. Before he started work, he pushed his ear to the doors and listened attentively. At first he detected nothing, but suddenly there was a sliding noise and the door moved slightly against his face. Then, a soft girlie voice said: "Who's that?"

Fenton's jerked back. Although he'd half expected someone to be there, he still jumped. He collected himself and leaned in again. "Bobbie Shandley?"

There was silence for a time, and then a shaky voice said. "Yes, are you here to help me? Say you are because I don't think I could stand it if you're not. I want to go home!"

Fenton smiled. "I've come to take you home. It's Fenton Hardy – you know who I am, I think?"

"Fenton Hardy? Really!?"

Fenton laughed. "Yes, really." He started work on the lock. "Give me five minutes, sweetheart, and I'll have you out of there."

"Okay."

The padlock was tougher in comparison to the first, but it eventually gave way in Fenton's dexterous hands. He pulled it from its hasp and jerked the doors wide to find a tiny girl with her hands over her eyes. At the back of the interior there was a small camp bed with mussed bedclothes where she's obviously been sleeping.

"What are you doing?" Fenton asked. "You can look at me you know, I'm not that intimidating!"

"It's not that, Mr Hardy. Sunlight, when you've been in the dark for so long hurts!"

"And you can stop calling me 'Mr Hardy', my name's Fenton." He took a step forward until one leg was inside the container and took her gently by the elbow. "I don't want to rush you, Bobbie, but we need to move."

Bobbie dropped her hands to squint up at him. "I can't think of anything I'd rather be—" and then she was gasping and shouting, "LOOK OUT!" But it was too late to take evasive action. Fenton took a hefty push to the back, tripped over the doorway and lurched into Bobbie, falling and bowling her over.

The box was pitched into total darkness as the doors were shut with a deafening roar. It made Fenton's head ring, it was as though he and the girl were inside a bell and someone had just swung a metal stick against the side.

Fenton felt hugely stupid at that moment. Bobbie was so little that he should have just picked her up and run…should have fled and lost them both within Container City – too much time had been spent being friendly and gentle. Now they were in a fine ol' pickle!

*****

"Dude – look at how vast this place is!" Joe complained. "How are we supposed to track down and connect with dad?"

"By finding his car. It's Sunday, there can't be many businesses open today, there won't be many around. Keep your eyes peeled for a blue sedan."

Joe drove around, the brothers looking left and right and craning their necks. "I still can't believe he went off on his own," Joe muttered. "He's always drumming into us the importance of backup."

"He's worried about Bobbie. We'd have done the exact same thing, bro."

Joe made an "umm" noise. Frank had made a fair point. No matter how much they advised each other not to step off into the abyss, when the wind was blowing in the right – or in this case the wrong – direction, they always did, and they went en-mass! "Freakin' lemmings!" Even when doing things by the book, like Con had, trouble still came a-knockin'. "Perhaps it's time to review things, set down some ground-rules that we can agree to abide by? It might stop us gettin' into so many rumbles," Joe suggested.

They slowly turned and regarded one another before bursting into a loud round of belly laughing.

"What…ever!" Frank said with a touch of incredulous sarcasm.

Joe braked with a jolt. "Frank is that…is that the dad's car?" He pointed into the distance. "It looks like someone's driving it into one of those large box, shed things."

"They're called cargo containers." Frank said, delving into his pockets.

"I can't tell for sure that's dad's car, it's impossible to read the plate. We'll have to get closer and—" Joe turned to his brother and what he saw pulled him up short, "—Frank, you are, without doubt, the biggest dork I ever met!"

Frank had produced a tiny telescope from somewhere and had it to his eye directing it at the car in the distance, looking to Joe like a confused jewellery valuer.

Frank didn't flinch, simply shrugged. "I saw it-liked it-bought it. And I'm now justifying my purchase. Jealousy is such an ugly trait, bro." He focused the tiny instrument with his middle finger. "Yep, it's dad's rental, but that's not dad driving it."

"Is dad there at all?"

Frank observed for a while longer and panned about. "Not that I can see."

"Let me have a look."

"Are you sure? You don't want to appear nerd-like—"

"—Just give it here." Joe snatched the eyepiece and put it to his eye. "This is cool, actually."

"How quickly the tide turns! There's a fine line between dork and genius and I daintily trip between the two."

"Where is he? What's that guy doing with dad's car?" Joe returned the telescope and watched until the man closed the doors on the container and started to walk away. Immediately, the brothers exited to follow on foot – or in Frank's case, on foot and with stick.

Reaching the crate first, Joe turned, "Frank, follow that guy, I'm goin' to have a look at the car. Be careful though, yeah? I'll be quick."

Frank limped away in the direction the man had gone while Joe quickly cranked up the handle and swung the doors open. He entered and looked inside the car, which was unlocked, and then popped the trunk. Running to the back, he pushed it open…his father wasn't inside. Joe wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, but he couldn't stop to analyse those thoughts as he didn't want to leave Frank on his own for any length of time. He quickly left, shut the door and raced after his older brother.

As he rounded a bend, he found Frank had hidden himself against the side of a tall dumpster which was piled high with cardboard and boxes. Frank was looking back with a finger on his lips, so Joe slowed right down and proceeded carefully until he was close enough for Frank to pull him in close.

"That was quick," Frank observed in a low tone. "Find anything?"

"No, the car was empty. Looks like the guy was just hiding it – which doesn't answer the question of where dad's gone. What's the guy doing?"

"Take a look for yourself."

Joe crept tentatively forward and took a peek around the edge of the box, Frank joining him. Their quarry had met with another man, both standing and looking in the opposite direction. Joe couldn't see what they were watching, but did note that the man he'd joined had an arm in a sling. The men began to turn, so the brothers quickly pulled their heads in again. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, dude?"

"About the arm injury?"

Joe nodded.

"If what you are thinking about involves a dog, then yeah, I think I am."

The men started talking so they stopped to listen.

"Andy was plenty mad, wasn't he?"

"Even madder now that guy turned up and nearly freed the girl. If Pete had dealt with the situation in the first place none of this would be happening. We'd have been packed up and gone. He's gone soft."

"Do you think the guy's something to do with the FBI?"

"Stands to reason, don't it? Andy wants to deal with the problem head on, but Pete's dragging his heels. C'mon, let's go and see what's happening."

The brother's listened to the sounds of the men's voices receding, running footsteps going away from them.

"Crap!" Joe muttered.

"We need to get dad out of there, bro!"

"Crap!" Joe uttered again and glanced up and down at Frank before looking back around the dumpster. "Frank, you need to be quiet."

"I agree—"

Joe turned to face Frank square on. "—No, I don't think you understand, I need you to be silent."

"I don't—"

"­—How much do you weigh now?"

"What? I dunno, 170 pounds maybe, why do—?"

Joe could see Frank growing confused by his strange questioning, but he wasn't going to let up. "—But you're gonna be quiet though?"

"That's what we just agreed, Joe, but you're not—"

And then Joe made a swift move, reached out with one hand and grabbed Frank's jacket front, the other latching onto his belt buckle. Before Frank could counter his actions, Joe rapidly yanked him forward and then with a knee dip, hoisted him cleanly into the air and over his head.

Finally, being able to bench press more than his own body weight was serving a much more useful purpose than simply providing eye candy for the girls, it was enabling Joe Hardy the opportunity to create the sport of 'Sibling Throwing'!

Joe realised ruefully that his brother really had lost weight and in actual fact wasn't anywhere near the 170 pounds he thought he was. Frank needed to eat some food and lots of it. Joe turned, bent his arms and purged himself of the Frankster by brusquely tossing him over the lip of the dumpster.

As anticipated, the cardboard squashed down, cushioned and deadened Frank's landing. Joe got up onto his tiptoes and looked over, just in time to watch his brother roll and slip between the cardboard, the sheets swallowing him up, the only part left visible being a hand still gripping the chrome walking stick.

As grossly unfair as it probably seemed to Frank, Joe felt just as stalwartly that his brother wasn't physically ready for this sort of action. He didn't want to be faced with having to keep one eye on him while getting his father out of a sticky situation. He needed to be able to concentrate fully.

Ever since Hannah had told them his father had gone off to find Bobbie alone, Joe'd had a bad feeling and wished he'd had the strength of mind to leave Frank behind with Nancy, but as usual, he'd tripped himself up by placing his heart before his head. Once again, the potency and lure of tempting Frank back to work had proven too compelling to ignore.

He made a note to work on that Achilles' heel in future.

"Later, Dude," he promised over the top of his brother's struggling, hissing protestations from deep within the metal dumpster. Joe took off in the direction that the men had gone in.