Chapter Seventeen

Ahiru had never been on an airplane before. Of course, none of them had, and now, as they strapped themselves in and prepared for take-off, they were all nervous and excited and hoping against hope for what would be found in Frankfurt.

The plane had been grounded for several hours due to a harsh storm that had swept across Germany. Now that it was finally lifting and the conditions had improved enough for flight, there was no way that the aircraft would arrive before the designated time of the robbery.

Ahiru squirmed in her seat. "We won't even be there when it happens!" she berated. "What if something goes wrong and we're not there?"

"I doubt the police would let us in anyway," Autor said. "We'll just have to trust that they will take care of this and rescue Fakir."

Ahiru looked down. "Maybe it'll work out better without us there," she said. "Or without me, anyway."

"Now Ahiru, don't start that again." Autor frowned. "What happened before wasn't all your fault."

"You still blame yourself for that and other stuff, don't you?" Ahiru said, looking up at him.

Autor averted his gaze in discomfort. "Yes," he admitted. "But I'm trying to stop that. There's no way to know what the truth is."

"I know. But . . ." She bit her lip. "I feel so scared, Autor. What if no one at all can stand up against these horrible people?"

Autor fell silent, thinking over her plaintive question. "Someone has to eventually," he said. "Even if it's other gangsters."

"But we'll have faith that the police will be the ones to stand up to them," Charon interjected.

Kirsch nodded. "They're not going to let this gang get away if they can at all help it," he said.

"They haven't been able to catch them before," Ahiru said quietly. "I guess they couldn't help it."

Now Kirsch was silent. It was hard to argue that point. Time and again Anton's gang had outwitted the police, much to their frustration and consternation.

"Well . . . this is a different batch of police," he said. "We'll see what they can do."

Ahiru nodded, trying to smile. "Maybe we'll have Fakir home with us tonight," she said.

Charon nodded too. "Just focus on that," he said, as the airplane began to rise.

xxxx

At the stroke of a cloudy and cold midnight, Erwin Loewe's street was dark. Even at his own house, there were no lights.

Fakir stood with the gang by the front gate, casting a nervous glance around the area. Where were the police? Were they coming at all? Had that businessman come through and called them in the first place? It had been a gamble, trusting in him to do the job, but Fakir had been desperate. He had had no chance to place the call himself. There had barely been enough time to tell the tycoon what needed to be said.

Maybe the police were out of sight, waiting for something illegal to be done before moving in to make the arrests. But did they really need to hold out for that when Fakir had been abducted? Something illegal was going on constantly.

The gang member who seemed to have taken Heimbrecht's place as leader when Anton was absent pressed the call button on the intercom. At first there was no reply. But the man was insistent; he pressed and held the button until at last a light came on in the house and the front door opened.

"What is this?" cried an older, balding man in a dark silk robe and pajamas. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

The gangster stepped over to look at him through the bars of the gate. "We do, Erwin," he said. "But this was something that couldn't wait." He sneered. "I'm sure you'll agree about that."

Erwin stiffened. Even in the dim light, Fakir could clearly see the fear on his face. Trembling, the bank owner began to back up in order to shut the open door.

"I don't have anything for you!" he said. "I've told that to Anton before. There's nothing to be done. Nothing!"

"Oh, I think there's something," the crook replied, his voice smoothly cruel. "We're just here for a little chat, Erwin. You're not going to turn us away, are you?"

"I most certainly am!" Erwin shot back. "Guards! Guards!" He stumbled the rest of the way past the entrance. Behind him, a younger man in a suit appeared. Erwin did not seem to notice.

At least, not until a gun was pressed squarely against his back. His eyes widened in horror.

Fakir stared. What was going on? This had not been part of the plan as he had been told.

The man at the gate looked pleased. "Your guards aren't going to be any help here," he said. "Angelo is already inside, aren't you, Angelo?"

The man with the gun smiled. "I'm ready for our meeting to begin," he said. "You can come up any time." With his free hand, he reached over and pushed a button. The gates began to automatically swing open, allowing the gang to step through and make their way towards the porch.

Fakir was prodded by both of his escorts. "You have your pad and paper ready, don't you?" said the first.

"Yeah, I have them," Fakir retorted. But that doesn't mean you'll get what you want.

His stomach turned itself in knots. If the police were not here and were not going to come, what would he do then? He had been counting on them to end this torment. But if he was still on his own, could he really refuse again to write when he did not know if Ahiru was being held prisoner by the gang?

Erwin was still quaking. His horror only increased as the group drew closer. "I tell you, I don't have anything for you!" he said.

"And we say you do," was the retort. "Are you going to argue with us?" Every gangster drew his gun. Fakir clutched his quill.

Erwin looked ready to faint. "You've completely outnumbered me," he moaned.

But suddenly his entire demeanor changed. His expression turned hard and cold. "Then again, maybe I'll surprise you . . . and even Anton." A triumphant smirk crept over his features. "I'll still have the last laugh after all."

The sound of other guns' safeties clicking off filled the night air. The gangsters looked stunned. Fakir stiffened. Now what? Had Erwin's guards showed up? Was there going to be a gang war?

"All of you, get your hands up," an unfamiliar voice growled. "That's right, I said all of you. The kid, too."

Anton's gang swore. But instead of doing as ordered, some of them whirled, shooting point-blank at the newcomers. Erwin's apparent allies fired back. Now what filled the night were pained cries.

Fakir's guards grabbed him by the arms, pulling him below the raging bullets. "Come on!" snarled the first. "We'll get you to safety around the side of the house and you'll write that we win this fight."

"There's no guarantee that it'll work!" Fakir exclaimed as they fell to the grass.

"You'd better swear on your girlfriend's life that it'll work," the man told him.

But before they could even begin to crawl over the grass several cars' headlights turned on, illuminating the front yard. Another sound erupted through the chill air.

"This is the police. We have the house surrounded. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands on top of your heads!"

The shooting had come to an abrupt halt during the amplified announcement. Now the members from both sides were standing around stupidly, unsure of what to do and hoping for guidance from their bosses.

The guards holding onto Fakir had gone sheet-white. "There wasn't enough time for the cops to get here," protested the second. "The shooting lasted maybe ten seconds at the most! That wouldn't even be enough time to call them on the phone!"

The first sentry recovered quickly from the shock. His complexion was swiftly turning red. "That could only mean that they were tipped off long before now," he said.

Fakir met his angry glare with narrowed, unmoved eyes. "Somebody in the gang did it then?" he said. "Maybe somebody here actually has a conscience. It's a surprise to me."

Without warning he was struck across the face. "It was no surprise to you!" said the first. "You're the one who did this. You have to be!"

"How could I have done this?" Fakir retorted. "I never had the chance."

"You found a way," the first told him. "I don't know how, but I know you did. And I swear, I've had enough of you. Anton won't let you live after tonight and neither will I!"

The police's megaphone interrupted the dire threat. "I repeat, everyone drop your weapons and come out with your hands on top of your heads. If every single person doesn't comply within two minutes, we're coming in."

By now some of the men on both sides had indeed surrendered and were being handcuffed. But the majority was not willing to give in. Some were firing their guns in all directions, hoping to hit the police and then make a break for it. Chilling cries reached Fakir's ears as some officers were struck. As the remaining police—all part of the Mobile Special Response Unit—opened fire in return, the rebellious gangsters began to fall too.

Several lights were hit in the melee, either on purpose or by accident. Fragments of glass flew into the air as the glare diminished. The police shouted directions to each other, diving for cover from the bullets and the broken lights.

Erwin slammed his door shut and locked it, determining that he would rather deal with one of Anton's men inside than however many were outside with the police. He was not going to be arrested or blackmailed if he could help it.

Both of Fakir's guards put their guns to his head. "You write that we escape," ordered the first. "I don't care if the police get everyone else. We're getting away, from them and from Anton. If we go back to him now, both our lives are forfeit. And that's not how it's going to be." He pushed the cold barrel harder against the back of Fakir's head. "Write it now or you're dead."

Fakir clenched his teeth. "The police are going to be coming in any minute," he said. "Are you really going to kill me and get a murder rap on your hands?"

"No, because you're going to write that we escape," the thug answered. "Right now!"

Fakir was still holding the pen. He gripped it between his fingers, looking down at the now-wrinkled and bent papers. "What if I say No?" he said. "What can you do about it? You don't want to call Anton and order him to kill Ahiru, because then he'll have you killed too. You as much as said that."

"One minute," came the voice on the megaphone.

The guard swore vilely. "If that's the way it's going to be, then you're going to regret it."

"Then kill me," Fakir said. "You heard the police—the place is surrounded. You'll never get away with it."

"It's a bluff," the man spat.

"You're willing to take that chance?" Fakir could feel the revolvers shaking. Both men were nervous. He was taking a gamble, but he had to pray that they were not nervous enough to shoot him without warning. That would be the stupidest thing they could do—and the worst for him. He would never survive two bullets to the head.

Abruptly the first guard got to his feet, dragging Fakir with him by the wrists. "Come on!" he growled. "Anton told us about some secret ways off the property. The cops won't know about those. And they're too occupied right now to stop us. With some of the lights gone, they might not even see us."

The second man got up too. "Can we really get away?" he exclaimed, the doubt obvious in his frightened voice.

"If we can't, the kid's going to pay for it," the first vowed. "Take his left arm."

Fakir reached to kick out, but the second man ducked and kicked him instead. The boy fell back, stumbling against the first man. The second snatched his left arm. Before he could do a thing about it, the criminals were running. He had no choice but to run with them or be dragged across the ground.

It was not long before the glow from the remaining lights began to fall away, opening up the yard to increasing darkness and shadow. The thick trees surrounding the brick wall on all sides of the property made it impossible for the police to be stationed there, unless they had managed to get into the branches. Fakir thought of that possibility, but the men he was with either had not or did not care. They just kept going.

They had reached the back of the house when the policeman called, "We know there's still three of you back there. Don't try to run; it won't do you any good."

Despite the implication that the police were going to either shoot or give chase—or both—the men only tore over the lawn with increased speed, the desire to stay free giving them an adrenaline rush. They did not see the shadow climbing down from a rare spot on the wall unobstructed by trees.

But Fakir did. "Help!" he yelled, taking a chance that the figure was a police officer. "I'm Fakir! I've been kidnapped!"

Even as they ran, the first man hit him hard over the head. "Be quiet!" he roared.

Fakir swayed from the sudden dizziness. Unconcerned for his ailment, his captors continued to half-pull half-drag him towards the thick woods at the back half of Erwin Loewe's property. Once they were in there, it would be much more difficult for the police to find them.

Fakir stared at the dark trees. Was there also one of those supposed secret passages in there? If so, they actually might get away. And who knew what would happen to him then? He jerked, trying in vain to pull himself free. The thugs only held tighter.

A gunshot rang through the air. At the same moment the second man gasped, releasing Fakir to sink to the ground. Blood seeped from his back, making its way into the blades of grass.

The first man only looked at the gruesome scene a split-second. Filled with a burst of unheard-of strength, he hauled Fakir with him into the trees. Behind them, footsteps were running over the ground.

"You're never going to make it," Fakir said as they wove in and out of the cluster of pines. "Your buddy's already been shot."

Again the man gave a vulgar curse. "If that was a cop behind us, don't you think he would have said something about stopping?" he said. "And he wouldn't even try to shoot with you between us. He'd be too worried he'd end up hitting you. You're our ticket out of here, one way or another. Even though now it looks like you're just my ticket."

Fakir's eyes widened, the dazedness leaving him. "Then who . . ."

He never had a chance to finish his sentence. The surface sloped downward underneath them, catching them both sharply off-guard. With a shared cry they toppled over and over each other, crashing to the bottom of the incline.

Fakir sprawled on the pine-needle-strewn forest floor. The world was spinning. He groaned, shutting his eyes to try to force it to hold still.

But then he was violently shoved backwards and his eyes flew open wide. The guard was bearing down on him, his visage wild.

"I hate you!" he screamed, his words mixed with profanities. "I'll kill you myself; I swear it!" He grabbed a rock, aiming to pound it into Fakir's shoulder.

Immediately Fakir reached up, grabbing in desperation at the man's wrist. "You're crazy!" he hissed, fighting to push him back. "You're going to bring them down on us for sure!"

But the thug no longer cared. With his other hand he picked up a second rock, which he dropped onto Fakir's sore right side. The boy cried out, unable to stop himself.

The pained yell twisted the monster's features even more. Hearing the object of his hatred in agony only fueled his motivation. He beat down on Fakir with his fists and with the first rock, in spite of the teen's frantic battle to ward him off. The blows were coming so fast that Fakir barely had time to try to defend himself against one before two more were falling. It was a losing battle from the start.

"I'll kill you!" the madman roared. He struck Fakir hard on the head with the rock.

Fakir gasped, the pain exploding through his brain. His hands fell to the ground beside him. He could not fight any longer; it was over.

The last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him was a calm, heartless voice that could only belong to Anton.

"No, I'll kill you."

A gunshot and a scream rent the woods.

xxxx

It was raining and long after midnight by the time the airplane landed in Frankfurt. Ahiru was off nearly as soon as the engine was cut, running towards the hangar with her braid flying behind her. She did not even notice the freezing water.

Autor leaned out of the doorway after her. "Ahiru, wait!" he called.

"It's no use," Charon said, coming up behind him. "She won't stop until she's reached a telephone. Not that she'll even know the number to call."

Autor shook his head. "I'm anxious as well, but she really should have waited for Detective Kirsch to go first," he said. "We won't learn anything without him to place the call." Popping open an umbrella, he climbed down and hurried after his friend.

A trace of a smile came over Charon's features. "I felt like running just as Ahiru did," he said. "She just beat me to it."

Kirsch hesitated as they left the plane. "You shouldn't get your hopes up," he said at last. "Any number of things could have happened." But the spark of hope was in his eyes too.

Charon noticed it. "Any number of things could have happened," he said. "And the possibilities aren't all bad ones."

"No, they aren't," said Kirsch. "In the best-case scenario, the police have already nabbed the gang and Fakir is safe with them." He sighed. "But cases rarely go exactly the way you want them to."

"As long as Fakir as alive and safe, I don't care about the rest," Charon said.

Moments later they were inside the hangar and Kirsch was dialing the number of the police. But it was not long before his eyebrows knitted and his tone grew grave while he spoke with whomever had answered the phone. The mood in the building began to dim.

"What's happening?" Ahiru cried, wringing her hands.

"We'll know in a minute," Autor said, trying to hush her. The worry was prominent in his eyes and voice.

Charon's heart beat faster. Kirsch had stepped away, speaking low into the receiver, but Charon could still hear snatches of the conversation. And what he was picking up could be good or bad.

"How many? . . . I see. And none of them are willing to talk? . . . What about the bodies on the property?"

The color drained from Charon's face. Bodies. . . . Who was dead?

Gangsters?

Erwin Loewe's servants?

Police officers?

. . . Fakir?

The cry to his side let him know that Ahiru had heard as well. Autor drew a sharp intake of breath.

"It doesn't mean anything, Ahiru," he said, keeping his voice low.

"It means too much!" Ahiru wailed. "All of it horrible!"

An eternity later Kirsch hung up the telephone. He walked back to the others, setting the device on the desk. His face was sober.

"What is it?" Ahiru pleaded. "What happened? Who's dead?"

Kirsch exhaled deeply. "There were several deaths, both police and gangsters, during a shootout," he said. "In addition, there's two more, mysterious fatalities. One of the unknowns was shot in the back, the other in the head. They were apparently trying to escape the property. The first was found just outside the pine trees Erwin Loewe owns. The second was at the bottom of a hill inside the small forest."

It was horrifying to hear about all the hurt and dead people, yet it was a comfort that Fakir was not listed among them. Ahiru, however, was still distraught. "What about Fakir?" she cried.

Kirsch shook his head, looking from her to Autor and then to Charon, the helplessness and regret he felt obvious. "They don't know," he said.

"Don't they know anything at all?" Autor exclaimed, unable to control his own dismay any longer.

Kirsch sighed. Stepping away from the desk, he began to walk up and down the concrete floor.

"Apparently Erwin Loewe is a criminal too," he said. "There was a gang war between some of his men and Anton Schuster's gang. It happened so fast and so suddenly that the police stationed around the grounds couldn't prevent it.

"They managed to stop it shortly after it started, however, and ordered everyone to come out with their hands up and their weapons dropped. Some of them came out. A few of Erwin's men confessed, but Anton's men have all been close-lipped. A lot of them tried to shoot their way out before being disarmed or shot themselves."

He shook his head. "The police know that Fakir was there; one of them swears he heard someone calling for help and identifying himself as Fakir. But he's nowhere to be found. The property is being searched from top to bottom, without success." He paused. "All they've found is a paper holder filled with sheets of paper. Every sheet is blank."

"Then Fakir still didn't write for them!" Ahiru exclaimed.

"Unless someone took the incriminating papers with them," Autor frowned.

"He didn't write for them!" Ahiru retorted. "I know he didn't!"

". . . The police are wondering if the dead men were trying to take Fakir with them," Kirsch said now. "But if that's the case, whoever killed them may have taken Fakir."

Charon stared at him. "Has Anton been seen at all?" he rasped.

"No," Kirsch said. "Unfortunately he wasn't one of the captured ones."

"He has Fakir," Charon said fiercely. "He would never let Fakir go. Those men may have been trying to escape death at his hands for their failure. Anton would never allow them to get away."

Kirsch lowered his gaze. "That is possible," he said. "But if it's so, we have to keep the hope that Fakir is still alive."

Ahiru trembled. "Even . . . even if he is, we'll probably never catch up to him," she choked out. "We're always too late."

The others looked to her, stunned. "Ahiru, you can't say that," Autor exclaimed.

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" Ahiru shot back. Tears slipped from her eyes and trailed down her face. "Something keeps going wrong. Every time we think it's going to be okay and Fakir's going to come home, it doesn't work out! Maybe it really can't work out. Maybe . . . maybe we never will get Fakir back."

It was what Charon and Autor had feared, but had never wanted to voice. As Ahiru cried in despair, Autor took her in his arms, shutting his eyes against the flood of emotions that were threatening to rise.

Before, he had grabbed at Charon in desperation, his shattered heart coming out in his weeping. Now Ahiru was clutching at him in the same way, devastated and broken and frantically seeking for some small piece of sanity in this madness.

If only Autor knew how to give it to her. All he could do was to hold her and let her cry. It was not enough, it could never be enough, but . . . perhaps just knowing he was there and that he cared would give her some strength.

If there was any left to spare.