Part 2.
Thorne sits in the receptionist's desk of the bank, tapping his fingers on the portscreen. He wishes he has radio or communication devices to talk with his crew, but the last time he had used them, Hook managed to use Thorne's frequency and nearly got his crew killed by some angry Arabian hijackers.
A polite cough forces Thorne to look up. An ebony-skinned woman in her early thirties narrows her eyes at the captain. She wears her business suit like another armor. "I wish to see a vault."
"Of course, miss…?" Thorne pauses, resisting the urge to wink at the pretty woman. She is beautiful, but she is deadly with her words.
"It is Admiral."
Thorne shivers. He never wants to cross the Crocodile even if two hundred men are on his side. Her reputation doesn't exaggerate her lethal stare and piercing black eyes.
He stands up and leads her to the elevator. Adjusting his navy-blue collar with a wince, he watches the numbers change.
2.
1.
B1.
B2.
B3.
It seems to be a numbing forever when the doors of this metal coffin open. The vault has three security guards. Thorne, used to these faces after two weeks of prepping and recon, nod at them. Admiral Julo's security identification number easily allows the duo to bypass the pesky barriers between the Ashberg Diamond and him.
He opens up the Crocodile's safety box. The bank is rather old-fashioned. In order to crack some of the locks, thieves have to learn Second Era lockpicking. Few, if any, knows that skill.
The Crocodile peers into her box, and then she takes out an old watch. She smiles briefly at the piece and then turns to Thorne. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
Thorne gulps. This isn't part of the plan. "Yes…" He stammers, adjusting his sleeve. "It is from Second Era, Admiral?"
"It has been in my family for over four hundred years," she mutters. Then she raises a cool eyebrow at Thorne. "But you already know that, Cadet Carswell Thorne, don't you?"
Thorne backs away, looking towards the closed elevator doors. He gulps again, immediately fearing for his life. "How…?"
She taps her forehead. "Few things get by me. I also heard of your rivalry with Captain Hook. How is that old fellow these days? His hand feeling alright?"
"I wouldn't know," answers Thorne. "We don't discuss… those matters." He shuffles his feet, eyeing her careful movements. Please don't kill me, please don't kill me, he thinks.
"Do you know how many years I have been chasing Hook?"
"Fifteen."
"Ever since he hijacked one of my ships and crashed it into the Indian Ocean," says the Crocodile. "I have been trying to catch him. A few dozen servers list his crimes. I have more than enough evidence to put him away. However, he always wrangles a way out of my clutch."
"What does this have to do with me?" Thorne's mind twists and turns. He sees a glimmer of light ahead, and he knows he has one chance.
"You know why."
Then Thorne smiles.
He barely notices the way the Crocodile smiles too.
He sits in the corner of the bar, sipping his fruity drink. Watching Hook sit in the opposite corner, Thorne sighs. He really doesn't want to do this, but it is either him or Hook. He doesn't want his twelve-man crew go to African Union's jail. He heard of the terrible shoes prisoners have to wear. Admiral Julo gleefully issues ridiculous rules about shower times and soap limits in her spare time.
Hook, once again, drinks a pink fruity shake. Thorne doesn't criticize his taste. The strawberry is to die for, he thinks.
Thorne nervously makes his way up to the older, more experienced captain. Holding a drink, he puts a careful arm on Hook's shoulder. "Hey, Hook! How are you doing?"
Hook sips his drink.
"The Hope Diamond."
Thorne's face falls. The rivalry. He nearly forgotten about it.
"Reported missing nine hours ago," says Hook, smiling darkly. He grins smugly at the younger man.
"The Ashberg Diamond."
"Old news." Hook's right hand waves it away. "You're behind, Thorne. It is hard to keep up, isn't it?"
Thorne grins, knowing he has some upper hand. "Sure."
He takes a long sip from his straw, winking at Admiral Julo's secretary. She blushes hard, and Thorne finds myself not minding the company of some military women.
"Well?" She laughs, adjusting her skimpy dress. "You did it?"
"Tracker is in his pocket. He is yours." Thorne drinks from his shake. Three months of freedom. Three months of no military personnel on his trail. What shall he do now?
"I'll tell my boss." The dark-skinned assistant quickly presses a button in her handbag and then turns her full attention back to the handsome "Captain" Thorne. "Done. What should we do now, Thorne?"
"It is Captain," he flirts, smiling. "Captain Thorne."
The secretary tilts her head. Her mouth forms the vowels and the syllables of his name. "Captain." In a louder voice, she repeats, "Captain. Not a bad title. Better than a cadet from the American Republic."
"What can I say? I moved up."
"In illegal ways."
"Allegedly illegal ways," corrects the captain.
"Okay." She laughs.
From the distance, Captain Thorne watches his short-term rival. Hook landed his fighter plane in a building of Albany.
He watches the African Union ships surround the rooftop. Hook and his crew all raise their hands. Each of them look tired and stunned.
Thorne smiles. At least, he'll get three months of freedom with no rival. Hook will probably be out in a few months, and the Crocodile will continue this long, long, long dance with the captain. The duo have a long history of a cat-and-mouse game.
He salutes Captain Hook, and then he steps down from the rooftops of the skyscraper miles away from Hook's location.