Treasure Hunters

by James Patterson

  “Yeah. They snatched him off the deck with a rescue rope.”

  “Really? In the middle of a hurricane?”

  “Mr. Collier?” said Aramis, rubbing his eyes with both hands like he had a migraine headache. “Do something! Now! Or you will be relieved of your duties!”

  “Okay, you little brats,” snapped Collier. “Knock it off!”

  Beck and I kept going. “A very noisy hurricane so we couldn’t hear the propellers!”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Nuh-uh. Not if the helicopter pilot was really, really good.”

  “You, Bick, are completely whacked.”

  “And you, Beck, are extremely dumb.”

  “Take that back!”

  “I will if you say Dad isn’t dead.”

  “He is!”

  “Is not!”

  “Is too!”

  “Says who?”

  “Me!”

  “Ha!”

  “Ha yourself!”

  “Silence!” screamed Mr. Aramis as he leaped up so ferociously it sent his chair flying backward into a bookshelf. Fuming, just like Beck and I figured he would, he grabbed his gold-plated pistol and aimed it at us. “I cannot abide screaming children, crying babies, or barking dogs! If the two of you don’t stop this tirade by the time I count to three, I will most definitely give you something to scream about.”

  Beck and I quickly glanced around the room. Aramis was the only one waggling a weapon. So far, our plan was working perfectly.

  “One!” said Aramis.

  I took a deep breath. Glowered hard at Beck.

  “Dad. Is. Not. Dead!”

  Beck glowered hard at me. “Yes. He. Is!”

  “Two!” shouted Aramis, raising his pistol, swinging it back and forth, trying to decide which one of us to shoot first.

  He was about to say “Three!” when Tommy sprang into action and leaped at Aramis with a flying karate kick.

  CHAPTER 64

  Tommy’s left foot slammed into Aramis’s wrist.

  It made a sound like a snapping chicken bone. The pistol went flying.

  Storm grabbed Collier, yanking him up by the shirt.

  “This is for the stupid little map you had stupid Louie Louie stuff in the stupid bee pendant! You made me cry. I’m Storm Kidd. I don’t do tears.” Then, flipping through her photographic memory to the spot where the pre-med student attacked Tommy, Storm kneed Collier where it really, really hurt.

  “Ooof!” cried Collier, his eyes watering up with pain.

  “Look who’s crying now!” Storm gloated.

  Beck held the bodyguard with the runny nose at bay by striking an arms-up attack pose.

  When Tommy grabbed Aramis’s gun off the floor, I lunged for the Grecian urn.

  Unfortunately, Aramis did the exact same thing.

  Together, we tipped the ancient vase off the edge of the glass-topped table.

  “Noooo!” shouted Aramis.

  The urn was tumbling toward the floor.

  I shot out my arms and snagged it. The instant I had it in my hands, I flipped my body so I’d land with my butt on the ground instead of a vase in my face.

  “Got it!” I shouted as I lay on the ground, the priceless treasure nestled against my chest.

  “Good,” sneered Aramis. “Now hand it over.”

  I looked up.

  In all the commotion, six more bodyguards had tromped into the room.

  These six were not blowing their noses.

  They were all aiming their weapons straight down at me.

  So much for heroics.

  Beck had been right: We were all going to die.

  CHAPTER 65

  “Kill them!” shouted Aramis. “Kill them all! But whatever you do, don’t you dare hurt my new urn!”

  Three of the goons aimed their guns at my head. The other three swung around to train their weapons on Beck, Storm, and Tommy.

  “So,” I said, “I guess this means you don’t want that Rembrandt?”

  “I’ll find it for you!” said Collier. “I’m very good at what I do.”

  “Ha!” snorted Beck. “In your dreams.”

  Aramis motioned for his men to wait a moment before executing us. He leaned over to quiz me.

  “Do you really know where to find this priceless Rembrandt, young man?”

  “Of course we do,” I said. “We’re real treasure hunters. Not phonies like certain people named, oh, Collier.”

  “Don’t listen to them,” said Nathan Collier. “I can find it.”

  “No, you can’t,” said Beck.

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Cannot.”

  “Can too!”

  Just as they were about to erupt into their own tirade, I finally heard a hubbub out in the hallway. The one that was supposed to happen, like, five minutes earlier.

  Doors banged. Gruff voices shouted. A squadron of feet marched across the living room.

  Then I heard another very loud BANG followed by a ringing PA-PING!

  A gunshot.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Aramis.

  One of the gun-toting goons grabbed Storm to use her as a human shield.

  Big mistake.

  She elbowed him in the gut while she kicked another of the thugs in what we’ll call his “Collier.”

  Tommy took out three of the other guys with karate chops that could split bricks. Beck took down another by spin-kicking his ankles out from under him. He collided with the last goon, bringing them both to the floor.

  The door to the study burst open.

  “Drop your weapons!” shouted a familiar voice.

  And then I saw the familiar mirrored sunglasses.

  Uncle Timothy had brought along about twenty friends, all of them with serious weaponry and flak jackets that had FBI and CIA in big, bold letters plastered on their fronts and backs.

  The bad guys, already in excruciating pain from sparring with my sibs, were smart enough to see that they were seriously outnumbered and outgunned. They immediately dropped their weapons and raised their hands.

  “Hi, kids,” said Uncle Timothy. “Sorry we’re a little late.”

  “You guys were supposed to be here, like, five minutes ago!” said Beck.

  “It’s all my fault,” said Dr. Lewis, toddling into the room. “I misplaced the napkin where I had jotted down the address you gave me last night.”

  “Okay, Aramis,” said Uncle Timothy. “The game is over. You’re coming with us.”

  I gave the Grecian urn to Dr. Lewis, figuring he’d know how to handle it, since he was a professor of Old Stuff That Breaks Easily.

  “Kindly return that item,” said Aramis when he saw me hand off the ancient artifact. “It belongs to me.”

  “Really?” said Uncle Timothy. “How much a planter like that run you?”

  Aramis was smirking again. “More than you’ll ever make during your entire career, Officer.”

  “It’s priceless!” added Collier. He dusted off his bomber jacket, trying to act like he was somebody important. “Officers, I am an expert on these matters, and I assure you, a treasure such as this one is worth one million, maybe two million dollars.”

  Uncle Timothy whistled like he was impressed. Then he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “And all those paintings in the other room? What are they worth?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to tax your feeble little brain with that information,” gloated Aramis. “The figures are astronomically high.”

  “I see,” said Uncle Timothy. “Mike? Could you step in here for a minute?”

  A mild-mannered man wearing thick glasses stepped into the room.

  “This is Michael Stewart,” said Uncle Timothy. “He works for the IRS.”

  Mr. Aramis and Nathan Collier looked confused, so Uncle Timothy explained.

  “You know, the Internal Revenue Service. The tax people?”

  “I know what the IRS is,” bellowed Aramis. “But why is this man here in my home?”
<
br />   It was Uncle Timothy’s turn to smirk. “I think he wants to tax your gigantic brain, sir.”

  “Quick question, if you don’t mind, Mr. Aramis,” said IRS Agent Stewart, clicking one of his pens as he pulled a file folder out of his briefcase. “How were you able to afford all this artwork?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Athos Aramis—whose name sure sounded like it might be Greek—might have been confused, but I wasn’t. The last piece of my dad’s puzzle had just clicked into place. I turned to Beck with a smirk on my face.

  “How much does a Grecian earn?” we recited in unison.

  The IRS agent smiled. “Apparently not very much. We noticed, Mr. Aramis, that last year you didn’t pay any income tax at all, because, according to your tax return, you didn’t have a job, let alone any W-2s.”

  Professor Lewis chuckled. “Oh, ho. No job. Very funny. Very funny, indeed.”

  “Was that intended to be a joke?” said Mr. Aramis. “If so, I fail to see the humor in it.”

  “Then allow me to explain,” said Uncle Timothy. “Athos Aramis?”

  “Yes?”

  “You are under arrest.”

  “Oh, really? For what?”

  “Income tax evasion.”

  CHAPTER 66

  As you probably already figured out, Beck and I had set up the little raid with the help of Dr. Lewis after we “looked at the big picture” and figured out that Mom and Dad had been working as double agents.

  They’d only been pretending to work for Mr. Aramis so they could help the CIA, FBI, and IRS build their case against the notorious arms dealer. They needed evidence that would guarantee that the Pirate King would go to jail, no matter how many powerful, well-connected friends he had. Unfortunately, Mr. Aramis was excellent at covering his tracks and hiding any paperwork that could send him to jail for illegal arms dealing. So, the CIA decided to go with Operation Al Capone.

  Yep. That’s why Dad had the notorious Chicago gangster’s newspaper clipping pinned up on the board alongside all the photographs of Mr. Aramis’s art in The Room.

  Back in 1931, Al Capone went to jail, not because he’d been running rum, smuggling stuff, and rubbing people out on a regular basis. He went to jail for—drumroll, please—income tax evasion.

  Athos Aramis was about to do the same thing.

  Because, as the IRS agent pointed out, how could he own all the wildly expensive art on display in his stunning penthouse apartment if he had zero income, which is what he’d reported on his tax return?

  As the FBI guys slapped handcuffs on Aramis and read him his rights, I could see Beck, Tommy, and Storm all breathe a sigh of relief.

  This thing was over.

  The four of us had, without too much adult supervision, just completed Dad’s supersecret, undercover mission.

  Or had we?

  “Wait a second!” I said. “What about Mom?”

  CHAPTER 67

  “The young man is absolutely right,” said Aramis, still smiling smugly, even though his hands were tied behind his back. “You can, of course, arrest me on this silly, trumped-up tax charge. But if you do, rest assured these four will never, ever see their mother alive again.”

  There’s always a hitch, isn’t there? I hate it when that happens.

  “Her only hope rests with me authorizing the release of certain merchandise to some very angry, very violent young men over in Cyprus,” Aramis went on. “Something, I must say, I would not feel inclined to do if I find myself trading in my custom-tailored Italian suit for a bright orange prison jumpsuit.”

  The room went completely silent.

  Nobody said a word.

  We all looked to Uncle Timothy. After all, he was Mom’s handler—her boss at the CIA. If Mr. Aramis didn’t make the phone call to release the weapons, Beck and I would never have to do another Twin Tirade about Mom’s fate.

  Because she’d definitely be dead.

  On the other hand, we didn’t do everything Dad would have done to put Mr. Aramis behind bars just to hand him a Get Out of Jail Free card at the end of the game.

  Uncle Timothy stayed silent for what seemed like forever.

  Then, finally, he reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a slim satellite phone that looked like the kind Martians probably use.

  He handed it to Aramis.

  “Make the call,” he said.

  CHAPTER 68

  We sailed south from New York to North Carolina and used some of our college fund to rent a funky beach house right on the water.

  We docked The Lost in a very nice marina where she’d get her a fresh coat of paint and be prepped for our next adventure.

  Oh, by the way, our college fund recently registered a brand-new five-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit because we’d picked up a half-million-dollar reward for finding all the stolen art up in Mr. Aramis’s penthouse.

  Aramis had cut a deal to stay out of jail. But no way were the FBI, CIA, or the IRS going to let him keep all those art treasures.

  Tommy is already getting along famously with the North Carolina locals, including a girl named Kara Kerz.

  Don’t worry.

  Storm did a very thorough background check once we lifted her fingerprints off a Snapple bottle. Kara Kerz is not a pirate or a surfer chick.

  Meanwhile, Uncle Timothy and his team at the CIA are hot on the Mom trail over in Cyprus. Apparently, the Agency was more interested in tracking down the Cypriot terrorists than busting Aramis. The whole double-agent thing was part of another, even bigger sting operation. They wanted Aramis to make that satellite phone call just so they could track the weapons’ movements.

  (When your mother and father both work for the CIA, your whole life is like the inside of a kaleidoscope. There’s no way for you to ever tell which way is up.)

  Anyway, Uncle Timothy has a “high degree of confidence” that his team will not only take down the terrorists but also find Mom. So now even Beck is optimistic. We might get the good news about a successful “Momma Bear” rescue any day.

  And Dad? Well, I still think he’s alive. Somewhere. Probably on a super secret mission for the CIA, the kind nobody can talk about. The kind the government would deny ever existed if the mission didn’t end the way it was supposed to.

  So while the four of us wait for our parents to come home to The Lost, we’ll keep the family business running. We’ll hunt for the other treasures on Dad’s to-do list. We’re in a little bit of a hurry because we want to find every single one before Nathan Collier gets lucky and accidentally stumbles across any of them.

  That’s right. The FBI took Collier into custody and questioned him. But there was no solid evidence to connect him to any of the stolen art in Aramis’s lair. Uncle Timothy did, however, make sure that Collier bought Tommy a new gym bag and replaced his sweatshirt.

  “We need to head back out to sea,” said Beck as we sat on the porch of our beach house watching Tommy flirt with his new friend and Storm build a sand castle that looked exactly like the Taj Mahal.

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “Soon.”

  “Really soon.”

  “Like tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow would be awesome.”

  Yep. There would be no Twin Tirade about it. The treasure-hunting life is in our blood. Chasing after the next adventure out there, whatever it might be, was just how we Wild Things had to live.

  CHAPTER 69

  “You guys?” Beck was on the front porch of our North Carolina beach house blasting an air horn.

  WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP! WHOMP!

  Everybody came running. It’s still Kidd Family Rule No. 1. A triple blast always means somebody’s in trouble and needs help. So a fourth and fifth blast was off-the-charts freaky.…

  Then Beck blasted out an unheard-of sixth WHOMP!

  “What’s up?” said Tommy as he came running up the beach.

  Storm had slammed through the screen door, twirling her nunchucks.

  I’
d raced up the walkway at the side of the house because I had been a block away, down on Main Street, where there was a cool Internet café.

  “We just got an e-mail!” shouted Beck, waving a sheet of printer paper. “From Dad!”

  “No way,” said Tommy.

  “You’re kidding!” I cried.

  “Is it real?” asked Storm.

  “Definitely. Who else would know this?” Beck said, and read the e-mail:

  I suggest you four now go after a treasure trove near the top of my list: King Solomon’s Mines. Go to Africa and find my friend Dumaka. I hope to join you there but must first complete my current job for Uncle T. I’m sorry I had to take off like that in the storm. But when the helicopter showed up and the pilot relayed my new mission, I had no choice. I had to follow orders.

  Beck looked at me. “You were right!”

  “I knew it was a helicopter!” I exclaimed. “Just like that one that picked up Uncle Timothy.”

  “Awesome,” said Tommy. “I want to do that someday. Have a helicopter hoist me up. In a hurricane, too!”

  Storm rolled her eyes. “En-joy, Tommy. En-joy.”

  “What else does he say?” I asked.

  “That he loves us dearly and that the next time we’re all together he’ll explain everything. Well, everything he can explain without getting into trouble with the Agency.”

  Beck sounded a little choked up when she read us how Dad had wrapped up his e-mail:

  I could not be happier with you, my four wonderful Wild Things. You completed my mission. You made me proud to be your father. You saved your mother’s life. You are the best children any father could ever hope for. With great love, faithfully, your dad.

  PS—Trust Uncle Timothy, but never, ever with your lives.

  PPS—Rebecca, it’s time to put away the 3-D glasses. They’ve served their purpose. Your mom doesn’t find them becoming. I do, but I’ve been outvoted.