was
madness to assume he’d stay put.
“Not a gnome in sight,” I told Hobbs. “Time to call the cops.”
“And give them credit for catching these rascals? Surely not. We have done the
work, and we shall reap the rewards.”
“What’s your plan? Make a citizen’s arrest and march them off to the nearest
pokey?”
So help me, Hobbs seemed to be considering just that when a great racket erupted
behind us. In the dim light, I saw Whitey stepping over a spilled box of bicycle
parts.
Hobbs peered through the crack in the door. “They’re coming, Watson! In future,
you must remember to bring your revolver.”
“Wilder. And I don’t even have a—Never mind! Let’s run!”
But Hobbs had my arm. “Wait! Look!”
I joined him at the crack, and saw the six bike thieves surround a seventh
figure—a man in tight jeans with tattooed snakes running up his arms. Greg
Lafarge. He’d been hiding in the hall ahead of us and was first to be
discovered.
“Quickly,” Hobbs said, “we must rescue him.”
“Why? He’s the Garden Gnome Bandit.”
“If so, he is our bandit, and I prefer to capture him in one piece.”
Our plans were quickly made. While Whitey fiddled with the
building’s fuse box, Hobbs and I crouched by the crack in the door. Lafarge’s
gun held the gang at bay, but they were closing from all sides, daring him to
shoot. He might get one or two, but the rest would take a brutal revenge.
I marveled at the man’s attachment to his bike. The Cervélo was a world-class
racer and worth several thousand bucks, but hardly seemed worth risking his life
for. Of course, Lafarge had been prowling the streets stealing garden gnomes, so
we already knew he wasn’t playing with a full deck.
When the lights went out, Hobbs and I charged into the room.
“Police!” Hobbs rapped. “Everyone freeze!”
We punctuated the command by flicking on bike headlamps we’d found in the hall.
The gang members blinked, looking stunned.
“The building is surrounded,” Hobbs said. “Drop your weapons or you will be
shot.”
Wrenches, hammers, and knives clanged to the concrete floor. Lafarge kept his gun
trained on the thieves.
Hobbs said, “You too, Lafarge. Now!”
Lafarge swung his head toward us. “Me? Are you nuts? Just who are you guys?”
“Inspector Doyle,” Hobbs said, “and Sergeant Watson. Now kindly place your pistol
on the floor.”
A gang member made a sudden dash toward the truck.
“Halt!” I shouted.
But the guy was already in the cab. The van’s big headlights lit the room,
clearly illuminating Hobbs and me. And, right beside me, Whitey.
“Cops, hell!” someone shouted. “They don’t even have guns.”
The gang boiled into action, scooping weapons from the floor and surging toward
us.
I looked at Hobbs, received a quick shrug, and started dodging blows. The next
few minutes were chaos, made somewhat surreal by the illumination of the truck
lights. The fight swirled in and out of the darkness, making it impossible to
tell where the next punch, kick, or tire iron was coming from. Hobbs went into
his
baritsu
stance, looking much like a praying mantis. He moved not at
all until a foe was nearly upon him. Then an arm or leg would shoot out and a
gang member would go flying back into the darkness. Having no such skill, I
employed fists, feet, and elbows long enough to get my hands on a better weapon.
Since all the small ones were taken, I darted to the line of bikes and culled
Lafarge’s from the herd.
The carbon-framed Cervélo was so light it seemed to float in my hands, and I
raised it effortlessly above my head, then swung sideways at an onrushing gang
member. Light as it was, the bike had plenty of sharp edges, and caught the guy
in the neck, sending him sprawling.
Feeling the rush now, I channeled Jackie Chan, calling my enemies to attack me
and smacking them aside with ease.
Whitey became a creature of
madness to assume he’d stay put.
“Not a gnome in sight,” I told Hobbs. “Time to call the cops.”
“And give them credit for catching these rascals? Surely not. We have done the
work, and we shall reap the rewards.”
“What’s your plan? Make a citizen’s arrest and march them off to the nearest
pokey?”
So help me, Hobbs seemed to be considering just that when a great racket erupted
behind us. In the dim light, I saw Whitey stepping over a spilled box of bicycle
parts.
Hobbs peered through the crack in the door. “They’re coming, Watson! In future,
you must remember to bring your revolver.”
“Wilder. And I don’t even have a—Never mind! Let’s run!”
But Hobbs had my arm. “Wait! Look!”
I joined him at the crack, and saw the six bike thieves surround a seventh
figure—a man in tight jeans with tattooed snakes running up his arms. Greg
Lafarge. He’d been hiding in the hall ahead of us and was first to be
discovered.
“Quickly,” Hobbs said, “we must rescue him.”
“Why? He’s the Garden Gnome Bandit.”
“If so, he is our bandit, and I prefer to capture him in one piece.”
Our plans were quickly made. While Whitey fiddled with the
building’s fuse box, Hobbs and I crouched by the crack in the door. Lafarge’s
gun held the gang at bay, but they were closing from all sides, daring him to
shoot. He might get one or two, but the rest would take a brutal revenge.
I marveled at the man’s attachment to his bike. The Cervélo was a world-class
racer and worth several thousand bucks, but hardly seemed worth risking his life
for. Of course, Lafarge had been prowling the streets stealing garden gnomes, so
we already knew he wasn’t playing with a full deck.
When the lights went out, Hobbs and I charged into the room.
“Police!” Hobbs rapped. “Everyone freeze!”
We punctuated the command by flicking on bike headlamps we’d found in the hall.
The gang members blinked, looking stunned.
“The building is surrounded,” Hobbs said. “Drop your weapons or you will be
shot.”
Wrenches, hammers, and knives clanged to the concrete floor. Lafarge kept his gun
trained on the thieves.
Hobbs said, “You too, Lafarge. Now!”
Lafarge swung his head toward us. “Me? Are you nuts? Just who are you guys?”
“Inspector Doyle,” Hobbs said, “and Sergeant Watson. Now kindly place your pistol
on the floor.”
A gang member made a sudden dash toward the truck.
“Halt!” I shouted.
But the guy was already in the cab. The van’s big headlights lit the room,
clearly illuminating Hobbs and me. And, right beside me, Whitey.
“Cops, hell!” someone shouted. “They don’t even have guns.”
The gang boiled into action, scooping weapons from the floor and surging toward
us.
I looked at Hobbs, received a quick shrug, and started dodging blows. The next
few minutes were chaos, made somewhat surreal by the illumination of the truck
lights. The fight swirled in and out of the darkness, making it impossible to
tell where the next punch, kick, or tire iron was coming from. Hobbs went into
his
baritsu
stance, looking much like a praying mantis. He moved not at
all until a foe was nearly upon him. Then an arm or leg would shoot out and a
gang member would go flying back into the darkness. Having no such skill, I
employed fists, feet, and elbows long enough to get my hands on a better weapon.
Since all the small ones were taken, I darted to the line of bikes and culled
Lafarge’s from the herd.
The carbon-framed Cervélo was so light it seemed to float in my hands, and I
raised it effortlessly above my head, then swung sideways at an onrushing gang
member. Light as it was, the bike had plenty of sharp edges, and caught the guy
in the neck, sending him sprawling.
Feeling the rush now, I channeled Jackie Chan, calling my enemies to attack me
and smacking them aside with ease.
Whitey became a creature of
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