Deathgame

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Not enough time! he thought.

  Then in the next instant he heard the doorknob turning!

  Frank firmly placed his hand on top of Collins's and pulled the man's hand off the doorknob. Collins turned to look at him as if Frank were crazy. In the moonlight, the scar on Collins's skull appeared very livid.

  "Get your hands off me, you little creep," Collins snarled.

  "I'm sorry," Frank said. "I just wanted to ask you a question."

  "What question?" Collins asked, his eyes narrowing.

  "I'm going rock climbing next month," Frank said in desperation. "In Washington State."

  "That's lovely," Collins drawled. "Enjoy yourself."

  Frank smiled again, the most pleasant smile he could manage while making conversation with this glowering bozo. It made his face hurt.

  "What I wanted to ask you," he pressed on, "is if you've ever played in the Cascades. I mean, do you have any tips about the area — things to watch out for, rope techniques ... "

  "Cassidy." Collins's voice hovered between boredom and outright irritation. "I don't think much of you or your brother. He's a pain in the behind, an awkward grunt. You're a little better — the best in the squad. You don't need my advice. So why are you trying to butter me up?"

  Frank faked all the indignation he could dig up. "Butter you up? I thought I was talking one climber to another. I — "

  Collins turned back to the door. "Kid," he said, beginning to turn the knob, "if you're not sucking up, I think you're crazy."

  Joe finally found the hidden treasure in a shoebox tucked away on the top shelf of the closet. There were more wristwatches than an octopus could wear, all kinds of jewelry, different kinds of camping equipment—and a pair of octagonal goggles, with the initials B.H.!

  I've got you, Collins! he thought. Then he heard the door start to open and knew he was going to be discovered.

  "How about the Negev?" At this point Frank was willing to try anything.

  Collins stopped. He stood with his back to Frank for such a long time that Frank was positive he wasn't going to reply. Then, Collins turned. Frank saw a really baffled look cross the sergeant's face.

  "The Negev is in Israel," he said, trying hard to keep his patience.

  "I know that," Frank said. "Haven't you ever done any desert climbing?"

  "I did my desert training in the Sahara," Collins told him. "Lived for five days on one lousy canteen of water. Thought my skin was going to shrivel off in that sun."

  Joe was climbing out the side window as Frank said, "What about the Himalayas? You ever done any climbing there?"

  Frank and Joe were alone in the barracks, sitting on Frank's bunk, drinking Gatorade.

  "Wow, 'Fred,' you made yourself look like a real jerk with Collins." Joe grinned. "But we've got him now — Collins and the whole camp."

  The barracks stretched wide and long. Empty bunks stood in rows waiting for their occupants.

  Joe took a swig of Gatorade. "If someone as sharp as Brand had anything to do with Biff's disappearance, you can bet he wouldn't leave any evidence around. I'll bet Brand doesn't even know Biff's goggles are around."

  Frank gazed about the room. It seemed somehow ominous — too quiet, too empty.

  "Okay," Joe said, "when the trainees come back in and lights go out, we wait a little while and then sneak out of here. We come back here with Sheriff Kraft and let him search Collins's room. When he finds Biff's goggles, he'll have good cause to turn this camp upside down."

  Frank tilted the cup to his lips and drained his Gatorade.

  "And the best thing is," Joe went on, raising his cup high, "we put it over on Brand. He doesn't suspect a thing."

  Frank did not say anything. He was looking at his cup as if he were having difficulty focusing.

  "What do you think, Frank?" Joe asked. "Will Brand be surprised when we come waltzing in here tomorrow or what?"

  Frank let the cup drop out of his hand onto the mattress.

  Joe yawned. "Hey, Frank? Why don't you say something?" He turned toward Frank and was surprised to see him half-lying on the bed, his feet still on the floor.

  "What are you doing, falling asleep on me at a time like this?" Joe asked, standing.

  Then he staggered. "What the — ?" Joe grabbed for the bunk edge, missed. Frank's body on the bed seemed to blur. Drugged! The thought went through his mind. Only the lowest of the low would drug the Gatorade!

  Joe tried to pull himself together. Anyhow, how did Brand or his people even know we were here and drinking Gatorade?

  As he slumped to the floor, Joe was aware that people were entering the room from the far end. Three, maybe four people at the most.

  He could not make out their features. Flesh tones melted into cloth.

  Someone knelt beside him. Was that a skeleton smiling?

  No! The sunken eyes, burning darkly. He could make out the eyes — Brand's!

  Brand's voice sounded very distant. "I told you I was looking forward to meeting you again."

  They were the last words Joe heard. Then the world became lost in darkness.

  Chapter 10

  SOMETHING HURT!

  Joe Hardy heard the harsh sound of flesh striking against flesh. Pain followed immediately. Slowly, he came to. Someone was slapping him across the face.

  Again, Brand backhanded Joe, and the resulting surge of pain brought him fully back to awareness. Instinctively, Joe moved to defend himself, ready to hurl himself at Brand and take him out, no matter what the consequences. But his body jerked against a restraint at his waist. He couldn't move his hands.

  Joe tried to comprehend why he couldn't strike out at Brand. He looked down at his wrists. They were strapped to the arms of a seat. He was belted across the stomach into a seat of plush maroon velvet.

  He became aware of the drone of an engine as Brand straightened up. They were on a private plane.

  "Stop hitting him!" he heard Frank say and realized that his brother was strapped into the seat beside him.

  Brand gazed from Frank to Joe. The dark eyes held a flicker of joy — an eerie thing to see on that face.

  "You both thought you were so clever," Brand said smugly, his narrow lips stretching in a cruel smile. "Well, you were, in a way. I try to give credit where credit is due." He shook his head. "Too bad about Collins. You were right, Joseph, I was surprised to find out about those goggles. Collins now has a matching scar on the other side of his head."

  Frank tested the straps biting into his wrists. They didn't give an inch.

  "On the other hand," Brand continued, "I always review the roster sheets when I hand them out. When I spotted both a 'Fred' and a 'Jim Cassidy' listed, specifically when I did not recall interviewing any trainees with the same last name, I knew it had to be you two. I figured I'd wait you out to see what your game was."

  "Yes," Frank said bitterly. "We noticed you like to play games. With people's lives."

  "You should feel honored." Brand walked over to the window and peered out at the clouds. "You are being taken to Colonel Hammerlock's private sanctuary." He turned back to stare at them. "To one of the best hunting grounds in the world."

  Joe decided to goad Brand. It was a standard ploy he and Frank had agreed upon in case they were caught by an enemy: try to create a situation that might lead to a chance for escape. Keep the adversary talking — information could be a powerful weapon.

  "Is that his real name, Hammerlock?" Joe asked sarcastically. "I know a wrestling coach who would love to have him on the Bayport High team."

  Brand stalked impatiently past them in the center aisle of the plane. "Hammerlock is the code name he went under during the war. He was a hero then."

  He leaned toward Joe, flashing his cadaverous smile. His hand whipped up, fast, before Joe could attempt to twist his head away from the blow. A vivid red mark colored Joe's face. "You shouldn't pick on people's names, Hardy," Brand went on calmly. "Especially when they aren't around. It's not polite. Do you wan
t to make jokes about my name? Orville."

  The smile disappeared, and the thin lips hardly seemed to move as he added, "When I was a teenager, my peers loved to make fun of my name. But not for long."

  Frank glared directly into Brand's hate-filled eyes. "Personally," he said in a bright voice, "I love the name Orville. One of the Wright brothers was named Orville." He paused, making sure Brand was looking at him. "Too bad you dishonor the name."

  Brand spun toward Frank, his hand raised. But before he could connect, Joe lifted his feet, tripping Brand. The major grunted in surprise and then, with the agility of a cat, regained his balance. He's not going to be an easy one to fight, thought Joe, noting the maneuver.

  "How many missing teenagers are there besides Biff?" Joe asked, wanting to distract Brand before he went for Frank again.

  Brand's right hand was clenched in a fist, and he was shaking with rage. Then, as Joe had seen on the target range, he uncurled his fingers, grew calmer and spoke with quiet tension. "A few dozen. An elite corps for the colonel."

  "How'd you pull it off?" Frank asked in disbelief. "Dozens of kids disappear, and no one questions where they went?"

  Brand chuckled. The sound seemed like bones scraping together deep in his throat.

  "Do you know how many runaways there are in this country?" he asked, actually beginning to enjoy himself again. "No, I expect you don't. You two are nice and content in Bayport, though I suspect that friends of yours, like this Biff, perhaps are not as satisfied."

  The plane started a descent. Out of the window Frank could see a stretch of ocean past the clouds.

  "Some kids run to the cities," Brand continued. "Most of them are looking to get away from terrible home lives. But they find they ran to more terrible things than they ever imagined."

  The plane was slanting down through the clouds now, piercing the vast cotton-candy sky.

  "Some kids go looking for adventure—or a cause." Brand nodded. "That's what we offer to those who want it enough to pass the test."

  "The games, you mean?" Joe guessed, wondering exactly where they were landing.

  "The Ultimo Survival Camp was legitimate. It also provided a perfect recruiting system and raised generous funds for the colonel's real purposes. You two made a grave mistake when you forced us to abandon it." He ran a hand over his scalp. "You should have seen those trainees milling about as we took off from our private airstrip. They were quite beside themselves."

  "I still don't understand how you and Colonel Hammerlock get away with it," Frank said, pretending admiration.

  "You don't fool me with your transparent attempts to appeal to my ego," Brand snapped at him. "But there is no reason not to tell you. Where you're going is the last stop." He stared at the plane ceiling for a moment, as if considering what to tell them.

  Joe rubbed his wrists against the strap. His flesh burned with the effort, but the strap remained taut as ever.

  "It was all quite easy once we had the camp going. But you see, only a few applicants ever got to play the game for real. I personally selected the trainees who proved they would make superior warriors," Brand began.

  Frank could see the tops of trees out the window and a stretch of lovely, deserted beach. They were approaching an island!

  "Oh, no matter how good a trainee was, if he came to our course with his parents' permission—or if I found out that he had told lots of people where he was going—he was never even considered for indoctrination."

  The green tops of trees rushed by directly under them.

  "I talked with your friend Biff for several hours. He took me into his confidence while I was giving him personal instruction in combat." Brand shrugged. "I knew his parents didn't have the faintest idea where he had gone. And he was good at the game, a natural for combat. Perhaps I was a little eager."

  The dark eyes turned to Joe, displeased. "Unfortunately, Biff did not tell me he had confided in you. I must admit, I was a little taken aback by first the inquiries and then your sudden visit."

  The plane dipped. Joe's stomach lurched. The plane's wheels touched ground, bumping them about in their restraints.

  "What's happened to Biff?" Frank asked, dreading the answer.

  Brand shook his head sadly. "He hasn't been totally cooperative."

  "Good old Biff!" Joe said with a laugh.

  Those dark, reptilian eyes turned on Joe. "When you two showed up with the sheriff, well, you can imagine. I radioed the colonel—our people here had to interrogate the boy rather severely." Brand's voice made that sound as if it was a pity. "I'm rather afraid to see what, if anything, is left of him."

  With that, Brand strode to the plane's cockpit. Moments later the Hardys were untied and escorted from the cabin at gunpoint.

  Frank and Joe halted on the plane steps, stunned. Built into the side of a rust-colored mountain they saw a fantastic, old-fashioned fortress. High bastions stood at each corner of the stone edifice, and uniformed, armed guards patrolled the battlements. "It's authentic," Brand said proudly, "built in the eighteenth century to deal with pirates. With some renovations, it was quite suitable for the colonel's needs."

  But Frank and Joe weren't noticing the scenery. Standing before the plane, directly ahead of them, was Colonel Hammerlock himself.

  Brand shoved them forward. Both of the Hardys almost fell down the steps.

  "Now, move!" Brand commanded.

  Frank knew that Joe wanted to attack; his brother had been itching for action from the moment they'd been untied.

  "Not now!" he whispered quickly. "Let's find out where Biff is and what kind of shape he's in first."

  "Yeah. You're right," Joe muttered as they marched toward the colonel. In person, the colonel looked much as he had in his picture, but even larger and more impressive. He was bare-chested, except for a shoulder holster and a bandolier of ammunition. He stood in the hot sun, his powerful torso gleaming with sweat.

  "Where do you think we are?" Joe whispered.

  "Some deserted island in the Caribbean," Frank replied with a shrug.

  Brand shoved Frank again. "Don't speak until you're spoken to," he ordered.

  Colonel Hammerlock did not move until they reached him. He wore a red bandanna knotted about his head. He held a Super Blackhawk pistol trained on the Hardys. As he raised it level with Joe's eyes, a snake tattoo rippled along his arm muscles. The heavy gun seemed puny in his huge fist.

  He surveyed Frank and Joe as if he could not believe what he saw. "You mean to tell me, Brand, that it was two no-accounts like this who forced us to close the center?"

  Brand looked uneasy. "Sorry, sir. These are the ones."

  Frank pointed to the gun. "That's not one of your trainee's target pistols," he observed. "You're right," the colonel said in a guttural voice. "This weapon fires eighteen rounds of MTM forty-four Magnum ammunition." Some of the colonel's words were slurred, and Joe realized that he suffered from partial paralysis on the right side of his face.

  Colonel Hammerlock looked at the gun lovingly, then gazed at Frank. "The weapon has been tested on Asiatic water buffalo, as well as wild boar. Goes right through 'em. Imagine what it does to humans." With a laugh, the colonel turned and started toward the entrance to the fortress. Brand nudged the Hardys, and reluctantly they followed.

  Inside, the colonel led them to a set of stone steps that descended into a network of subterranean corridors. The stone walls were damp. The air smelled of mud and decay.

  "Where are you taking us?" Joe demanded.

  "You'll see," Brand replied.

  Finally they reached a cobblestone corridor that led past huge metal doors with small barred windows set at their tops. Water dripped somewhere in the deep shadows.

  "We keep transgressors down here," the colonel informed them.

  "Transgressors?" Frank asked.

  "Recruits with capabilities that could have made them invaluable additions to our organization. Some foolishly decline our offer to serve, as if they think they real
ly have an option. Others are simply too rebellious."

  The colonel stopped at a door midway along the corridor and took keys from a belt about his waist. "Some are not willing to be, uh, team players."

  "My kind of people!" Joe exclaimed defiantly.

  The colonel unlocked the door. "Good!" he said, thrusting the door open. "Then you can enjoy dying alongside them!"

  Brand shoved them through the doorway, and the steel door slammed shut with an ominous clang.

  Frank and Joe stood still for a moment, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. The room they were locked in was a dirt-floored dungeon. Rats scampered near a battered, bloodied figure that lay very still, half-obscured in shadow.

  "Oh, no," said Frank, darting forward. "Biff!"

  Chapter 11

  A LARGE RAT was sniffing around Biff's ankles.

  Biff's hand feebly swiped at the rodent's well-fed body. Whipping its tail around, the animal let out a squeaky screech of protest, then fled into the shadowy recesses of the damp cell.

  Frank felt a surge of adrenaline when he saw that weak gesture. It meant Biff was alive!

  The Hardys knelt on either side of their friend. Gently, they propped him up against the stone wall.

  Biff's face was swollen and bruised, but he managed a weak smile. "I knew you guys would find me. Knew it all the time."

  "Yeah, we've got to get you back to Bayport. Football practice starts soon," Joe said, trying not to let Biff see how concerned he was. He knew he had to bolster Biff's hopes for escape.

  Suddenly, Frank and Joe became aware of a shuffling sound behind them. They turned to see two other prisoners who shared the same dungeon quarters.

  "Frank?" Biff mumbled.

  "Yeah?"

  "This is turning out not to be fun." Biff sagged back against the wall.

  Frank nodded solemnly. "The real thing seldom is." He stood and faced the two other prisoners. "Where are your manners, Biff? You haven't introduced us to your cellmates."

  "Hi. I'm Terrence Scott. Just call me Terry," said a black teenager as he extended his hand in greeting. He was in much better shape than Biff.