DuBelle answered his question for him.
“Neal called Fred Vale behind his father’s back, and of course Vale said he could compete. I’m sure Vale figures having Neal here will help the games get extra attention. We’ve been fighting off his cameras all night.”
“Why tell us all this?” Frank asked. He noticed Jordan looking over at them.
“I met your father in Washington last year,” DuBelle replied. “He told me about you two, and I decided to ask you if you’d be willing to help us keep an eye on Neal during our stay in Bayport.”
The Hardys looked at each other. Their father, Fenton Hardy, was a well-known private detective who often helped government agencies with their investigations. Still, Frank couldn’t believe they were being given such an incredible responsibility—to guard the president’s son!
“Sure,” Frank and Joe said in unison.
DuBelle smiled. “Great. Listen, Neal’s a good kid, but he hates having us crowding around him all the time. Sometimes he even tries to sneak away.”
Joe crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Doesn’t he understand someone might try to kidnap him or something?”
“I think so, but he wants to feel like a normal teenager. He’s seen you guys compete, and I think he’d really like to hang out with you, if you’re okay with that.”
One of the other agents came striding over, his hands jammed in his coat pockets. “Michelle, I have to tell you again—this is a bad idea.”
“Frank and Joe Hardy, meet Agent Kenneth Ardis.”
Frank held out a hand to shake Ardis’s, but the agent ignored him.
“These two kids can’t protect Neal,” he said to DuBelle. “And having them around may cause other agents to relax instead of doing their jobs the way they should.”
“It’s my call,” DuBelle said sternly. “Get back to your post.”
Ardis glared at the Hardys, his teeth clenched. He turned and marched back to his station a few yards away from Neal.
“Come on,” DuBelle said, smiling. “Let me introduce you.”
DuBelle led the Hardys over to Neal, dropping back just before they reached him to give the teens room. “Neal,” she said. “This is Frank and Joe Hardy.”
Neal leaned forward a little and pulled one hand out of his pocket. He held out a clenched fist.
Joe knocked his fist against Neal’s. Frank did the same, then Neal’s hand disappeared back into his jacket. “So, you two got drafted to be my friends?”
Frank smiled. “No, we volunteered. You aren’t going to make us sorry, are you?”
Neal just shrugged. “Hey,” he said, nodding at Joe. “You in the snocross?”
“Yeah,” Joe replied. “Actually, I’ve got to get ready now. You gonna watch?”
“ ’Course,” Neal said. “Rage, man. Get out there and tear it up.”
“Just watch,” Joe said. “Later.”
After his brother disappeared under the stands to change and get his snowmobile, Frank tried to talk to Neal. He could feel the Secret Service agents watching them. He counted four agents in suits and figured a few more were close by, dressed as spectators.
“So, you’re in the snowboard aerials?”
Neal nodded slightly but said nothing.
This is going to be difficult, Frank thought. He decided to be patient and say nothing. Neal would open up soon.
They stood leaning against the side wall of the stadium. They watched Max Games workers with rakes and shovels make final preparations to the snocross course. They watched spectators come down out of the stands and head under the stadium to the snack bar. Every once in a while someone would pause and stare at Neal as if he recognized him. A couple of teenage girls giggled and pointed in their direction.
Finally Neal said something. “This music is lame.”
Frank listened to the rock coming out of the stadium speakers. “It is pretty tired,” he agreed. “You’d think the Max Games would be more on the edge.”
Neal nodded. “Speed metal or industrial. I asked them to play some Tragic Hayride when I pop my aerials. They looked at me like I was some kind of space alien.”
“That’s a good band,” Frank said. “You think country punk goes well with your jumps.”
Neal seemed impressed that Frank had heard of Tragic Hayride. “It gets me in the right mood,” he said.
At that moment the music from the speakers died down and an announcer came on. “Max Games ushers, please clear the track for the snocross.”
Max Games employees working on the snocross course stopped immediately and jumped over the hay bales and onto the running track. Other employees guided stray spectators back to the stands.
Ken Ardis and Michelle DuBelle motioned for Frank and Neal to get off the track. Neal reluctantly led the way to a couple of prime front-row seats. Frank noticed that the young couple in the ski parkas sitting right next to them wore what looked like tiny hearing aids. He realized they, too, must be Secret Service. He could understand how Neal felt—constantly watched, like an exotic insect caught in a jar.
“Where’s your family?” Frank asked. “Are they going to watch you compete?”
Neal shook his head. “Having Dad here would cause too much of an uproar, even for that Vale character.”
The woman in the parka next to Neal shot him a quick glance, then looked away.
Neal leaned close to Frank and whispered, “I’m not supposed to tell anyone where my dad is, but I’ll tell you. My family’s at our vacation home up in the Catskill Mountains. It’s just a short plane ride from here, and I’m going there after the games.”
A motorized cart with a twenty-five-foot boom attached to it trundled by in front of Neal and Frank. A network television camera panned back and forth, scanning the track, then turned back on them. Neal flipped his cap around and pulled it down over his eyes.
The camera darted away as a crescendo of noise rose from under the stands. A few seconds later ten brightly colored, souped-up snowmobiles came rumbling out. The drivers, dressed in riding suits and helmets, guided their machines through a break in the hay bales and up to the starting line of the snocross. The crowd cheered loudly.
“Which one’s Joe?” Neal asked.
“There,” Frank said, pointing to a muscular figure on a dark blue snowmobile. “He’s in the blue suit and helmet—number eight.”
With the competitors lined up perfectly, the starter dropped the flag.
Ten engines revved in unison, spraying back huge rooster tails of wet snow. Riders kicked at one another and jostled for position going into the first sharp turn.
“I can’t see Joe,” Frank said. “Where is he?”
Neal and Frank watched the row of snowmobiles turn into a single-file line as they tore through the first turn and then ramped up over the first jump. The four-hundred-pound machines crashed back to earth with a tremendous whump!
“There he is!” Neal shouted. “He’s out in front.”
They watched Joe’s snowmobile buck over the whoop-de-doos like a bronco. A rider in a fluorescent green race suit was right next to him fighting for the lead.
“That’s Jim ‘Justice’ Edwards!” Neal shouted over the noise. “If you do something to him, he comes back at you twice as hard. He’s a total maniac.”
Joe maintained the lead coming around the far turn. As the racers moved up to complete the first lap, Edwards tried to scoot by Joe for an inside pass, but Joe cut him off.
“That’s it, Joe!” Frank shouted. “Don’t let him by.”
Joe rocketed up the big jump with Edwards right on his tail. They both went airborne at the same time. The two seemed to hover in midair together, fifteen feet above the track.
Frank’s heart skipped a beat as he suddenly realized what was going to happen.
Jim Edwards flew just a little bit farther than Joe. Joe landed. A split second later Edwards came down right on top of him.
The two snowmobiles came together with a sickening crunch.
The crowd gasped.
Edwards bounced off Joe, hit the ground, and veered ahead, staying in control.
Joe wasn’t so lucky. He flew off his snowmobile and tumbled into the hay bales. His helmet came off and bounced across the running track. When Joe finally came to a stop, he lay there, legs bent at awkward angles, motionless.
3 Missing
* * *
Officials waved their red flags frantically, trying to stop the race before someone ran over Joe.
Frank and Neal leaped from their seats. The agent next to Neal tried to reach out to stop him, but the president’s son wrenched himself free. He and Frank rushed to the track.
Fred Vale and an official with a medical kit were already kneeling by Joe’s side when Frank got there. The other racers had all stopped, and the stadium was silent as the crowd waited to find out Joe’s condition.
Vale had his sunglasses hanging around his neck on a lanyard. “What’s your name? Joe Hardy? Okay, Joe, are you hurt?” he asked. “Can you move your legs?”
A cameraman hovered nearby, shifting around for the best angle.
Frank pushed the medic aside and crouched by his brother.
“Frank?” Joe said weakly.
“It’s me, Joe. How do you feel?”
Joe shook his head, then straightened his legs into a more comfortable position. “I think I’m okay. Got the wind knocked out of me, that’s for sure.”
“That was a gnarly wipeout,” Neal said, helping Frank lift Joe to a seated position.
Vale stood up. “You’re not hurt? Not even a broken arm or something?” He seemed almost disappointed.
“No, I’m fine. How’s my snowmobile?” Joe stood up, and the crowd cheered when they saw he wasn’t hurt.
Vale grinned and put his shades back on. “That’s the spirit.” He turned to the cameraman. “Did you get the crash?”
The man nodded.
“Awesome!” Vale clapped his hands together. “Here, get Neal Jordan in the picture helping his friend Joe. And get these Secret Service agents, too.”
Ken Ardis went over and covered the lens with his hand. “That’s enough,” he said.
“Okay, okay,” Vale said, holding his hands up. “I got what I needed. Come on,” he said to the cameraman. “I want to get that tape to the local news so they can show it later tonight. It’ll really bring in the crowds tomorrow.”
Agent DuBelle took Neal by the arm. “Let’s go,” she ordered. “Joe’s okay. Back to the stands.”
Another race official came over and handed Joe his helmet. “You sure you’re okay, young man?”
Joe nodded.
“Well,” the official continued, “nobody even completed the first lap. So if you’re up for it, we’re going to restart the race in”—he glanced at his watch—“three minutes.”
“If my ride’s okay, I’ll be there,” Joe said.
The Hardys walked over to Joe’s snowmobile. It lay on its side next to the hay bales. Frank and the official helped Joe roll it upright.
“The handlebars are a little bent,” Frank noted.
Joe steered left and right. “As long as it runs.” He turned the key and punched the ignition switch. The supertuned engine fired to life.
Joe got on his snowmobile and put on his helmet. He strapped it on extra tight this time; he didn’t want the thing flying off again. He gave his brother a high five. “All I have to do is finish in the top four,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
Joe gunned the engine, and the rubber tanklike track bit into the snow and launched the snowmobile forward. He headed back to the starting line.
Frank joined Neal in the stands.
“He’s going to try to race again?” Neal asked in disbelief.
Frank nodded. “Joe’s pretty stubborn.”
“Nice,” Neal said. “I think I’m going to like you guys.”
The race started again. This time Jim Edwards easily pulled out in front.
“He’s all alone,” Neal said. “No one’s even challenging him.”
Frank held his breath. He could tell Joe was struggling to keep his snowmobile under control. “Joe’ll be lucky to make it through this heat,” he said.
It became a race for second, third, and fourth. The crowd cheered every time Joe successfully landed a jump. The front end of his snowmobile shook and jumped as he bounded over the whoop-de-doos.
Every time he made the turn at the far end of the track, Frank lost sight of him. Then he would see the dark blue snowmobile pop up into the air as Joe attacked the jumps on the far side of the track.
Several racers smashed into one another going around a turn.
“Watch it, Joe!” Frank shouted.
Joe threw his weight to the left, barely dodging the accident.
Up ahead Jim Edwards launched his snowmobile high into the air off the last jump. In midair he stood up and let go of the handlebars, playing to the crowd as he crossed the finish line.
“Wow!” Neal shouted. “Fat stalled air!”
A few seconds later Joe wrestled his damaged ride under the checkered flag to the finish line in third place—good enough to qualify for the next round.
Frank sighed with relief.
When he and Neal left the stands to congratulate Joe, Agent DuBelle intercepted them. “Time to go, Neal,” she said.
Neal’s shoulders sagged, but he didn’t argue.
“Hey,” Frank said. “I’m going to practice on the ice wall tomorrow morning. Want to come?”
Neal looked at Agent DuBelle. She nodded her assent. “Be in the Metropolitan Hotel lobby at eight,” she said to Frank. “The two of you can drive over together.”
Neal smiled and held out his fist to Frank again. “Later,” he said. “Tell your brother ‘Righteous race.’ ”
As agents whisked Neal away, Frank went to look for Joe. He found his brother under the stadium, where all the riders had separate pit areas set up to work on their snowmobiles.
Joe had thrown his helmet and gloves to the cement floor. He had a wrench in his hand and was busy loosening the right ski.
“Nice work,” Frank said.
“Thanks, bro.” Joe stood up and dropped the wrench in disgust. “My steering’s shot, though. I’ll never make it through the next round tomorrow unless I get this thing fixed.” He turned to his brother. “It was Edwards who ran over me, wasn’t it?”
Frank nodded. “It looked like he did it intentionally.”
A female voice interrupted them. “He did.”
The Hardys turned to see a young woman about their own age. She had long, dark hair and wore a white jumpsuit.
“Hey, Amanda,” Frank said. He knew Sammy Fear’s sky-surfing partner from previous competitions. “You saw Joe’s wipeout?”
She laughed. “See it? I couldn’t believe he walked away from it.” She looked at Joe. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Better than my racer,” Joe said, giving his snowmobile a kick. “I’d like to give Jim Edwards a little tune-up, though. Only problem is, I don’t see him around anywhere.”
“He’s in a stall around the corner,” Amanda said, pointing down the wide hall behind the Hardys. “I think your head did some damage to his snowmobile.”
Joe started down the hall, but Frank grabbed him by the shoulder. “Save it for the track, Joe. You don’t want to get disqualified.”
“Yeah, Joe,” Amanda said. “You’ve just got to understand how desperate Edwards is. Remember when he got injured last year?”
Joe nodded.
“His sponsors dropped him,” she continued.
“He’s paying his own way this year, and he really needs the prize money.”
“Enough to take my brother’s head off?” Frank asked.
“Like I said, he’s desperate. He’ll do just about anything to win.”
Joe started putting his tools away. “He’s always been dangerous. We trade knocks every race, but this is the first time he’s tried to take me out like that.”
“What about you?” Frank teased. “That was some chance you and Sammy took tonight. I thought for a second his chute had malfunctioned.”
“Believe me, I had no idea Sammy was going to pull that stupid stunt,” Amanda said, shaking her finger in the air. “I was just as scared as you guys were.”
“Fred Vale seemed to like it,” Joe said, digging in his tool box for a socket wrench. “He’s out for blood.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “He seemed pretty disappointed when you weren’t hurt, Joe.”
Amanda glanced around as if to see if anyone was listening. “I hear he has money problems,” she whispered.
Frank’s eyebrows went up. “Oh? I thought the Max Games made tons of money.”
“They do,” Amanda said. “Or they will this year, that is. He lost money on the first two Max Games because they weren’t popular yet. And he dropped a whole lot of money on that rock concert last year.”
“I remember that,” Joe said. “The lead singer got sick, and Vale had to refund millions of dollars in tickets.”
Amanda nodded. “If he doesn’t get great TV ratings this year, there may be no Max Games next year.”
Frank gave his brother a playful shove. “So there,” he said. “You should thank Jim Edwards for flattening you. You guys are helping to keep ratings high.”
Joe slapped the socket wrench against the palm of his hand. “I’ll give Vale something to see next time I run into Edwards.”
Amanda smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said, turning to go. “On the other hand, if you get too caught up with snocross, you might as well give the sky-surfing gold medal to Sammy and me.”
“No way,” Frank said. “That medal’s ours.” He waved goodbye.
After Amanda was gone, Frank helped Joe lock up his tools and cover his snowmobile.
With everything secure, they made their way back out onto the field. The crowd was cheering the final preliminary heat of the snocross, but Joe was in no mood to watch.
“Let’s just go home,” he said. “I’m tired.”
Danger in the Extreme Page 2
