Danger in the Extreme

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “What kind of stunt?”

  Neal switched his duffel from one hand to the other. “I asked, but he wouldn’t say.”

  The whole situation seemed kind of strange to Frank, but before he had time to ask Neal more questions, they ran into Joe and Fred Vale. A cameraman was right behind them.

  Vale held the microphone under Joe’s nose. “Do you have your snowmobile all tweaked out for the finals, Joe?”

  Joe stared hard into the camera. “I’ve got a few more things I can do to get extra horsepower,” he said. “But I’ll be ready by race time.”

  “How about Justice Edwards? You nervous about going up against him again in the finals after those two big wipeouts?”

  Frank saw his brother’s jaw muscles twitch at the mention of Edwards’s name.

  “No way,” Joe said. “I’m ready for anything he’s got. Tell him to bring it on.”

  “Great!” Vale said, motioning for the cameraman to stop filming. “Great interview, Joe. Good luck in the finals.”

  Vale and the cameraman hurried off in the direction of Edwards’s pit.

  “Hey, fellas,” Joe said. “Neal, man. How’d the jumping go?”

  When Neal didn’t say anything, Frank spoke for him. “Pretty good. He almost had a top-ten finish, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. Where’s Jamal?”

  “He had to go help his dad get the planes ready for the sky surfing tomorrow,” Joe said, stepping back over to his snowmobile. “Vale wasted a lot of my time. I’ve got to rush to get ready.”

  The three of them made some final adjustments to the sled. Then it was time to help Joe push it out to the course.

  Frank and Neal sat in the same seats they’d had the night before. Frank tried to pick out the Secret Service agents around them, but this time they weren’t so obvious.

  Down on the track, Joe idled his sled up to the starting line. This was what he lived for. The stands were full of fans. It was late afternoon and getting dark, and the stadium lights would click on at any minute. He loved racing under the lights; it made him feel as if he was going extra fast.

  He looked to his right, down the line of racers. Edwards was three places away from him, but Joe expected him to come flying across his path at the start. That maniac would do anything to get a hole shot.

  Joe cranked the throttle. His sled sounded good. The ski was fixed. The race was his.

  The green flag fell, and Joe bolted for the first turn.

  Everything became a blur. He could feel someone coming up on his right, but he didn’t dare look over. One second of lapsed concentration could send him skidding out of control.

  He felt something knock against him as he leaned into the first turn. He was in front! He had the lead!

  Then a sled slammed into him from the right. Pain shot up his leg. He looked over. It was Edwards. The light green sled came at him again, trying to run him off the track.

  Joe’s souped-up machine was faster going up the jumps. He pulled ahead slightly.

  It was a two-man race. Edwards took the lead for a lap, then Joe stole it away again. They were dead even heading to the last jump. Joe crouched down to cut wind resistance and opened the throttle wide. He blasted into the air. Whoever jumped farther would take the race.

  Joe was so high up he had to look down to his left to see the race official waving the checkered flag. He hit the ground less than a foot in front of Edwards. He’d won!

  The crowd stood up and cheered. Joe took a victory lap, standing up on his snowmobile and holding one fist in the air.

  By the time he pulled off the track, Vale was already interviewing Jim Edwards.

  Joe pulled his helmet off and went over to shake Jim’s hand. Vale stepped between them, holding the microphone as usual.

  “Joe Hardy. Edwards says his snowmobile wasn’t running well. What do you think? Did you get lucky and catch him on an off night?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Joe said. He tried to push past Vale. “Jim. Good race, man.”

  “Forget you!” Edwards shouted. “That race was mine!”

  Vale stepped away, perhaps hoping for a fight.

  Joe waved his hands at Edwards dismissively. “Whatever, man. Good race anyway.”

  Vale grunted and dropped the microphone to his side. He looked at his cameraman. “Maybe we’ll get some better fireworks between these two at the medal ceremony tonight,” he said.

  Joe went back to his sled. Frank and Neal were there. “Awesome race,” Neal shouted. “You smoked him!”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “It looked like he tried to knock you off the course again, but this time you were too strong.”

  “Thanks, guys,” Joe said. “I have to admit that revenge does feel good.”

  They pushed Joe’s snowmobile back under the stands. When DuBelle and Ardis showed up to take Neal back to his hotel, Neal reminded Frank about his family’s being on vacation in the Catskills.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Frank said. “You said you were going to join them after the Max Games.”

  “There’s been a change in plans,” DuBelle said. “We’re going tonight.”

  Agent Ardis frowned. “I don’t see why they should know this.”

  Neal ignored him. “It would be excellent if you guys could come visit after the games,” Neal said. “You could tell me all about the sky surfing, since I’m going to miss it.”

  Both Frank and Joe were about to answer an enthusiastic yes, when Ardis tried to nix the idea.

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “We’d have to clear it with the president and the chief of security first.”

  “I’m the chief of security,” DuBelle said. “And I clear the visit.”

  “All right!” Neal shouted. “Cool. I’ll see you guys later then.”

  The Hardys said goodbye and watched Neal lope off, surrounded by Secret Service agents.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later Joe had all his stuff packed up and ready to go.

  “I’ll pull the van around behind the stadium,” Frank said. “Then we can hook up the trailer and load your snowmobile.”

  “I’ll meet you out there,” Joe replied.

  Frank jogged to the parking lot. It was about six in the evening—dark now, though the moon was almost full. He jumped in the van and drove around behind the stadium. A row of snowmobile trailers were parked along the outer wall. No one else seemed to be loading up yet.

  Frank backed the van up to their trailer, then hopped out. Joe was waiting at the double doors. He slowly piloted the sled out the doors and up onto the ramp.

  Using chains and padlocks, he swiftly secured the sled to the trailer.

  “Ready,” he said.

  Frank got in the driver’s seat. “Let’s get home and eat.”

  “I second that motion,” Joe answered, clambering in the passenger side.

  Frank was about to turn the key when a tremendous bang echoed through the van. The roof over Joe’s head buckled and creased.

  Frank’s eyes went wide. “What? Someone’s up there, Joe!”

  They heard the sound of metal ripping, and the gleaming blade of an ice ax punctured the roof.

  Joe grabbed for the ax head, but it disappeared. The night went silent.

  “Where’d he go?” Joe whispered.

  The answer came quickly. An ax-shaped shadow passed over the windshield, then Frank’s side window exploded in on him.

  9 Soft Target

  * * *

  Frank threw up his arm to shield his eyes from the flying glass.

  “We’re sitting ducks!” Joe shouted. “Get out of the van.” He opened his door and rolled to the ground. He scrambled to his feet in front of the van.

  A man wearing a snocross helmet with a shaded visor dropped lightly from the roof. He faced Joe, holding the ice ax in the air like a club.

  Frank jumped from the van and ran to his brother’s side. “It’s two against one,” he said. “I’ll take those odds.”


  The Hardys heard a muffled laugh. “Try two against two,” a voice said.

  Frank watched as a second thug appeared from the darkness. He swung the heavy rubber track of a snowmobile over his head. The tiny steel spikes that helped the tread grip the snow sparkled in the moonlight.

  “Uh-oh,” Joe said. “We’re in trouble.”

  The thug with the ice ax leaped forward and took a chopping swing at Joe.

  Joe ducked and heard the blade whistle beside his ear. He nailed the guy with a short punch to the ribs, then danced away.

  The other thug faked swinging the track at Frank, then smashed a front kick into his chest.

  Frank staggered back. He couldn’t get air. All he knew was that he had to keep his balance. His attacker stepped forward. Frank saw the track moving toward him. He lifted his left arm to block it.

  The blow felt like being hit with a chair. Frank fell to the ground, his cheek and jaw thumping with pain.

  He looked up. The thug was standing over him, track held high.

  “You won’t be baby-sitting Neal Jordan anymore,” the man growled.

  Then it seemed as if a spotlight lit up his attacker. The guy quickly darted out of the light.

  Frank heard footsteps as the two men ran away. “Joe?”

  “Are you okay, Frank? Can you stand?”

  Frank felt himself nod. He was still groggy, but he stood up.

  He found himself facing the headlights of a pickup truck. Those must have been the spotlights, he said to himself.

  A young man Frank recognized as a snocross competitor stepped out of the truck. “Looks like I got here just in time,” he said. “You two were getting the hard end of that fight.”

  “We could’ve taken them,” Joe replied.

  Frank rubbed the side of his face. “We were getting our clocks cleaned, Joe.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  The other racer asked Joe what the fight was about.

  Joe had some ideas, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to share them with just anyone. “Don’t know,” he said. “Maybe they wanted my sled.”

  The Hardys helped the pickup driver load his own snowmobile up on its trailer, then got in the van and started home.

  Cold air rushed in the broken side window as they drove.

  “One of those guys had an ice ax,” Frank said. “The other one had a snowmobile track.”

  “And they both wore snocross helmets.”

  Frank nodded. “That means it probably was Rick Salazar and Jim Edwards.”

  “The only question is, why?” Joe observed. “Salazar probably did try to take you out on the ice wall, and Edwards played rough in the snocross, but it’s over now. Edwards has no reason to be after me anymore.”

  Frank told Joe about his attacker saying something about Neal Jordan.

  Joe rubbed his chin. “Maybe Fred Vale put them up to it. He was hoping for a big blowup between me and Jim.”

  “That’s pretty far-fetched, Joe. Those two guys were trying to put us out of commission permanently. Imagine the headlines: ‘Two Athletes Killed After Snocross Race.’ That kind of publicity would ruin Vale and the Max Games.”

  Joe had to agree.

  When they got home, Frank taped a piece of plastic over the broken window before they headed inside.

  Joe found a note on the kitchen table. “Mom and Dad are out,” he told Frank. “They say congratulations. They saw my race on TV and they’ll be at the medal ceremony tonight. Dinner’s in the oven.”

  They sat down to plates of delicious hot roast beef, carrots, and garlic bread.

  “I’ve got a plan,” Frank said as he ladled gravy over his meat.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Most of the athletes are staying at the Atlantic Bay Hotel, right?”

  Joe took a swig of milk. “It’s the only place big enough.”

  “While you and Jim Edwards are at the stadium getting your medals tonight, I’ll sneak into the hotel to see if I can get into his room. Maybe we’ll get some clue about what he and Salazar are up to.”

  “Sounds good,” Joe said, his mouth full of bread.

  • • •

  At a little after eight o’clock, Joe killed the van’s lights and pulled into the service drive behind the Atlantic Bay Hotel. He stopped at the employees’ entrance.

  Frank was wearing black slacks and a white dress shirt. “How do I look?” he asked, adjusting his narrow black tie.

  “Like you’re ready to take my dinner order,” Joe said, with a laugh.

  Frank did a mock bow. “I’m here to serve you, sir.” Then he jumped out of the van. “See you in an hour or so.”

  When Joe was gone, Frank walked into the hotel, acting as though he belonged there.

  A wide, well-lit hallway led past the employee locker room. He passed through a pair of swinging doors to his right and found himself in the kitchen. It bustled with activity. A chef worked over a huge gas stove, tossing some kind of vegetables around in a skillet. Other people were busy washing dishes and adding garnishes to great-looking desserts.

  Frank kept his head down and walked fast. He went through a door at the far end of the kitchen and found himself in a little alcove with a cash register and a coffee machine. It was the wait station, where servers calculated the customers’ bills and punched in orders.

  Frank turned toward the wall as a waitress hustled past. “Can you pick up some clean napkins?” she asked.

  Frank held his hand up to shield his face. “Sure. No problem,” he said.

  When she disappeared into the kitchen, he checked for a phone where guests would call in room-service orders. There it was, on the wall next to the cash register.

  As he’d hoped, he found a stack of room-service orders stuck to a spike on the counter.

  Frank flipped through them quickly. Some had no names on them, just the room number and the order. He was looking for Jim Edwards’s room, when he passed a familiar name. He flipped back through the last couple of receipts. There it was: R. Salazar—Rm. 506.

  Yes! Frank said to himself. Quickly, he grabbed a tray and some stainless steel dish covers from shelves under the counter. Now he looked like a real waiter.

  Carrying the tray on his shoulder, he strode to the service elevator. He was up on the fifth floor in no time.

  He stepped off the elevator cautiously. He peered down the hall in both directions. It was totally quiet. Frank headed to his right, stopping in front of room 506. He knocked on the door. “Room service.”

  He figured he’d act as if it was a big joke if Salazar came to the door.

  No one answered.

  Setting down the tray, Frank pulled lock picks out of his wallet and went to work. The door opened easily. He was in.

  He flipped on the lights. The room was neat—the bed was made, and no open bags were in sight.

  Coiled on the cushion of an overstuffed chair was a length of climbing rope. Frank ran it through his hands. It was the exact same kind as the one that was in the safety harness at the ice wall. Frank touched a frayed end with his thumb. It looked as if it had been cut, and he thought that it might be the rope from the ice wall. Again, there was no way to be sure.

  He went to the desk. Now what are these? he asked himself, picking up a stack of maps. There was a road map of the state of New York. Frank unfolded it. He didn’t see anything unusual about it.

  The other maps were more interesting, though. There were no roads on them. They looked like pools of blue water, with waves running out from the center.

  “Topographical maps,” Frank whispered aloud, “used for surveying and hiking.” The maps were all of the Catskill Mountains and showed the elevation and details of the terrain.

  What would Salazar need these for? Frank wondered.

  He went over to the closet and opened it. Here was something interesting!

  He reached in and pulled out a heavy target air rifle. The kind they use in the maximum biathlon, Frank noted. The only
problem was that Salazar wasn’t entered in the biathlon.

  He turned the gun over in his hands. It was obviously almost new. The wooden stock was carefully oiled, and the blued barrel was polished to a bright shine.

  Putting the rifle back, he checked the closet shelf. He pulled down a wooden case about the size of a cigar box.

  Opening it, he saw two neat rows of tiny feathered darts. They looked as though they would fit the gun.

  Frank was putting the case back when he heard voices approaching from out in the hall.

  He froze. “Go away, go on past,” he whispered to himself.

  The voices grew louder. Then Frank heard the sound of a key sliding into a lock.

  They were coming in.

  10 Break-in

  * * *

  At the stadium Joe stood on the running track with Jim Edwards and the third-place finisher in the snocross, Omar Korrel.

  Fred Vale frantically adjusted the camera angles. He kept moving the three athletes closer together, as if that might prompt an outburst from Joe or Jim.

  For his part, Joe stayed quiet. He watched Jim closely though, looking for any clue or sign that he’d been one of the guys who’d attacked the Hardys earlier that evening.

  Joe was scanning the crowd for his parents when Jim tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Look, Joe,” Edwards said quietly. “I’m sorry about being a sore loser earlier. You had a great race.”

  This caught Joe by surprise. He hadn’t expected Edwards to be nice.

  “I guess I’ve been pretty angry lately about losing my sponsor,” Jim continued. “I took it out on you.” He held out his hand to shake.

  Joe took it.

  “I’ve gotten a rap as a dangerous driver,” Edwards admitted. “That’s what cost me my sponsorship.”

  “You don’t think you’re dangerous?”

  Jim looked away. “I thought I was just doing whatever it took to win. Then I crossed the line and started playing dirty. I’m going to change that, though.”

  “You’ll win again soon,” Joe replied.

  When Vale saw them, his jaw dropped. “What? You two are best buddies now?”

  Joe and Jim smiled at the camera. Vale seemed disappointed, but the ceremony went off without a hitch.