In the tower atop the reviewing stand, an official waved a yellow flag. Corri’s voice boomed over the PA. “Sorry for the interruption, folks, but our finish-line system has developed a glitch. We don’t want any errors calling the end of an exciting race. Please hold your positions while we solve the problem.”
The crowd in the stands groaned, but the racers on the track slowed down in compliance with track rules. They held their positions relative to one another, waiting for the green flag to come out again.
The man wearing Jamal’s armor looked around warily as the race ground to a near halt.
“He senses something’s wrong,” Joe said.
“He’s probably worried that, at slow speed, someone might realize he’s not Jamal,” Frank said.
“Look!” Jamal said, pointing. “He’s making a break for it!”
The imposter suddenly turned his bike around and headed for the north side of the course, where the track abutted the woods.
“He won’t get away!” Joe said. He twisted his accelerator and shot forward. Frank did the same.
The two of them made several quick cuts between stacked bales of hay, and skidded out onto the track. They turned north, hoping to head off the imposter before he could reach the wooded trail.
The charlatan rocketed forward, soaring over the whoopdedoos at top speed.
“The jumps are slowing him down,” Frank called to his brother over their headsets. “He’s being careless.”
“I don’t think he’s seen us yet,” Joe replied.
They rode as fast as they could, keeping their air-time down when they hit the jumps to save precious seconds.
The imposter rounded the final turn before the trail into the woods, but the Hardys got there ahead of him. They screeched their bikes to a halt and positioned their motorcycles across the path, making it impossible for the man to get by.
Joe smiled. “It’s the end of the line for you, bub,” he said, knowing the charlatan couldn’t hear him.
“Give up!” Frank shouted. “There’s no way to escape.”
In response, the imposter twisted his bike and zoomed east, off the track. He squeezed between several bales of hay and cut across the infield, a mass of ruts and wild grasses.
“Circle back the way we came!” Frank said. “We can cut him off there, too.” He turned his bike around and looped back toward the eastern side of the course. Joe followed right behind.
The imposter bounded over the infield, dodging around scrub trees and other obstacles.
“This guy would do real well in the cross-country portion of the race,” Joe called to Frank as they rode.
The elder Hardy nodded and pushed his machine faster. “He’s going to beat us to the other side!” Frank radioed back angrily.
Sure enough, the imposter skidded his bike between two hay bales and back onto the southeast side of the track.
“He’s in trouble,” Joe said. “The authorities are waiting for him that way.” The racetrack security guards and the Bayport police were already assembling on the south end of the track, near the finish line.
For a moment, it looked as though the imposter would run smack into them. But as he topped a big whoopdedoo near the fence, he suddenly swerved to the east. He soared off the jump, arcing high into the air. His back tire barely cleared the chain-link fence at the edge of the Fernandez property.
He hit the ground hard, almost fell, and had to lance his feet down to steady himself.
“That’s one way to avoid the cops,” Joe said. He and Frank raced to the same hill from which the imposter had just come.
“How’d he jump that far?” Joe said.
“We can make it too,” Frank replied, “with a little assistance.” He eyed a tall stack of hay bales between them and the fence. The distance from the top of the hill to the fence was longer, but the space between the mound and the bales looked like a very manageable jump.
Joe guessed his brother’s plan and nodded his agreement. The two of them roared ahead, full-throttle.
They hit the top of the mounded earth and soared to the stacked bales of hay. The stack was six bales wide and deep, with plenty of room for a bounce landing and a second takeoff.
The haystacks shook under the Hardys as they hit. The brothers gunned their engines again and rocketed off. The chain-link fence stood lower than the bale stack, and both Hardys cleared it easily.
Frank skidded badly when he hit the grassy field on the other side of the fence and nearly fell. He touched down with both feet but kept going.
“How you doing, Joe?” Frank called as they rumbled over the field toward the industrial park.
“Fine,” Joe replied. “Just jarred my bruised shins.”
“Now mine are aching too,” Frank radioed back. “Let’s hope, that means that the imposter is feeling it as well.”
The charlatan had a hundred-yard lead on them. That didn’t seem like very much, but rows of giant pipes, laid horizontally, filled the industrial yard ahead.
“If we lose sight of him in those pipes, he’ll give us the slip,” Joe called.
Frank nodded. The two of them accelerated out of the weedy field and onto the surface of the pipe storage area, kicking up gravel on the way.
The man on Jamal’s motorcycle turned left into one of the huge sewer ducts. The pipe was so large that he didn’t even have to duck his head to enter. Joe and Frank zipped into the pipe as well. A ring of sunshine at the far side illuminated their quarry.
The sound of the motorcycles in the cement tube was nearly deafening, but the brothers kept focused on their goal. The imposter exited the pipe and turned right, heading for another large opening.
The Hardys followed, just barely able to keep the man in sight. He turned right again, into the next pipe over.
“He could keep us running all day!” Joe said, shouting to be heard over the noise of the engines.
“Next time he zigs, you zag,” Frank suggested. “With luck, we can catch him between us.”
As they exited the big pipe, Frank followed the imposter, but Joe cut around the other way. The younger Hardy darted to the left, hoping to circle back in front of their foe.
Joe rode around the huge groups of pipes. He couldn’t see either Frank or the charlatan, but he heard the echoes of their engines. He rounded a bend and came out near a chain-link fence at the far side of the property.
The imposter zoomed out of one of the big pipes in front of Joe. He turned away from the fence and drove straight toward the younger Hardy.
Joe smiled. The imposter’s only way out was a small alley between the big rows of pipes. Just as the man in Jamal’s clothes realized this, Frank roared out of the pipe behind him.
The charlatan gunned his accelerator and turned hard right. He zipped into the alley, with Joe in hot pursuit. The alley angled up, becoming some kind of loading ramp. It ran toward the back of the rows of big pipes.
“Stay there in case he gets past me!” Joe radioed to Frank.
The elder Hardy skidded to a stop at the alley entrance. He didn’t see any other escape route, and he felt confident that his brother could handle the imposter.
At the end of the ramp, the charlatan turned left onto the tops of a row of big pipes. He deftly navigated Jamal’s bike through the groove in between two pipes.
Joe gritted his teeth and turned after him. Though the route was very dangerous, he wasn’t about to let the imposter get away.
The pipes ended abruptly in front of them. The man in Jamal’s armor didn’t stop; he accelerated. Before Joe realized what was happening, the imposter leaped his bike over the edge of the tubes.
Frank looked up as Jamal’s bike sailed over his head. The charlatan soared over the chain-link fence at the edge of the property and landed, hard, on the other side. Again, he put his feet down to brace himself, but he didn’t fall.
On top of the piping, Joe screeched to a halt, just inches from the edge. “Rats!” he said. “There’s no way I can make
that jump!”
“Me neither,” Frank called up to him.
Both brothers watched helplessly as the imposter rode across a field of weeds, then out onto a back road. In moments, he disappeared from sight.
The Hardys regrouped and returned, via the main road, to the Fernandez Cycle Track.
They found the police waiting for them at the main entrance. Jamal ran out as the Hardys got off their bikes to talk to the police.
“Did you catch him?” Jamal asked hopefully.
Both brothers shook their heads.
“The guy jumped a chain-link fence and got away,” Joe said.
“Tell me he didn’t jump the fence on my bike!” Jamal said forlornly.
“He did,” Frank said. “We couldn’t stop him. He took off down Lincoln Avenue, heading toward Kennedy,” he added to the police.
Jamal’s jaw hung open.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” he said. “I’m out of the competition!”
10 Down & Out
* * *
Jamal paced the driveway like an angry lion. “I can’t believe it!” he said. “First I get slugged, then my bike gets stolen, and now I’m out of the race! I had a shot at the top, but now I’m finished. Just like that!”
Neither Frank nor Joe knew what to say. Both brothers felt angry at having lost the imposter. Plus, they’d let down one of their best friends.
“Jamal, I’m sorry,” Joe said.
“I know it’s not your fault,” Jamal replied, some of the anger seeping out of him. “It’s just . . . I was doing so well!”
The police continued to search for clues around the track. Other officers left to pursue the man who had stolen Jamal’s bike. “Well, at least you guys still have a second run,” he said. “Let’s go back to our repair bay and prep you for your heats.”
Dejected, the three friends walked back toward their tiny garage.
“I don’t mind getting beat,” Jamal said. “I mean, I like winning and all, but losing is part of the game. Getting beat this way, though . . .” He sighed.
“Maybe this doesn’t have to be your last race,” said a voice from behind them.
All three teens turned and saw Trent Howard jogging in their direction.
“What do you mean, Mr. Howard?” Jamal asked.
“The rules say that competitors can’t use different bikes during the race,” Mr. Howard said.
“We’re cooked, then,” Joe said.
“Not necessarily,” Mr. Howard replied. “I could replace Jamal’s motorcycle with one of the exact same make and model. I have one in my collection.”
“I doubt the organizers would go for that,” Frank said.
“But they might,” Jamal blurted. “It’s worth a try! Thanks for the offer, Mr. Howard. Why don’t you and I go talk to the Fernandezes about it.”
“I’ll be glad to, Jamal,” Mr. Howard said. “There’s just one thing. . . .”
“If it’s money you want, I can’t afford much,” Jamal said. “But maybe I could rent the bike for a couple of days.”
“I’ve got more money than I need,” Mr. Howard replied. “However, there is something that I want.”
“The O’Sullivan SD5,” Joe deduced.
Mr. Howard nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “I’d like to add the prize motorcycle to my collection. I will loan you a cycle identical to your own if you give me the SD5 when you win the race.”
“That’s a pretty steep price,” Frank said.
Mr. Howard shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
Jamal frowned. “It seems I don’t have much choice. Mr. Howard, you’ve got yourself a deal.” He extended his hand, and they shook on it.
“Good,” said Mr. Howard. “I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers deeding the bike to me, should you win. Now, let’s convince the race officials to see things our way.”
“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “What if Jamal doesn’t win the race?”
Mr. Howard shrugged again. “Then I’ve put a few miles on one of my motorcycles,” he said.
“Okay,” Jamal said. “Let’s talk to Pops Fernandez before I change my mind.” The two of them headed for the office while the Hardys returned to their garage to prep for the next race.
Twenty minutes later, Jamal returned to their small repair bay. “They went for it,” he said, smiling. “That Howard guy is one fast talker. He even convinced them to let me run in the last heat of this round—so we have time to get the replacement bike from Howard’s garage.”
“Is it a long way?” Joe asked.
“Not far,” Jamal replied. “But I’d better get going. See you back at the track.” He turned and jogged off to meet Mr. Howard.
Frank watched their friend go. “Trent Howard gets a lot out of this deal,” he said.
“He wouldn’t be rich if he didn’t have some business sense,” Joe replied. “But I get what you mean. You think Mr. Howard could have set this up to get an angle on that prize.”
“Hiring someone to take out a rider might make sense,” Frank said.
“But why Jamal and not someone else?” Joe asked.
“Maybe because his bike matched one in Mr. Howard’s collection.”
“But could he be sure that the trick would be found out, and that the imposter would escape?” Joe asked.
Frank furrowed his brow. “You’re right about that,” he said. “And why would the charlatan ride badly during the race?”
“Maybe that was a ploy to call attention to himself,” Joe said. He shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s a lot going on at this track that we don’t understand.”
“Like who broke into the office, and who tried to rob the gate money,” Frank said.
“Did the same person do both?” Joe asked. “And if so, was it also the same guy who slugged Jamal?”
“All the culprits we’ve seen so far have worn motorcycle helmets and gear,” Frank said. “Underneath a getup like that, it could be almost anyone—man or woman.”
“Are you thinking it might be Amber Hawk?” Joe asked. “I wonder where she was during Jamal’s race?”
“Maybe we can find out later,” Frank said. “Right now, let’s get down to the track. Your start time is coming up.”
“And you’re in the heat right after me,” Joe added.
The brothers rode well in their next heats, each placing second—enough to move them into the final group.
Jamal rode even better, despite his borrowed red, white, and blue motorcycle. He placed first, with a very good qualifying time.
“I nearly beat Amber Hawk’s mark,” he told the brothers afterward. “If I’d just taken that last jump better . . .”
The brothers and Jamal ate a late lunch, then caught up with Corri for a brief chat before the final race. She was pleased with how things had gone that day. “Except for the trouble with the impersonator,” she said. “Sorry about your bike, Jamal.”
“I’m still hunting,” he replied.
The lineup for the final race featured Amber Hawk, the Hardys, Jamal, Elizabeth Navarro, Paco Fernandez, Justin Davies, Marissa Hayday, Taylor Fohr, and Sylvia Short. Aside from the Hardys and Jamal, the riders mostly avoided one another before the race. Paco Fernandez, being a goodwill ambassador for the benefit, worked his way from one contestant to the next, chatting pleasantly with each one. Only Amber Hawk refused to talk to him.
“Amber’s not a very pleasant person,” Joe noted.
“I get the feeling she’s not here for the same reason that everyone else is,” Frank said.
“You got that right,” Jamal said. “I don’t think she cares about Corri or her hospital bills. All Amber cares about is herself.”
“There must be something else that interests her here,” Joe said. “Maybe she wants that SD5.”
“That could be,” Frank mused. “Though only a few pieces of it are from Garth Metzger’s garage, it’s still one of a kind.”
“That gives it enough cache for Trent Howard t
o want it,” Joe said. “And maybe Hawk, too.”
Jamal nodded. “Metzger was a big part of motocross history. What he did on the track made him a legend. Anyone here would be proud to have that bike.”
“Too bad you had to give up your bid for it,” Joe said.
“Hey, I’m happy to still be here, helping Corri out.”
“So are we,” Frank agreed. “Though if I could get one prize out of this contest, I’d settle for knowing who’s behind the trouble at the track.”
Paco dropped by, and the boys talked to him for a while, turning the conversation away from the mysterious goings-on to more casual subjects. As start time approached, the racers made their final preparations.
The Hayday sisters helped out Marissa. Jules Kendallson stopped by to lend Sylvia Short a hand. Paco had some of his local crew with him. Richard Navarro showed up to help his daughter, Elizabeth. And the Hardys assisted each other and Jamal.
Finally, they all took their starting positions on the well-worn dirt track.
With the sounds of the Klaxon, they shot off the line in a roar of engines and a cloud of dust. Elizabeth Navarro took an early lead, but Marissa Hay-day soon passed her. The Hardys paced the leaders for a while. Then Jamal pulled ahead of his friends, and challenged Sylvia.
The two of them dueled atop the berms for a lap, chasing each other over the whoopdedoos and down the muddy slopes. The Hardys nearly caught up, but—even on a borrowed motorbike—Jamal had too much practice for them.
He passed Marissa and led the race for two laps. Then Amber Hawk made her move. She barreled past Jamal on the inside of a hairpin turn, then beat him over the top of the next whoopdedoo. The cloud of dust from her back wheel blinded Jamal momentarily, and Paco Fernandez passed him, too.
Justin Davies took a bad spill in the middle of the race and had to be carried away from the track on a stretcher. The hay bales piled by the side of the course saved him from serious injury.
Frank shot Joe a questioning look as they passed the scene of the crash. No one had been near Davies when he went down, and it seemed unlikely that anyone had interfered with him. The brothers were having no luck catching the leaders. “Face it,” Joe called to Frank as they raced side by side on the course’s longest straightaway, “we’re just outclassed in this event.”
Motocross Madness Page 7
