The X-Factor

by Franklin W. Dixon

  But when we climbed up the side and peered in, we saw that everything was just as it appeared. The cockpit of the tank was empty.

  “Hang on,” said Frank, pointing. “What’s that?”

  I squinted, trying to see in the darkness. Then I spotted it. A stick was wedged into the controls, keeping them on Full Speed Ahead.

  “Yeah. This was no accident,” I said grimly. “Looks like our saboteur has struck again.”

  Frank glanced over his shoulder toward Sprat. “And it kind of looks like it wasn’t you-know-who.”

  “Good point. Think we should go check out the tank attraction?”

  “Guess so.” Frank shrugged. “But no hurry. I doubt our culprit is hanging around over there waiting to get caught.”

  He had a point. So we headed back over to see if Sprat was okay. He’d recovered from his ordeal by now—or at least his mouth had. He was ranting and raving about GX being a death trap. At least that was the gist of it.

  “This is supposed to be a safe place to have fun!” he was yelling as we joined the crowd around him, which was growing by the second. The park was officially closed by now, but a lot of stragglers and GX employees must have heard the commotion.

  “Uh-oh,” I breathed into Frank’s ear. “Tyrone’s not going to be happy when he finds out about this.”

  He nodded, glancing over at Erica, who’d just joined the group. She had her cell phone pressed to her ear and a serious look on her face. “Unless I miss my guess,” he said, “he’s finding out right now.”

  Sprat was still ranting. “Just wait until my publicist gets hold of this!” he yelled, jabbing his finger in the hapless employee’s face. “Let alone my fans! What are they going to say when they hear I almost got killed?”

  The dude had a point. I could only imagine the public outcry. Especially if Sprat blabbed to every TV show and fan magazine around.

  For a second I wondered if Sprat could be behind this latest stunt after all. What if he’d set it up to throw suspicion off himself?

  I dismissed the theory almost as soon as it formed. No way would a guy like Sprat make himself look like a terrified mess. He’d probably rather go to jail than that.

  That gave me an idea. I shoved my way forward.

  “Yeah,” I said loudly. “You’re right, dude. Everyone should know about this incident.”

  Sprat shot me a look. “Right. That’s what I’m saying, bro.”

  “I hear you.” I widened my eyes, trying to look as supportive as possible. “I mean, living on the edge is one thing. But scaring people to death? Not cool, man.” All eyes were on me by now. “And that must’ve been pretty scary to make a guy like you scream like a girl the way you did.”

  There was a soft snicker from somewhere nearby. I was pretty sure it was one of the other celebs.

  “My brother’s right.” Frank caught on fast. “And don’t worry, we were watching the whole thing. We can totally describe everything that happened to anyone who asks. Everything.”

  I hid a smile as I caught the look of dawning comprehension on Sprat’s face. So much for that fearless, death-defying bad-boy image he’d built up on his show…

  By now the employee from the ride had caught on as well. “Me too,” he spoke up. “You know, I had my cell phone out when it happened. It has a recording thingy. I might even have caught that scream on it. If I’m lucky.”

  “Dude!” one of the other celebs said with a laugh. “You’ve totally got to put that on VideoUp.com!”

  Erica nodded. “Tyrone always says any publicity is good publicity, right?” she put in. Guess she’d caught on too.

  “Forget it,” Sprat muttered as a few other onlookers started laughing. “I was just playing, you guys. Can’t believe you fell for it. Actually, facing down that tank was kind of a rush.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’m out of here. It’s late, and I’ve got better things to do than give Tyrone even more free publicity for this lame place.”

  “I could hardly keep from busting out laughing when Sprat went slinking away like that,” I chortled.

  “Yeah, well don’t get too happy about that.” Frank glanced up from his laptop. “With Sprat out of the picture, our suspect list is shrinking fast.”

  An hour or so had passed since Tank vs. Bumper Car. We’d thought about hanging around out there after closing. But McKenzie had every extra guard on duty, so there didn’t seem much point.

  So now we were back in the guest cottage, discussing the mission. Not that there was much to discuss. Frank was right—our suspects were dropping like flies.

  “Okay, so we’re both convinced that Ox is innocent, right?” I said.

  Frank nodded. “It’s still weird about those text messages from Tyrone,” he said. “But after talking to Ox, I just don’t think he’d do most of that stuff. Besides, that person Lenni spotted was too small to be him, remember?”

  “Good point. It could’ve been Sprat, but then again, he couldn’t have rigged that tank while he was over at the bumper cars.” I leaned back against the couch cushions. “Although I suppose it’s possible the tank thing wasn’t connected to the others. Maybe someone had it out for Sprat or one of those other guys?”

  “Maybe.” Frank didn’t sound convinced. “But by that token, Zana would still be in the picture too. She was in jail for this latest thing, but not the others.”

  “Yeah. But she was always kind of a weak suspect anyway.” I chewed my lower lip. “So let’s just say she’s out, Sprat’s out, Ox is out—who’s left?”

  “McKenzie himself. He’s always been on the list.” Frank thought a moment. “And if we asked him for his input, he’d still probably say Lenni.”

  “And then there’s Nick,” I added. Then I paused. “Or wait—maybe not. Didn’t Erica say he was going to be on the mainland all day?”

  “Yeah. But unless she’s got a GPS on him, he could’ve sneaked back over, or maybe never gone at all. Either way, it’s past time for us to talk to him.” Frank bent over his laptop, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “There,” he said after punching one last button. “I just sent him an e-mail saying we need to talk to him in the morning.”

  “Cool.” I stood up and stretched. It had been a long day. “Then let’s hit the sack. Not much else we can do until then.”

  Painted into a Corner

  When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I did was check my e-mail. There was a message waiting from Nick.

  “Get up, Joe.” I nudged my brother, who was still conked out and drooling on his pillow. “We’ve got to move.”

  “Wha—huh?” Joe rolled over, cracked one eye open, and gazed at me blearily. He’s not much of a morning person.

  “Nick wrote back.” I grabbed Joe’s shorts off the end table and tossed them at him. “He wants to meet us at eight.”

  Joe sat up and rubbed his eyes. “But GX doesn’t even open until nine,” he complained.

  “I know. We’re meeting up at the paintball place. Nick says he’s been dying to try it out and doesn’t want to deal with the public.”

  “That sounds like him.” Joe yawned and pulled on his shorts. He was looking a little more awake already. “And hey, paintball sounds cool. Maybe we can give it a whirl while we’re at it.”

  I didn’t bother to remind him that we weren’t there to have fun. “Hurry up,” I said instead. “It’s already quarter till.”

  At exactly three minutes to eight, we were stepping out the door. We’d only gone a short way down the path when we spotted someone ahead of us.

  “Hey, there’s Nick now.” Joe cupped his hands around his mouth. “Dude! Wait up!”

  When we caught up, Nick looked less than thrilled to see us. “What do you want?” he snapped.

  I was a little surprised by the attitude. I figured maybe he wasn’t a morning person either.

  “We were just on our way to meet you.” I chuckled. “Guess you’re running late too, huh?”

  He stared at me. “What are you talki
ng about?”

  “What do you mean, what are we talking about?” Joe rolled his eyes. “You were the one who wanted to meet up at paintball this morning, remember?”

  “Huh?” Nick looked perplexed and kind of irritated. “Listen, I’m not in the mood for your little secret-agent games right now, okay?”

  I traded a look with Joe. “Hang on,” I said. “Are you saying you didn’t reply to our e-mail this morning?”

  “What e-mail? I haven’t even logged on yet today.”

  Okay, this was weird. If Nick hadn’t sent that e-mail, who had? Still, I figured we might as well question him before he disappeared on us again.

  “Hey,” I said. “We’ve been wanting to ask you about something. How’d you know Lenni was over at the cliffs the other day?”

  “Lenni who?”

  “You know. The skater chick,” Joe put in. “Blue hair? Ring a bell?”

  “Oh, her.” Nick shrugged. “Wait, what cliffs?”

  “You came over to us,” I said with as much patience as I could muster. “Said you’d seen her making trouble over at the cliff-diving wall. Day before yesterday.”

  “Oh, wait.” Finally he seemed to have some clue what we were talking about. “Yeah, I remember. But I didn’t see her myself or anything. Just heard about it.”

  “From who?” asked Joe.

  Nick shrugged again. “I don’t know. My dad, maybe? Or was it Erica? Oh, wait—it could’ve been that guy Sprat. I hung with him from a while that day.”

  We tried to get him to remember more. But he seemed to be getting impatient with the whole conversation. Finally he muttered an excuse—something about Delfina and Tyrone Jr.—and took off.

  “So much for that,” Joe said, watching him go. Then he glanced at me. “Think we should keep our date with ‘Nick’ at the paintball place?”

  “Definitely.” I grinned as things finally settled into place in my mind. Why hadn’t I seen it before? “And I’m pretty sure I just figured out who’s going to be waiting for us there,” I added, quickly filling him in on my thoughts.

  When I finished, Joe let out a whistle. “Bro, you are good!” he said. “But hang on—I think we forgot something we might need.” He turned to head back toward our cottage.

  “Got your phone on you?” I called after him.

  Joe paused and fished out his phone. He tossed it to me. “Be right back.”

  “What a surprise. Nobody waiting to meet us,” Joe murmured as we carefully entered the paintball office a few minutes later.

  “Yeah. But somebody’s expecting us. Look.” I pointed to the door leading into the rest of the attraction. It was closed, and someone had tacked up another blurry photo of the two of us there. Typed at the top of the page was a message:

  I WARNED U. LAST CHANCE 2 MYOB.—Sk8rH8r

  “Now I feel totally welcome,” Joe quipped. “Come on, let’s get suited up.”

  Soon we were pushing through the door, paintball guns at the ready. We were dressed in baggy white suits and helmets with face shields. The interior of the warehouselike paintball course was dark and still.

  “Hit the lights,” I whispered to Joe.

  He reached over and felt along the wall. There was the sound of a flipping switch. But nothing happened.

  “No luck,” he whispered.

  No surprise there. Sk8rH8r wasn’t going to make this easy.

  All my senses were on high alert as we tiptoed farther in. Just enough light seeped in around the edges of the shaded windows to let us see big, blobby shapes all around us. Bunkers and other obstacles. But wait—was that one moving?

  I tensed, gripping my paintball gun tighter. After a second, I realized my eyes were playing tricks on me. It was just another bunker. I relaxed slightly and took another step.

  “This place is awesome!” Joe whispered from just behind me.

  “Shh!” I hushed him. “The more noise we make, the more likely—”

  My next words were lost in the blast of gunfire. “Duck!” I shouted, hitting the floor as the shot whizzed overhead.

  Joe dodged behind a bunker. “Come on!” he yelled. “Let’s run for the next one—we should be able to see more from there.”

  I glanced behind me, trying to gauge what kind of velocity the paintballs were carrying. We’d figured Sk8rH8r was going to rig up the gun to make those paintballs hurt if they hit us—probably a lot. But my eyes widened as I located the spot where the shot had landed. Even in the dark, I didn’t like what I saw.

  “Get down!” I shouted at my brother. “That’s not a paintball gun—it’s a real one!”

  But it was too late. Joe was already sprinting for the next bunker.

  The unseen shooter fired again.

  “Aaaaah!” Joe howled in pain as the shot hit him straight in the chest and flung him back against the wall.

  Last Shot

  I was in a world of hurt. But I managed to roll to one side to avoid the next shot. Meanwhile Frank let out a shout and sprinted forward. He disappeared between two bunkers, and a muffled cry went up.

  I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain. When I opened them, a huge figure was looming over me.

  “Ox,” I gasped out. “Is—is that you?”

  “It’s me.” He leaned closer, reaching toward me. “You still with us?”

  “I’m okay—go help Frank.”

  Ox nodded and ran. He moved fast for such a big guy.

  “Gotcha!” he shouted a moment later.

  I managed to sit up as he and Frank reappeared. Between them, struggling against their grip, was Erica.

  “Let me go!” she sobbed. “It’s not my fault! I told you to back off, and you just wouldn’t.…”

  I pushed myself to my feet. I have to admit it—it hurt. A loud groan escaped before I could stop it. “Ow, that smarts,” I muttered.

  Erica heard me. Her head whipped around and her eyes went wide. “You—but I thought I—,” she stammered in shock.

  Shaking off the last bit of wooziness, I peeled back my protective suit. That revealed the bulletproof vest underneath. Standard ATAC issue from our kits. Frank was wearing his, too.

  Yeah, that was what I’d gone back inside to get before we came over. Although I have to admit, I never thought it would have to deflect actual, you know, bullets. I’d just figured, better safe than sorry. I’d been paintballing before, and those things can hurt when they hit you, even at normal speed. With Erica’s talent for rigging stuff, I’d expected some supersonic paintballs coming our way. Besides, we hardly ever got to use those vests, so what the heck?

  “Okay, now I’m really, really glad I went back for these,” I said, wincing as I peeled the vest away from my sore chest. “Although I wish the HQ guys had told us it still hurts like crazy when you get shot.”

  “Consider the alternative, bro,” Frank advised.

  Erica was still sobbing. She’d gone kind of limp. Frank let go, though Ox kept his grip on her arm.

  “Glad we called you, too,” Frank told Ox. “She was really putting up a fight when I caught up to her.” He pushed back his face guard and touched a spot just below where it had extended. “That one punch is definitely going to leave a bruise.”

  “Glad to help,” Ox rumbled. Then he pulled out his cell phone with his free hand and punched in a number.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Erica wailed as Ox murmured in low tones to the person on the other end of the line. “I swear. I only used birdshot—it was just supposed to scare you off.”

  “Right.” Frank glared at her. “And what if it had hit one of us in the face? That would’ve been pretty scary, all right.”

  “Are you kidding?” She sniffled and glared back, looking defiant. “You’ve seen me shoot. I never miss.”

  “So why’d you do it?” I asked, limping over to her. “I mean, my brilliant brother here figured out it was you—”

  “It had to be,” Frank put in. “She had the technical know-how to pull off all the tricks—th
e bombs, redirecting those model planes, rigging the tank and tractor, the whole deal.” He paused. “But I still didn’t put two and two together until something finally clicked. It was bothering me for a while, actually—that feeling we were missing something. It was what Delfina said yesterday when you started up with the lame flirting—”

  “Hey!” I protested, touching the sore spot on my chest. “A little respect for the wounded, okay?”

  Frank rolled his eyes. “Anyway, you mentioned her new hairstyle, and Delfina mentioned that Tyrone Jr. was with her at the hair salon. But Erica here had claimed she was stuck at home babysitting him all day while stepmom got her hair done—the same day that we almost got taken out by that runaway tractor.” He snapped his fingers. “Busted alibi.”

  I nodded. He’d already filled me in—at least the basics—outside the cottage. But Ox looked intrigued.

  “But why?” he asked, glancing at Erica. “Why would you want to ruin this place? Your father’s dream?”

  “He’s not my father.” She still looked defiant. “But I don’t have to tell you anything. I want a lawyer.”

  We kept trying. But she was stubborn. She wouldn’t say a word—until the door burst open and Tyrone stormed into the room. That’s who Ox had called.

  “What’s going on here?” he thundered.

  That’s when Erica freaked out. “This is all your fault!” she screamed, twisting loose from Ox and racing toward her stepfather. “Everything’s your fault!”

  She leaped at him, pummeling him and clawing at his face. It took all three of us to peel her off of him, and by the time we did he was sporting several deep scratches thanks to her fingernails. He touched a finger to one and swore as he drew it back with blood on it.

  “Whoa!” said Frank as Ox finally got Erica under control with her hands behind her back. “Okay, I’m guessing this has something to do with you, Mr. McKenzie.…”

  “It has everything to do with him!” Erica spat out, still struggling against Ox. “He killed my real dad!”