Feeding Frenzy

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Deadly Dogs …

  “This is David Cole,” the voice of our ATAC contact announced. “He died ten minutes after this video was recorded. An autopsy determined that the cause of death was poison.”

  The image was replaced with a grinning David Cole wearing a crown. He had his arm around someone dressed as a giant hot dog.

  “He looks …” Joe hesitated. “He looks just really happy.”

  “Yeah.” It’s always weird to see a picture of someone looking so happy and normal, goofy even, and know that they are dead.

  “David had been participating in competitive eating3 contests for three years. He had won every contest he entered. He was considered the front-runner to win not only this semifinal contest, but the final to be held during halftime at the Super Bowl,” our contact continued. “We have determined that David was murdered. The most likely suspects are his competition. Your mission is to go undercover at the Football Franks Hot Dog Eating Contest and find David’s killer.”

  THE HARDY BOYS UNDERCOVER BROTHERS™

  #1 Extreme Danger

  #2 Running on Fumes

  #3 Boardwalk Bust

  #4 Thrill Ride

  #5 Rocky Road

  #6 Burned

  #7 Operation: Survival

  #8 Top Ten Ways to Die

  #9 Martial Law

  #10 Blown Away

  #11 Hurricane Joe

  #12 Trouble in Paradise

  #13 The Mummy’s Curse

  #14 Hazed

  #15 Death and Diamonds

  #16 Bayport Buccaneers

  #17 Murder at the Mall

  #18 Pushed

  #19 Foul Play

  #20 Feeding Frenzy

  Super Mystery#1: Wanted

  Super Mystery#2: Kidnapped at the Casino

  Available from Simon & Schuster

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

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  Copyright © 2008 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  THE HARDY BOYS MYSTERY STORIES and HARDY BOYS UNDERCOVER BROTHERS are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS and related logo are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Lisa Vega

  The text of this book was set in Aldine 401 BT.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Aladdin Paperbacks edition January 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Control Number 2007932268

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-5499-6

  eISBN-13: 978-1-439-11281-6

  ISBN-10: 1-4169-5499-6

  1. Fight Fire with Fire

  2. The Worst Christmas Present Ever

  3. Death in the Center Ring

  4. Fully Loaded

  5. Lose—or Die?

  6. Black Eyes of a Great White

  7. Flying Hardy Brothers

  8. Caught!

  9. Strike Position

  10. Crazy and Insane

  11. The Secret Identity of Mystery Girl

  12. She’s Not Breathing

  13. The Super Bowl of Hot Dog Eating

  14. Dead Meat

  1

  Fight Fire with Fire

  Joe and I struggled to carry Barry Egan’s limp body through the forest. “We should have thought about how heavy he was before we knocked him out,” Joe said.

  “What’s this ‘we’?” I asked. I tightened my grip on Barry’s legs.

  “You know I had to do it,” said Joe. “He was one second away from lighting the match. With the wind like it is today, the whole forest could have gone up.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed.

  “And I didn’t hit him that hard,” Joe added. “He should be coming to in a minute. Then he can walk on his own two feet.”

  “But carrying him is such good exercise,” I protested. “I can almost feel my biceps getting—”

  A blast of light exploded to my left. I jerked my head toward it. And it was like somebody had turned on a gas jet. That’s how fast the wildfire seemed to have started. The instructors in our teen firefighting course had told us it could be like this, but I’d never fully wrapped my head around the concept.

  “Barry must have gotten a fire started before we tracked him down.” Joe stared at the blaze, wide-eyed.

  “We’re uphill from it …,” I began.

  “That means it’s going to be traveling toward us,” Joe finished for me. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to outrun it.”

  That had been drilled into our heads. A person can’t outrun a forest fire. It could move at more than fourteen miles an hour under the right conditions. And the conditions out here were right. We might as well have been standing in a pile of kindling. And there was a breeze. A breeze coming in our direction.

  “Come on. This way.” I tightened my grip on Barry’s legs and took a step to the right.

  Joe didn’t move. “Are you insane? That pretty red and orange stuff back there—that’s the fire. That’s where the heat is coming from. We don’t want to be moving toward it.”

  “We passed a little clearing not that far back,” I explained. “We can create a safety zone. I don’t think there’s any other way we’re going to make it.”

  “Okay. Now that I know what you’re thinking, okay. Not happy, but on board,” said Joe. “Let’s move.”

  Where is it? Where is it? I thought, scanning the woods in front of me for the clearing. If it was much farther, I’d made a serious miscalculation. The heat from the fire already felt like it was singeing off a layer of my body.

  “Do you see it?” Joe asked. He was walking backward with his end of Barry.

  “Not yet. Wait. Yeah. We just have to veer left a little,” I answered. The relief felt as good as dumping a bottle of water over my head. “Let’s leave Barry here until we have the space ready,” I said when we were about ten feet away from the clearing.

  We lowered Barry to the ground. Joe immediately started searching our captive’s pockets. “An arsonist is definitely going to have some good fire-starting materials on him. Matches.” He tossed the book to me. “And … score! Lighter fluid.” He held up a small metal can.

  Together we walked over to the clearing. “In class they said we’d need to burn out an area about as big as the room we were in that day,” I said.

  “Right.” Joe moved to the middle of the clearing, the dry grass crunching under his feet. I checked the wildfire’s progress as he began squirting the lighter fluid over a wide area. The fire was closer. I could hear panicked animals racing away from it. But I thought we still had enough time.

  “Whaas?” Barry mumbled. He swallowed hard. Concentrated. “What’s goin’ on?”

  I turned around and saw him struggling to sit up. “You must be happy. This is the biggest one you’ve managed to start yet.”

  Barry squinted at the fire and looked almost proud of himself. “Our crew will be able to help stop it. Then firefighters will n
eed us, and they’ll see we aren’t just cupcakes. That we can handle the real deal and that we deserve the real jobs. Not just fake fires at summer camp.”

  He rubbed the back of his head. “What happened to me?”

  “Joe knocked you out,” I told him. “But obviously not soon enough. People might die out here today, Barry. We might die out here. Then you’ll never get your real job. Not that you will anyway. Arsonists don’t get hired as firefighters.”

  “I used up all the fluid,” Joe called over to me.

  “Okay, let’s light her up,” I answered as I headed over to him. “You stay there,” I ordered Barry over my shoulder.

  I waited until Joe was out of the area he’d dowsed with the lighter fluid, then I lit a match and flicked it inside. Joe and I backed up fast. With a whomp the grass in the middle of the clearing ignited.

  “Setting a fire to survive a fire.” Joe shook his head. “It still seems wrong.”

  “But fire needs fuel to burn. That fuel will be gone fast.” I noticed the flames were already not quite as high. “When the wildfire hits here, it will have to go around this spot, because there’s not going to be anything for it to feed on.”

  “It’s coming fast,” Joe said.

  “The grass is burning fast too. It’s going to be okay,” I answered.

  Barry shoved himself to his feet. He stared around, like he was thinking about running.

  “If you want to stay alive, you better stay here,” Joe told him. He pulled off his shirt. “Looks like the fire’s pretty much died out in the safe zone.” He walked over and stared beating at the last flickering flames with his shirt.

  I took mine off and helped him. “Get in here,” I ordered Barry.

  He hesitated, then walked over to the blackened patch of earth and stepped inside. I pulled a bottle of water out of my backpack, soaked part of my shirt, and passed the bottle to Joe. He did the same, then handed the bottle to Barry.

  “We should get low,” Joe said, then pressed his wet shirt over his nose and mouth and hunkered down on the ground, his head against his knees.

  I got in the same position, feeling the heat of the ground soaking into the soles of my hiking boots. I concentrated on taking even breaths. I could taste the smoke, even through the wet cloth of my shirt. And I could feel the hair on my arms cracking from the heat.

  The roar of the fire filled my ears. I couldn’t believe my skin wasn’t bubbling.

  Something soft brushed against me. A deer? I didn’t look up to see. I kept my head down. And I breathed.

  Until I realized that the deafening sound of the flames had gotten a little quieter. Slowly I straightened up and took in the changed world around me. Our small patch of charred earth had become a huge, black wasteland. The fire had passed through, taking everything in its path.

  A new sound cut through the air. “Chopper,” Joe called.

  “Firefighters,” I answered. I turned to Barry. “I think you found a way to make a big impression on them.”

  2

  The Worst Christmas Present Ever

  I needed an escape route. Now. I could hear thudding footfalls right behind me. And I could practically smell the stinky breath of—

  Wham!

  Two hands drove into my back, which was still feeling charbroiled, by the way. And two seconds later, I was eating grass on my front lawn. “I thought we were playing touch. That was more like slam,” I muttered.

  Brian Conrad dropped to his knees and got right in my face. “Aww, did I hurt poor li’l Joe?” he crooned, blasting me with the odor of Cool Ranch Doritos mixed with extreme halitosis.

  “Poor li’l Joe is just fine,” I answered. But I couldn’t help giving a little grunt of pain as I stood up. Brian grinned. He’d heard my grunt and he’d enjoyed it. Dillweed.

  Frank and I got in a huddle with Chet Morton, the other guy on our team. Chet’s not exactly what you would call athletic. He’s exactly what you would call a couch potato. Usually my brother and I could carry him in a game of touch football. But today, Frank and I were both on the injured list. And our team was getting its behind kicked.

  “Okay, here’s what we do,” Frank said, quarterbacking. “I hike to Joe. Joe, you hand it off to Chet and haul for the goal line. Chet, hang back, keep the ball close, and let everyone go after Joe. Then make your move.”

  “Got it.” I tossed the ball to Frank, then got into position behind him. He leaned over, kind of slowly. Charbroiled bodies don’t really like to bend.

  “What’s wrong? Your pantyhose bunching up on you?” Greg Neemy called out.

  I laughed, because, (1) Greg Neemy isn’t a jerk like Brian, and (2) stuff like that is pretty much always funny when it’s said about your brother and not about you.

  Frank hiked the ball to me. I did a slick hand-off to Chet and tore down the lawn like my feet were on fire and there was a lake right across the goal line. By the thundering sounds behind me, I’d picked up at least two of the three guys on the other team. Excellent.

  Excellent until a foot caught me in the back of my knee. Whomp! And yes, I was eating grass again. I’d eaten more grass during this game than a dog with a stomachache!

  “You like my new technique?” asked Brian as I heaved myself to my feet with, yes, a grunt. “Foot-tag football.”

  “One problem. You foot-tagged the wrong guy,” I told him.

  Before Brian could get out a word, Chet bounced the football off the driveway and started into his victory dance. You know how when you were little and you had to go to the bathroom but you didn’t want to stop playing, so you just kind of squirmed and wiggled around a lot? That’s basically Chet’s touchdown dance. Sadly, he uses almost the same moves when he attempts to dance with a girl.

  “We should head back inside,” Frank called. “We don’t want to miss any of the real game.”

  “Yeah, halftime should be almost over,” Mark Smallwood, the third guy on Brian’s team, agreed. “And I don’t want to miss one second of the Seahawks’ road to the Super Bowl.” He said that “road to the Super Bowl” part in a sports announcer voice, complete with mike reverb.

  You have to cut Mark some slack. He grew up in Seattle. All the rain leaked into his ears and made his gray matter moldy. He really isn’t able to comprehend that the Jets are now, always will be, always have been, the best football team in existence.

  Even if they are already out of the play-offs.

  Frank led the way back inside to the living room. “Wimps! Wimps! Wimps!” our parrot, Playback, called from the kitchen as we walked by.

  “Smart bird. He knows his owners,” Brian commented as he flopped down on the couch.

  Why is this guy in my house eating my Doritos? I thought, watching Brian get his snout in the tortilla chips again.

  Answer: because Frank and I were friends with Mark. And somehow Mark was friends with Brian. Maybe it was another side effect of the Seattle brain mold.

  Frank clicked on the TV. “Good, it hasn’t started back up,” said Mark. He took a seat on the floor, focusing all his attention on the screen.

  I grabbed a piece of floor next to him. I also grabbed the bowl of Doritos off the coffee table. Hey, it was my house. Well, my parents’. And I was getting my share. I jammed as many into my mouth as I could fit. The sharp edges of the triangles cut into my cheeks, and some of the cool ranch felt like it was traveling up my nose instead of down my throat. I kept on chewin’.

  “Joe, you’re the one who should be in that contest,” Chet said.

  “Thaa whaa?” I mumbled through the glob of goop in my mouth. I was still working on swallowing.

  “The Football Franks Hot Dog Eating Contest on Super Bowl Sunday,” Frank explained, nodding toward the screen.

  Oh, right. I’d seen the commercial a bunch of times. It had been running during all the play-off games. This new hot dog company was having an eating contest. They were going to pay the winner five hundred dollars an inch for every inch of hot dog they managed to sho
ve down during the halftime of the Super Bowl.

  “How much do you think the winner will get?” asked Greg.

  “Halftime is how long, you think?” Frank said. I could almost hear the calculator in his head firing up.

  “Regular game halftimes are twelve minutes. Superbowl halfs are usually double that,” Mark answered.

  “We need to take off a little time for start-up and wrap-up. They’re going to announce the winner on TV right there at halftime, so they’ll need a few minutes to figure that out. Let’s say, ballpark, twenty minutes for the contest,” said Frank.

  “Football stadium,” Chet corrected.

  “What?” I asked. I could say it clearly, because I’d swallowed all my Doritos.

  “Football stadium, not ballpark,” Chet explained.

  I groaned. At least it wasn’t a groan of physical pain this time. Just very bad joke pain.

  “And how many hot dogs do you think you can eat in a minute?” Frank continued, not bothering to comment on Chet’s comment.

  “They’re thirteen inches. That’s why they’re paying by the inch,” said Greg. “They want to play up how they’re an inch longer than regular hot dogs.”

  “I bet I could eat seven a minute,” Brian told the group.

  “Come on,” I protested.

  “What? That’s just a little more than one every ten seconds,” Brian shot back.

  “I like hot dogs, okay?” I told him. “And I can eat me some hot dogs. I bet I could eat even twelve in a minute. One every five seconds. But not for the whole halftime. Nobody could keep that pace up for twenty minutes straight.”

  “If you tried it, you’d have to subtract at least some puking minutes,” Mark agreed.

  “All right. Let’s say an average of three hot dogs a minute over the whole twenty,” Frank said. “That’s sixty hot dogs, so seven hundred eighty inches of hot dog, at five hundred dollars an inch.” He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them when he had the answer. “Three hundred and ninety thou.”

  Greg let out a long whistle.

  “That’s if you’re a loser who can only eat three hot dogs a minute,” Brian muttered.

  “You can only use the cash for college, though,” said Mark. “The contest is just for teenagers, so of course the powers that be want to make sure the money is used responsibly.”