We finished our breakfasts and wished Jenna luck before she rushed off to join the other athletes in the shuttle van. Joe and I headed down to the parking garage to get our motorcycles. The Big Air Games were being held in one of the four stadiums in South Philadelphia. The traffic got worse the closer we got, but we made it. We even arrived ahead of schedule.
The stadium complex was a total zoo.
A giant banner greeted us at the entrance: THE CITY OF PHILADELPHIA IS PROUD TO WELCOME THE BIG AIR GAMES. Hundreds of extreme sports fans were lined up at the gates. Parents with binoculars and kids with skateboards wandered through an obstacle course of food stands and souvenir tables. Some of the sports gear companies were even giving away free hats and T-shirts.
“Outrageous,” Joe muttered. “Totally.”
I slapped his shoulder and pointed toward a couple of TV news vans. Some men were unloading equipment in front of a large tent. A sign said: PRESS REGISTRATION.
“Come on,” I said. “We can use our press passes and skip all these lines.”
We steered our motorcycles toward the press tent and parked them next to one of the vans.
“Okay, we’re reporters for Shredder magazine,” I whispered to Joe before we entered the tent.
“Frank! Joe! What are you doing here?”
We should have known Maxwell Monroe would be here too. He waved us over toward the registration desk. We held up our badges to a tall woman who wrote down our ID numbers and said hello to Max.
“You’re reporters, too?” he said. “I should have known. You ask too many questions.” He chuckled. “So are you ready for big trouble at the Big Air Games?” Max paused for a second. “Hey! I should use that for my next headline! If we’re lucky, Mr. X will make a special guest appearance today. Right, boys?”
Jerk.
“Let’s go, Joe,” I said, grabbing my brother by the arm. “Let’s try to get some pregame interviews.”
“Catch you later!” Max yelled after us.
The opening ceremonies were about to start. Joe and I quickly found a place near the locker rooms that had a clear view of the field.
A heavyset sportscaster from Channel 7 walked onto the center stage and made some opening remarks. His voice echoed through the loudspeakers. “And without further ado,” he said, winding up, “I am honored to introduce you to … the extreme sports athletes of the Big Air Games!”
The fans went crazy.
The field exploded with activity. A heavy-metal rock band erupted with sound. Fireworks burst from a cannon. And hundreds of athletes swarmed across the field.
It was hard to know where to look. Inline skaters circled the track. Skateboarders zoomed up and down the long rows of half-pipes. Bungee jumpers were hoisted into the air by gigantic cranes. Then a small army of motocross bikers hurled full-speed into the killer curve of the Monster Loop—up, around, and down—in rapid-fire succession.
“Man! That’s insane!” I gasped.
“Look! There’s Jenna!” Joe said, pointing toward the half-pipes. She was easy to spot because of her hot-pink skateboard.
“And there’s Eddie Mundy,” I said. “In the red bandanna.”
Joe looked over at the skateboarder. “We should keep an eye on him.”
Suddenly all the activity in the field screeched to a halt. The athletes lined up, standing straight and tall, as the band launched into an electric-guitar version of the national anthem.
“Let the games begin!” a voice announced at the end of the song. Some of the athletes started to leave the field.
“Come on, Joe,” I said. “Now’s our chance. We can talk to the players in the dugouts.”
We hurried down the stairs and got as close as we could. A security guard stopped us. “Athletes only beyond this point,” he grunted at us. We showed him our press passes. “Maybe they’ll let you in the locker rooms.”
We walked around to the locker room entrance. Another guard let us through when we flashed our passes.
The men’s locker room wasn’t very crowded. A few guys were doing stretches. Others were fussing with their gear. One boy with a Mohawk sneered at us. “What are you preppies doing in here?”
“We’re reporters,” I told him. “Do you mind answering a few questions?”
“Get lost! Go back to your fancy prep school!”
“Yeah!” someone else yelled. “Get in the game or get out!”
Frank tugged my shirtsleeve. “Let’s go, Frank,” he said. “I have an idea.”
When we got outside, Joe hustled me past the guard, then showed me something tucked in his pocket: a pair of official Big Air athletes’ passes.
“Where did you get those?”
Joe smiled. “I spotted them under a bench in the locker room. So I snatched them while you were talking to those guys.”
I was skeptical. “The security guards saw us, Joe. They think we’re reporters, not athletes.”
A big smile crept over my brother’s face.
“How do you feel about getting an extreme makeover, Frank?”
Before I knew it, we were riding our motorcycles up and down the streets of South Philadelphia, looking for a clothing store. But we weren’t having much luck.
Finally Joe pulled over. “Look,” he said, pointing across the street. “I bet we can find something in there.”
I turned and looked. “You got to be kidding, Joe.”
The place was called HOLLYWEIRD.
It looked like a vintage clothing store. There were two mannequins in the window—one in a wedding dress with a hunting vest, the other in a skin-diving suit and a purple wig.
“Come on,” Joe said. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. We circled around and parked in front of the store.
A little bell tinkled when we walked through the door. Two girls looked up and stared at us. They were sitting in old beauty parlor chairs, reading magazines—and they looked as bizarre as the mannequins in the window.
“Can I help you guys?” asked the tall one. Her hair was bright blue and spiky, and her jeans were held together with safety pins. “I’m Holly.”
“And I’m Weird,” said the other one. Her face was powdered white, but everything else—hair, lips, clothes—was completely black.
Joe did the talking. “We need to change our look. It could be biker, skateboarder, punk, whatever—as long as it’s wild. We want to look … you know … extreme. Can you help us?”
The two girls looked at each other—and grinned from ear to ear.
Grabbing Joe by the shoulders, Holly pushed him toward the changing room and started pulling clothes from a rack. “Here, try these on,” she said, handing him a big pile of pants, shirts, and accessories.
The girl named Weird looked at me and motioned with her finger. “Your turn,” she said.
“I don’t know if I …”
It was useless to resist. The girls were thrilled to make us over. We were like a pair of life-sized dolls for them to play with. They made us try on nylon tracksuits, snakeskin pants, flowered surfer shorts—you name it.
Finally, Joe ended up in a black punk-rock concert shirt, oversized army shorts, and a cool racing jacket.
And me? They dressed me in blue camouflage pants, black boots, a tie-dyed tank top, and a leather jacket.
“We approve,” said Holly, standing back to admire her work. “You guys look fierce.”
I stood next to Joe and looked in the mirror.
Pretty cool, I had to admit.
“You know what would really top it all off?” said Weird, holding up an electric hair trimmer. “Mohawks!”
“Oh, yeah! Totally!” Holly agreed.
I laughed and shook my head. “There’s no way I’m going to get a Mohawk.”
“I’ll do it,” said Joe.
I turned to argue, but my brother had already hopped into one of the beauty parlor chairs. Weird spun him around, wrapped a towel around his neck, and plugged in the clippers.
“You, too. Grab a se
at,” said Holly, pushing me into the other chair.
“Wait! No!” I protested. “I don’t want a haircut!”
“Then I’ll just spray in some blue dye,” she said, picking up an aerosol can. “It washes out … and it’ll match your pants.”
“Go on, Frank,” said my brother. “Just do it.”
I closed my eyes. “Okay,” I said. “Do it.”
Holly started spraying—and Weird started shaving.
Bzzzzzzzzzz.
11 Crash and Burn!
Man! The wind feels cool against my scalp!
I roared along on my motorcycle, right behind Frank, through the streets of Philadelphia. We had gotten a little lost on our trip to Hollyweird, so Frank was using his bike’s navigational system to find our way back to the stadium. I followed.
I had to laugh a little at the sight of Frank with blue hair.
Then I reminded myself that I had a Mohawk.
Aunt Trudy and Mom would have my head on a platter.
Well, it was too late to worry about it now. My head was shaved and smooth and shiny, with a spiky stripe of hair down the middle.
Besides, I looked crazy cool. And I have to confess: Even Frank looked cool.
Finally we spotted the banner for the Big Air Games. Riding past the press tent, Frank and I circled the stadium until we found the athletes’ entrance. A security guard held up his arm to stop us. We flashed our passes—the ones I’d swiped from the locker room—and the guard waved us through.
We rode our motorcycles up a large cement ramp and down a long hall. It led us right through the stadium and out onto the south side of the field.
Frank and I must have been quite a sight, because the audience cheered when they saw us.
“Maybe we should pop a few wheelies or something,” I said to Frank.
I waved to the crowd. They cheered again.
“Man, I could learn to like this.”
“Knock it off, Joe,” said Frank, getting off his bike. “Let’s go talk to some of the athletes.”
“But what about my fans? They want me! Frank! Wait!”
I hopped off my bike and ran after my brother. We walked past a group of inline skaters—and almost collided with Maxwell Monroe.
“Sorry, excuse me,” said the reporter. He did a double take. “Hey, wait! It’s you guys! Let me check you out! Wow. Great disguises. Now that’s one way to infiltrate the inner circle of the extreme sports world. Very clever. I’d try it myself, but I’m too old to pull off a Mohawk or blue hair.”
“Lower your volume, Max,” I whispered. “You’re going to blow our cover.”
Max smiled. “Sure, kid. I understand,” he said. “We’re all journalists here. But let me give you boys a little advice.”
Again? He leaned toward us and spoke in a hushed voice. “When Mr. X makes his move today—and he will—you don’t want to be standing in the line of fire. I’d be careful about getting too close to the athletes if I were you.”
Then he said something that sounded strangely familiar.
“And stay off the field … if you want to be safe.”
I glanced at Frank. He didn’t react to Max’s words.
“Well, I hope to see you later, boys,” the reporter said. “I’m going to the press box. They have sandwiches up there.”
We said good-bye and watched Max disappear into the crowd.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Frank. “He used almost the same words as that warning we got: ‘And stay away from the games if you want to live.’”
Frank ran a hand through his blue hair. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” he said.
“Or not,” I added. “He seems so sure that Mr. X is going to attack today.”
“He’s a reporter. Joe. He’s hoping Mr. X attacks.”
We walked around the perimeter of the field as we talked. Soon we came upon the skateboard dugout. I spotted Jenna, so I waved.
She looked at me like I was a total stranger.
Oh, yeah. The Mohawk, I reminded myself.
“Jenna! It’s me, Joe!”
She squinted, then smiled and came running out of the dugout. “Look at you guys!” she said. “Extreme Hardys! I like it!” She ran her fingers through my Mohawk.
“Where’s your skateboard?” I asked her.
“Over there in the dugout.”
“Look,” I said. “Keep your skateboard with you at all times. And check the wheels, the axle, everything. Make sure nobody’s tampered with the board. And tell the others to do the same. Promise?”
“Promise,” she said. Then she told us that her event would start in about an hour in the stadium next door.
“I’ll be there,” I told her.
Frank and I said good-bye and started to walk toward the north end of the field. We still hadn’t talked to any of the motocross bikers.
Suddenly my brother stopped. “You know what, Joe? What you told Jenna was really smart. No one should leave their equipment unattended.”
“Thanks, man,” I said. “You never tell me I’m smart. What’s the catch?”
“The catch is, we shouldn’t leave our motorcycles back there. They could be sabotaged.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I guess I’m not that smart.”
Frank laughed. “Come on. Let’s get our bikes and ride them up the field.”
We turned around and started walking the other way.
“Well, well, well. Check out the posers.”
It was Eddie Mundy.
The cocky skateboarder walked right toward us with a big sneer on his face.
Did he ever wash that thing?
Eddie stepped in front of us, blocking our path and giving us the once-over.
“I’m diggin’ the new duds. But you still look like a pair of preppy boys,” he teased. “Give it up, dudes. The blue hair and Mohawk aren’t fooling anyone.”
“Ignore him,” Frank whispered. “Just keep moving.”
But Eddie wouldn’t let it drop.
When we tried to walk around him, he threw his arms over our shoulders and walked along with us.
“Look, guys,” he said, lowering his voice. “I know who you are. Really.”
I shrugged his hand off. “What are you talking about?” I said. “What did you hear?”
“There you go with the questions again,” Eddie said, sighing. “Those questions are getting you both in a lot of trouble. I think you know what I mean.”
Frank stopped and stared at him. “What are you saying?” he asked.
Eddie grabbed us both by the arms and squeezed. “I’m saying drop it. Leave. Now.”
Then he let go and walked away.
Frank and I didn’t say a word for a moment or two. I guess we were a little stunned. Finally I turned to Frank and looked him in the eye.
“Okay,” I said. “Things are getting freaky around here. What do you think is going on?”
“I don’t know,” said Frank. “But I intend to find out.”
Clenching his jaw, he stalked off toward our motorcycles at the end of the field. I just stood there and watched him go.
Easy, Frank.
But hey, I wasn’t about to let my brother take on Mr. X all by himself. We were a team.
“Frank, wait!” I yelled, running after him.
After stopping to watch one of the bungee jumps, Frank and I reached the south end of the field without incident.
I mean, nobody threatened to kill us if we didn’t leave.
Our motorcycles appeared to be okay. But Frank insisted that we inspect them carefully before starting the engines.
“Someone could have cut the brake lines or punctured the gas tanks,” he said. “Or a dozen other things.”
“Everything checks out,” I reported after a quick inspection.
“Check again.”
“Frank.”
“Check again,” he repeated. “This is serious, Joe. People know we’ve been asking questions. Both Max and Eddie warned us to back off. Maybe
they’re concerned. Maybe they’re killers. Who knows? We can’t take any chances.”
Once Frank was satisfied with the inspections, we jumped on our cycles and revved them up. Then we took off, riding slowly along the perimeter of the stadium.
We had to warn the motocross bikers: Don’t leave your bikes unattended, not even for a minute.
As we approached the motocross zone, I couldn’t stop staring at the huge Monster Loop rising up in the distance.
The thing was humongous!
The highest point of the curve must have been fifty feet high. But as I got closer on my cycle, I swear it seemed more like a hundred. How could anyone get up enough momentum to ride the entire loop without falling?
I was about to find out.
There were six motocross bikers lining up, getting ready to tackle the Monster Loop.
Frank and I pulled up on the sidelines and parked our motorcycles. We jumped off and ran toward the motocross bikers.
“Wait!” Frank yelled. “We need to talk to you!”
We were stopped in our tracks by one of the event directors.
“Hold it right there, boys,” he said. “Everyone has to stay back here until the stunts are completed.”
Frank tried to explain. He told the event director about the possibility of sabotage and asked if the bikers kept a close watch on their bikes.
“Don’t worry, we’re taking care of everything,” the man assured him. “With Mr. X on the loose, everybody is taking extra precautions. We’ve got more security, more safety inspectors, more emergency medical teams … you name it.”
I looked around and saw all the security guards walking along the sidelines—and an ambulance waiting near the Monster Loop. It didn’t make me feel any better.
I had seen more than enough medical emergencies in the past two days.
Frank finally gave up trying to get past the event director. He came over and stood next to me, gazing up at the Monster Loop and shaking his head. “That thing is scary.”
“Totally.”
The motocross bikers were all revved up and ready to roll. Then a man waved a flag and they were off.
The bikers tore up the dirt as they headed for the first series of ramps. Up and over, up and over, the roaring machines sailed through air, then plunged back to earth, wheels spinning faster with every jump.
Extreme Danger Page 7
