Bound for Danger

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Guys, just chill,” he said. “You’re being ugly to these guys. They really tried today. And if they’re on the team for sure now, then it’s on us to help them get better, not make it harder for them.”

  His name was Jason Bound. I knew because he was all over the morning announcements and the school newspaper. He was the team captain, star of the basketball team, and he had already secured a scholarship to Duke next year.

  He’d seemed nice enough during practice, but his words still surprised me. I realized when he spoke that I’d sort of been agreeing with all the complaints. What were Frank and I doing here? Was it really fair to saddle this championship-bound team with two novice players who hadn’t even tried out?

  Jason’s words reminded me that none of us really had a choice in the matter. We’d better make the best of it.

  Coach Perotta looked at him gratefully. “Thank you, Jason. You make a good point—we’re all in this together. Frank and Joe are on the team now, and that means we need to support them.”

  Not long after that, Coach Perotta sent us back to the locker room to shower and change. None of the players said anything to us, but the grumbling and dirty looks seemed to have ceased for now. Frank and I showered and put our school clothes back on. By the time we were ready to go, most of the team had already left.

  We walked in silence out of the gym and toward the student parking lot. Finally Frank said, “I think I’m going to be pretty sore tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “That was really hard.”

  “What do you think Principal Gerther’s deal is?” Frank asked. “Does he not want the team to be state champions? Because it seems like a championship would look good for both him and the school, right?”

  “And it seems like if he just didn’t want them to win,” I said, “there are easier ways—”

  “Hey, guys!”

  I jumped a bit. I’d been so busy talking to Frank I hadn’t noticed Jason walking through the parking lot toward us.

  “Oh! Uh . . . hey, Jason.” I smiled. “Thanks for saying what you did back there. It was really nice of you.”

  Jason shrugged. “It’s no big thing. I meant what I said. We’re a team, and if you’re part of the team now, then we should support you.”

  “Thanks.” Frank nodded at him. “It’s great to get that kind of support from the team captain.”

  Jason grinned. “Honestly, I was impressed by how you took everything back there. That was not an easy practice. Most people would have just given up and walked out the door. But you stuck with it. That says something about your character, I think. We can use guys like you on the team.”

  I glanced at Frank. Jason’s speech inside had impressed me, but this was even more surprising. Jason was the team captain and star player—he arguably had the most riding on the team’s success this year. And yet he was going out of his way to be nice to us.

  “Thanks, man,” said Frank with a smile. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

  “Tell you what,” Jason said. “I know the guys weren’t super cool to you back there, but maybe they just need to get to know you better. One of our players, Steve, has a birthday tonight. We’re meeting up at Paco’s Pizza to celebrate. Six thirty. Want to come?”

  I looked at Frank. I had a ton of homework, and after practice, we wouldn’t get home till five. But an opportunity to bond with our teammates seemed too good to pass up.

  “We’ll be there,” said my brother.

  “Great!” Jason flashed a huge smile at us. “See you then.”

  He walked off in the direction of his car, and Frank and I headed to ours.

  “Getting to know our teammates better can’t be a bad thing,” I said.

  “Yep,” Frank agreed, unlocking the doors. “And maybe it will bring us a little closer to figuring out why we’re on the team in the first place.”

  • • •

  A couple of hours later, we pulled into the parking lot of Paco’s Pizza. The shack-like restaurant was on the very edge of town, bordering an industrial area. We’d had to look it up on Google Maps, since we’d never heard of the place before.

  “Why here?” Frank asked, looking around at the near-empty parking lot. “Everyone knows Pizza Palace has the best pizza in town.”

  “That’s your opinion,” I reminded him. “You’ll recall that my heart belongs to Luigi’s.”

  “This just seems kind of . . . off the beaten path,” Frank mused, still staring.

  He turned off the ignition. “Let’s go in,” I said, unclipping my seat belt. “Maybe this place has the best Sicilian slice in town, and we just don’t know it yet.”

  “Color me dubious,” Frank replied, but he got out of the car anyway.

  It was late winter, and still getting dark around six. There were few lights in the parking lot, but the inside of the restaurant was illuminated with warm yellow light.

  “There’s no one in there,” Frank pointed out.

  I angled my head and tried to get a good look. “Are you sure?” I asked. “We can’t see the back.”

  “There’s only one other car in the parking lot,” Frank said. “That’s probably whoever’s working. The place is empty.”

  I glanced at my watch. “We’re, like, two minutes early,” I said. “You know how people are. Let’s just go in there and—”

  That was when someone grabbed me from behind and shoved something over my head, and everything went black.

  3

  MASKED ENEMIES

  FRANK

  ONCE THE BAGS WERE OVER our heads, someone swiftly pulled my wrists behind my back and bound them with what felt like duct tape. Then whoever it was grabbed both of us up off our feet—there were clearly a bunch of them—and carried us far enough that we must have left the parking lot. I heard a car door opening, and then the creeeeeeak of a trunk lid. Then we were dumped inside the tight, cramped trunk, shoved into the fetal position. They bound our ankles in the same way as our wrists. The trunk lid shut heavily on top of us, and a minute or so later, the engine started and we were moving.

  “What the . . . ?” Joe’s voice came out muffled, but I could understand him. Luckily, they hadn’t gagged us.

  What the . . . ? indeed. Whoever these guys were, they weren’t the first to throw a bag over my head and dump me in a trunk, and they probably wouldn’t be the last. Those are just the wages of being an amateur detective in a town filled with unoriginal crooks.

  “Do you think Gerther is trying to kill us?” Joe asked.

  “Doubtful,” I replied. “There are easier ways to do it. And that wouldn’t explain the whole joining-the-basketball-team thing.”

  “So did Jason Bound set us up?” Joe asked.

  “Obviously,” I replied. “He told us to go to Paco’s, right? Did you see anyone else there?”

  “No.”

  “So the birthday story was a setup. The only question is . . . why? What are they going to do to us?”

  “I have a feeling we’re about to find out,” Joe mumbled.

  We drove around for what seemed like about twenty minutes. At first I closed my eyes and tried to keep track of the direction, so I’d have a rough idea where they were taking us. But soon I gave up. It’s too hard to estimate distance with a bag over your head inside a locked trunk.

  Finally the car pulled to a stop, and a few seconds later the trunk popped open. I could feel the cold outside air blowing in.

  Nobody said anything as we were hauled out, our restraints were cut, and we were placed upright on our feet. What must have been two people flanked me on either side, each grabbing an elbow and guiding me to walk alongside them on a hard surface, probably a driveway. I heard a door open and then was guided inside, someone’s hand on my head warning me to duck.

  We walked down a narrow flight of stairs. Then I was guided a few more feet and stopped. One of the people shepherding me poked my shin and then guided my foot up off the ground, onto what felt like a little pedestal or somethi
ng in front of me. Then I was pushed to step up onto the little pedestal, which I realized was quite small, maybe the size of the narrow end of a cinder block. I could hear the sounds of others helping Joe do the same a few feet away. The guiders held me up until I was able to balance on my own—and then suddenly they were gone.

  I wobbled on the little pedestal, whatever it was, wondering what was going on. Was it safe? I was up high enough that I felt like I could get hurt if I fell suddenly.

  “What is this?” I yelled, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “What do you want?”

  “What do you think we want?”

  The voice that came back was freaky—deep and distorted, clearly coming from a voice modulator.

  “I—well—”

  Before I could get an answer out, the bag was suddenly ripped off my head.

  I sucked in a breath.

  Joe and I were standing in a dark room with no windows—likely a basement, I figured. But someone had switched on a black light. And in front of us, standing in a row, were five people in long black robes, wearing weird masks that hid their faces. The masks had been painted with bold white designs that caught the black light in a seriously creepy way.

  I glanced over at Joe, who was staring, openmouthed, at the figures in the masks.

  Then I looked down at my feet. Joe and I had both been placed on pedestals about eighteen inches high. As I’d assumed, each pedestal was the size and thickness of a cinder block, but they had us standing on the narrow end. Mine wobbled ominously as I struggled to keep my balance.

  As I went to put down my foot, I was startled by the loudest buzzing sound I’d ever heard. Both Joe and I were so stunned we fell off the pedestals. I managed to catch myself with my foot, but Joe landed in a heap.

  “That’s strike one,” the bizarre voice intoned. “Brothers, hand down the punishment.”

  One of the masked figures stepped forward, holding a mug. He walked behind me, pulled down the back of my shirt, and poured the contents of the mug down my back.

  “Auuugh!” The mug was full of hot water. Not hot enough to cause serious burn damage, but hot enough to hurt—especially when coupled with surprise. The water soaked the back of my shirt so that it stuck to my skin.

  The figure walked over to Joe and did the same, pouring more water down his back. Joe yelped.

  “That water is one hundred and sixty degrees. Each time you fall off the pedestal, the water will get hotter, all the way up to boiling point. Make your choices accordingly. Brothers, help them back onto the pedestals.”

  I looked at Joe, sending him a silent thought. This is not good. Whatever these guys were up to, they were obviously willing to hurt us. And I had no idea who they were, which meant they could do so without consequences.

  Two masked people came over and got me back up on the pedestal, and others did the same for Joe. When I was back up, I tried to focus on my balance and stay upright. It wasn’t easy. It took constant focus; my legs began shaking after just a few seconds.

  After a brief silence, the lead figure spoke again: “Frank and Joe Hardy, you have destroyed the sanctity of our brotherhood by joining us uninvited and unwanted. For this, you deserve to be punished. We’ve brought you here tonight to get answers. Are you willing to give them?”

  “That depends,” I said honestly.

  “Brothers,” said the lead figure.

  Without further ado, one of the figures on the right stepped forward, reached up, and punched me in the kidneys. This caused me to swoon and nearly fall off the pedestal—but I managed to catch myself just in time.

  “That is the wrong answer. Let’s see if you can follow along. It’s clear that Coach Perotta was told that you would join the team—this wasn’t his idea. So whose was it?”

  This time I was silent. I glanced at Joe, whose mouth remained shut. He looked resolute.

  “Brothers,” said the lead figure.

  This time two of them came forward. The one on the right wound up and punched me in the stomach, causing me to double over, while the one on the left walked up to Joe and punched him in the kidneys. He moaned.

  “Why do you want to know?” I managed to squeeze out through the pain. “What difference does it make?”

  “It matters very much,” the lead figure said. “Our brotherhood has much at stake in the next few weeks. We need to know who our enemies are.”

  Brotherhood? Much at stake? We had to be talking about the basketball team, right? But why were they acting like they were some kind of secret fraternity instead of just a school-sponsored sports team?

  “Why do you assume it’s an enemy?” Joe asked. “Maybe we were sent to help.”

  The lead figure threw back his head and laughed—still distorted by the voice modulator. “That’s very funny. Clearly you didn’t see yourselves play today.”

  He paused, and neither Joe nor I spoke. There was silence for a minute.

  “Very well,” said the lead figure, breaking the silence. “Clearly more motivation is needed. You are convinced that you belong among us. Brothers, bring forward the brand.”

  A figure on the left reached inside his robe and pulled out a small, shiny object. He held it up.

  “This is a team pin,” the lead figure said, “with the logo for the Bayport Tigers. If we heat this over a candle until it’s red-hot, we can use it to brand you both.”

  I involuntarily jumped. “Brand us?”

  “That’s right. If you are so determined to be part of the team, surely you are willing to wear our brand on your skin? It will burn for a moment, yes, but then it will mark you as one of us forever.”

  “Wait . . . , ” said Joe, unable to hide the fear in his voice. “do you . . . brand all the players? Is that a thing?”

  The lead figure cackled again. “Whether we do or not, no one will ever tell. But being a true brother doesn’t come without cost. If you really wish to avoid this fate, you can tell us right now who sent you.”

  Joe and I traded glances. The look on his face said, Holy frijoles, but I don’t think we should tell them, right? And I tried to make my expression say, Yeah, and they can’t really brand us. They’d get in so much trouble! Right? Right?!

  “Very well,” the lead figure intoned. The brother who’d held up the pin took out a lighter and a pair of tongs. He handed the lighter to the guy next to him, who coaxed out a flame, and then placed the pin in the pincers of the tongs and held it right in the middle of the flame.

  I could smell something burning. The metal began to glow.

  Joe made a squeaky noise. I glanced at him: Be cool.

  Then the lighter clicked off and the brother holding the pin with the tongs turned to look at us. He began to walk toward Joe, holding out the pin. . . .

  I felt my heart speed up and began to sweat. They wouldn’t, would they? Surely . . .

  “Pull up his sleeve!” the leader intoned.

  Joe let out a sound like he was being strangled.

  “IT WAS PRINCIPAL GERTHER!”

  The words came out of my mouth without my ever planning to say them. But when they did, everyone turned to me, and the brother holding the pin lowered it. Joe swayed and nearly fell off his pedestal, but was able to balance at the last minute.

  “What was that?” asked the lead figure.

  I tried to breathe. “It was Principal Gerther,” I said in a rush. “He called us into his office and said we had to join the team.”

  “Why?” asked the lead figure. He’d forgotten to use the voice modulator this time, so I tried to memorize the sound of his voice. It was familiar, but not obviously so—I couldn’t immediately place it with any of the players I’d met that day.

  “We don’t know,” Joe said. “Your guess is as good as ours, really. We’ve been trying to figure it out all day.”

  The lead figure looked at the masked figures around him. I sensed he was trying to decide whether to believe us.

  “Why would he tell you to join the team and not tel
l you why?”

  Joe and I both shrugged.

  “Why does he wear the same polyester suit every day?” Joe asked. “Why did he pull Frank out of an extracurricular activity to tell him he has no extracurricular activities? Why anything? I can’t explain Principal Gerther to you.”

  The lead figure dropped the voice modulator and turned to the others. There was some hushed whispering as they seemed to discuss whether to accept that or not. The brief break in the action gave me the chance to remember that balancing on this block was making my legs ache like heck. My weak muscles from that day’s practice weren’t helping either.

  I glanced at Joe. My expression: Do you think they’ll let us go? His expression: Who can predict anything in this crazy world?

  Finally the discussion seemed to break up, and the masked figures turned to face us again. The lead figure spoke.

  “We have chosen to believe you truly don’t know Principal Gerther’s motivation. But the fact remains: you do not belong in the brotherhood. The brotherhood has bonded and suffered together. We deserve to be there, but you two do not.

  “This is what will happen: tomorrow the two of you will go to Principal Gerther’s office and announce you’re quitting the team. No explanation. You will take whatever punishment he hands down. And after that, you can go about your lives as normal. If you never speak of this again, we have no reason to seek revenge.”

  Here the masked figure paused and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, even with the modulator, I could tell that the tone was lower and more serious.

  “If you don’t, you boys will regret that you were ever born. You have not yet seen what the brotherhood is capable of. Our reach extends far beyond this room, or this town, even. If you boys want a future, you will quit.”

  I glanced at Joe. Both of our expressions: Daaaaaaaaaaang.

  “Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” I said. I understand that I want to get off this darn pedestal.

  The figure turned to Joe. “I need both of you to say it.”

  Joe nodded. “I understand,” he said.