Bound for Danger

by Franklin W. Dixon

  We jumped out of the car and were heading back out of the alley toward Main Street when suddenly Gabe was standing in front of us.

  “Hey!” he said, moving toward us. “Listen, bad news, guys. Brett got cold feet. He doesn’t want to hang out in the Meet Locker, in case anyone from the team sees us.”

  I stared at him. “Ooookay,” I said. “So, now what?”

  Gabe gestured behind us. “His cousin has an apartment over here,” he said. “Just follow me.”

  There are no streetlights on Farragut Alley, so keeping Gabe in our sights was a little difficult. We followed him down toward the dead end, and then suddenly a door opened to our right, in one of the nondescript retail buildings. I wasn’t aware of apartments being inside, but maybe above the stores . . .

  “JOE!” Frank suddenly yelled behind me, but it was too late. A dark shape advanced on us from inside the doorway, and a bag was thrown over my head again. I could hear them doing the same to Frank, too. I felt arms reach out and roughly pull me inside.

  “I’m sorry,” I heard Gabe say behind me, just before it sounded like he was grabbed too.

  It felt like there were people on either side of me again, and just like before, they forced me down a short flight of stairs. This time I was led over to a chair and told to sit, and then I felt them tying me to the chair at my waist and my ankles. They tied my wrists together too. When the bag was pulled off my head, I was staring into the same scenario as before: a dark room, black light. This time, though, I was sitting next to not just Frank, but a whole row of guys. When I looked closer, I could just barely make out Pete Gruner, Ty Coolidge, and Jayden Speck.

  Just like before, a line of masked, robed figures stood before us. But this time there seemed to be even more of them. The figure in the center moved forward and began to speak.

  “Congratulations.” Like the last time, he was using a voice modulator to disguise his voice. The sound was low and creepy—like something you’d hear at a haunted house. “The five of you are the lowest performers on the basketball team. None of you are cut out for basketball. Until you either prove your worth or quit, the harassment will not stop.”

  I swallowed and glanced over at Frank. What form will that harassment take tonight? I remembered that masked guy advancing on me with the burning-hot pin and felt a shiver run down my spine.

  Another masked figure stepped forward. “We have some fun games planned for tonight,” he announced, again using a voice modulator. This figure’s chosen voice sounded like a creepy child. “But before we begin, would anyone like to try to prove their worth to the team and bypass the games?”

  “Prove our worth to the team? What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means,” the masked figure replied, “that we’re recruiting an assistant for the night. If you want to cross sides and work with us, you’ll be exempt from the punishment we plan to exact on your fellow losers. There’s only one catch.”

  “What’s the catch?” Ty asked.

  The masked figure cackled. “You’ll find out when you volunteer.”

  There was silence for a moment. Surely no one would volunteer, I figured. Who knew what the catch was? And who wanted to work with these guys?

  But then a voice spoke up from my left. “I’ll do it.”

  I turned. It was Jayden speaking.

  The masked figure chuckled again. “Very well,” the figure said. “Brothers, untie him.”

  Two other masked figures came forward and untied Jayden, raising him to his feet.

  “Excellent,” said the center figure. “Jayden, you are one of us now. You will help us knock some sense into your fellow losers. And to prove your loyalty, you will let us take a video of you doing it, so we can turn you in if you ever turn on us.”

  Frank spoke up next to me. “Don’t do it, Jayden!”

  One of the masked figures bolted forward and hit Frank in the face before any of the rest of us could react. Frank moaned.

  Jayden looked at him, then turned toward the center figure. “I’ll do it.”

  “Very good.” The center figure moved forward again, as one of the other figures produced a small video camera and began filming. He kept the camera carefully trained on Jayden. “Now, it’s time for our first game. It’s called Run the Gauntlet. Each of the four of you will have to run through a line of masked team members. We are allowed to do anything we like to you—punch you, kick you. This is your punishment for underperforming. Or perhaps”—he turned his masked face toward Frank and me—“just being a nuisance.”

  Pete leaned forward. “How long do we do this?”

  The center figure laughed. “What an intriguing question. How long do you think you’ll do this?”

  Pete looked confused. He shrugged. “Uh . . . once?”

  The masked figure laughed again. “Adorable. You’ll do it until we tell you to stop. Until we feel you’ve learned your lesson. And just looking at the faces in front of me . . . I’d buckle your seat belts, boys. It’s going to be a bumpy night.”

  I glanced at Frank. Great. But punching and kicking, I could take. At least this wouldn’t involve burned flesh.

  The leader gestured to the other masked figures. Four came forward and began using pocket knives to untie Frank, Pete, Ty, and me from our chairs. Then they began to arrange themselves in two rows, six figures on each side. In between, they left just enough space for a person to pass through.

  “Jayden,” said the lead figure, “take your place in the middle, please.”

  Jayden looked at us—the poor unfortunates left in the chairs—then quickly looked away. He walked over to the middle of the first line and took his place.

  “You are absolutely not allowed to go easy on the losers,” the lead figure said. “If we see you beating them with anything less than your full power, you will be forced to Run the Gauntlet with them, and we will also post the video on your Facebook page.”

  Jayden shuddered. He looked straight ahead, carefully avoiding eye contact with both us and the masked figures. I couldn’t believe he was going along with this, but at the same time, I didn’t feel like I could judge him. Maybe he’d been through more than one of these hazing sessions. Maybe he knew how bad they could get.

  “Ty, you’re up first,” the lead figure said, taking his place at the end of the line.

  Ty stood slowly. He glanced back at us, then held his head high, loping toward the two lines.

  He paused just briefly at the entrance to the “gauntlet.”

  “Begin,” said the lead masked figure.

  Ty stepped into the middle of the masked figures. Immediately, they all fell on him, punching him, kicking him, beating him as if he’d stolen their girlfriends and then hit their mothers. I felt sick, watching and knowing I’d soon face the same.

  “Why doesn’t he fight back?” Frank whispered.

  “You’re not allowed,” Pete said quietly. “If you do, they beat you even harder next time.”

  “Next time?” I asked. “How long does this go on?”

  “Last time we got out around one a.m.,” Pete whispered.

  I felt even sicker.

  Finally Ty emerged on the other side of the “gauntlet” line. He was hunched over, holding his stomach, but he walked with what little dignity he had left back to his seat.

  The lead masked figure stepped out of the line again. “Just as a reminder,” he said, “any one of you can avoid this punishment by quitting the team and preventing us from having to carry your sorry butts.” He paused. “Any takers?”

  I looked over at Frank. I knew he wouldn’t say yes, and I didn’t really want to anyway. I just needed to see the determination in his eyes. He sat up straighter and jutted out his chin in defiance.

  “Very well,” the lead figure went on. “Pete, you’re next. . . .”

  9

  FOUL PLAY

  FRANK

  AND SO I’LL SAY IT one more time, hazing has no place on this team or any team.” Coach Perotta fo
lded his arms in front of him as he looked around at each guy sitting on the floor of the gym in front of him.

  I turned to glance at Joe, but even the tiny movement hurt. After running the gauntlet four times last night, every muscle in my body ached. The masked hazers had been careful—all my bruises and cuts were on my torso, so none of the damage was visible to the coaches. But practice was going to be torture today. It was a huge relief to get to sit down first and listen to this lecture about hazing.

  I looked at Gabe, who was sitting behind me and to the right. Just like he had since we got here, he refused to meet my eye. In fact, no one else on the team looked the least bit uncomfortable at Coach Perotta’s speech—not even Jayden, Ty, or Pete.

  Neither Joe nor I had said anything to Dad about what happened last night. We knew what he would say: it’s time to quit. But we were way too infuriated to quit. What was happening on the basketball team was out of control. Someone had to do something!

  We’d cornered Ty, Pete, and Jayden separately that morning, trying to talk about last night and what we could do about it. But they all made it clear that none of them were willing to come forward.

  “I’ve put in a whole season with this team,” Ty said. “I’m getting better and better. We just have to pay our dues.”

  “This isn’t paying your dues, dude,” Joe had said. “This is getting beat up by twelve guys while someone videotapes it. Big difference!”

  “Nothing that’s worth doing is easy,” Ty had countered. “That’s what my dad says.”

  I don’t think he’d apply it to this situation, I wanted to say. But after talking to Pete and Jayden, it became clear that there wasn’t going to be any reasoning with these guys. They were totally drinking the hazing Kool-Aid.

  Gerther was the natural next stop. But he was out today, just like the receptionist had said. I was pretty sure Gerther hadn’t taken a day off the entire time I’d been at Bayport High. Why had he chosen to start now?

  “All right,” Coach Perotta said. “Now that we’re all on the same page, let’s start practice.”

  Practice. I got to my feet, but even that was a struggle.

  • • •

  We were doing layup drills and I was stinking up the joint, as usual. It got to the point where no one said anything when I got to the front of the line and (inevitably) missed the shot—Coach Perotta stopped offering tips or encouragement, and my teammates just shook their heads helplessly. I was, honestly, too sore to care, and I just wanted to make it through practice in one piece.

  Ty and Jayden, though, were really on fire. They were both making shot after shot.

  “Amazing job, dude!” Jason said when Ty made his sixth layup in a row.

  “Seriously,” Dorian said. “From yesterday’s practice, it’s like night and day. I guess Jason won’t have to carry the team anymore!” He laughed, and Jason chuckled a little too.

  “That’s enough, guys,” Assistant Coach Noonan put in from the sidelines. “Though I’m glad to see Ty and Jayden showing such improvement today. See guys—practice makes perfect!”

  Is it practice, I wondered, or having the poop scared out of you? And if it was having the poop scared out of you, what did that say about the hazing—that it was working? Did that make it okay? No, I thought, stretching my back and feeling little spikes of pain radiate down my spine. Nothing would make what we went through last night okay.

  We went into a practice game. Just like in a real game, no one threw the ball to me or Joe, so we just kind of ran around following the action, which was fine with me. Dorian and Jason pulled off a complicated play where they passed the ball down the court using a series of distractions and fake-outs. At the end, though, Jayden was blocking Jason from making the shot, so Jason tried to pass the ball to Pete, who was just a few yards away, so he could get into a better position.

  But the ball bounced off the back of Pete’s hand. Jayden intercepted it and began dribbling the ball toward the other basket.

  Coach Perotta’s whistle split the air, and he yelled that that was enough—we could all head to the showers.

  Relief flooded through me. I survived another practice! And now I got to take a shower, go home, and die on the couch, which was all I wanted in the world.

  But as I met up with Joe and walked back to the locker room, I couldn’t help but notice Jason walking up to Pete and whispering something in his ear.

  Was it just my imagination, or did Pete turn pale?

  Jason grinned and walked away, heading toward the locker room himself. Pete lingered for a moment in the same spot, then turned and walked slowly toward Coach Perotta, who was just outside his office. As I watched, Pete said something to the coach, who nodded and led him into his office.

  10

  HAZED AND CONFUSED

  JOE

  WE WERE CHANGED AND READY to leave when Coach Perotta called the entire team back out of the locker room.

  “Come back here and sit your butts down,” the coach said, his voice nearing a growl. “There’s something we need to talk about. Right now.”

  I glanced back at Frank, who was rubbing his shoulder.

  “You saw Pete talking to him, right?” I whispered.

  Frank nodded. “Right after Jason said something to him,” he said.

  “Do you think he told him everything?” I asked.

  Frank shrugged, then winced. “I don’t know. Could it be that easy?” he asked.

  From the way Coach Perotta was glaring at all of us as we sat down, I didn’t have a good feeling about this. Coach Noonan was standing behind him, and beside him was a shell-shocked-looking Pete. Coach Noonan put his hand on Pete’s shoulder as Pete seemed to sway nervously.

  “I’ve just had a private meeting with Pete,” Coach Perotta said, slowly scanning everyone’s face with a look of disgust. “He’s told me some very upsetting things. Things that seem to corroborate something Frank and Joe told me yesterday.”

  He caught my eye briefly and looked just the tiniest bit sorry. I looked back in disbelief. Really?

  “I spoke to you earlier today about hazing because I didn’t want to believe we had a problem on this team,” Coach Perotta said. “No one has ever said a word about it to me. And I hope you all know how I feel about hazing. It’s a disgusting, cowardly, unsportsmanlike thing to participate in. Not to mention, if the word ever got out that this was happening on this team, it would disqualify us for any championships. Everything you boys have been working so hard for all winter, gone. Not to mention, the seniors who’ve won sports scholarships could lose them.” He shook his head, clearly appalled. “But it seems like some things have been happening after hours that I had no knowledge of. And worse, these cowardly players have been wearing masks and disguises, going to absurd lengths to keep their identities secret.” He paused and glared at us, looking from face to face like he was holding each team member personally responsible.

  Coach Noonan spoke up. “Will any brave boys come forward and tell us anything they know about who’s behind these incidents?”

  All the players seemed to pause and look around at one another uncomfortably. I wondered how many of them knew the true identities of the masked players. Maybe only the masked players themselves knew.

  “Come on,” said Coach Perotta, unable to hide his impatience. “This is too important to pretend you know nothing. The future of the team is at stake.”

  More silence. Then suddenly, after a minute or two of awkward shifting, Dorian stood up.

  “Coach Perotta,” he said, “I don’t know who the hazers are, but I have something you should see.”

  He walked up to Coach Perotta and pulled a smartphone out of his pocket. Pressing the screen with his finger, he started what sounded like a video. Coach Perotta watched, his expression going from curious to angry, and I recognized some of the sounds from the night before.

  “Jayden . . . take your place in the middle, please.”

  I felt my stomach shrivel up. In that vi
deo, all the bad guys would be masked. The only visible people would be Jayden . . . and Ty, Pete, Frank, and me.

  The video seemed to end, and Coach Perotta took a wobbly step back. His face was flushed red and his nostrils were flaring like an angry bull’s. He turned to Dorian. “Where—where did you get that?” he demanded.

  Dorian looked a little scared. “It was e-mailed to me from this address I’d never heard of before,” he said. “I thought it was a joke.”

  Coach Perotta grabbed the phone back and began poking at it. “ConcernedCitizen@anonymous.com,” he read.

  “That’s right,” said Dorian.

  Coach Perotta looked up at the team sitting before him, and his gaze hardened as he settled on me and Frank. “Frank, Joe, and Ty . . . why am I just seeing this now?!” he thundered.

  “What do you mean?” Frank asked. “We came to you yesterday and told you about the masked guys!”

  Coach Perotta shook his head, clearly furious. “No. Why am I just seeing this now? This video is time-stamped last night,” he yelled, gesturing back at Dorian and his phone. “Why did none of you come forward to tell me this had happened? You know how I feel about hazing on my team!”

  Because . . . we weren’t sure whether you were in on it? I thought. Even now, I couldn’t tell whether Coach Perotta was really horrified by the hazing, or horrified that the hazing had been discovered. I had a feeling that answer wouldn’t fly, though.

  Frank looked around and slowly—with effort—got to his feet. “Coach Perotta,” he said, “you need to know that video is misleading. What actually happened is that a whole crew of masked team members hazed me, Joe, Jayden, Pete, and Ty last night, and offered Jayden a way out if he allowed himself to be filmed hazing the others. We might be the only ones visible on the video . . . but we’re the victims.”

  Coach glared at him. “That’s all fine and good, but the fact is, the video shows five team members recognizable on camera: Frank, Joe, Ty, Pete, and Jayden. Bayport High has a zero tolerance policy on hazing, and only Pete came forward to report it. That means Jayden, Frank, Joe, and Ty are off the team.”