Dead on Target (12 page)

From below came the words, "A brave girl, brutally murdered by terrorists. . ."

Joe spun away from the railing. Already the candidate was finding a way to use her in his speeches. His jaw muscles tightened as he looked across the well, wondering if Frank had heard what Walker was saying.

It took a minute, but Joe spotted his brother moving quickly alongside the railing, conscientiously checking out everyone he came to. Frank obviously wasn't listening to the rally.

Joe turned away, but his eyes were suddenly caught by the sight of a man coming out of Hi's Bargain Clothing Store clear across the floor from him on the other side of the well. It looked as though he'd decided to wear his purchases-a pair of loud plaid pants, polyester zippered jacket, and a baseball cap. The bill of the cap was pulled down, and the jacket seemed a trifle large.

The man stopped by a trash can outside the store and stuffed a large bag inside. Joe turned, trying to get a clear look at the face under that cap. It was thin, darkly tanned. He could see a heavy mustache, and it seemed very still-almost mask like.

Frank had already passed the store when the man ambled out. The guy walked to the railing and leaned over, resting both hands on it. Then he reached up, unzipped his jacket, and put his left hand in the jacket pocket, making the side of the jacket stick out, covering from casual observers what was under his arm.

But Joe was at the perfect angle to see what was there-a mini-Uzi in a shoulder rig.

Joe ducked behind one of the towers that had been built for the spotlights, hiding behind the thick electrical cables before Al-Rousasa spotted him.

The terrorist leaned over the railing, staring down into the central well. He kept one hand in his jacket pocket, but the other slipped slowly inside the jacket. Joe's mouth went dry.

Al-Rousasa needed only a couple of seconds to empty the twelve-bullet clip into Philip Walker and the crowd below.

How could Joe cross nearly a hundred feet of thin air in time to stop him?

JOE HARDY LOOKED around wildly as Al-Rousasa's hand disappeared into the jacket. No one else had noticed anything out of the ordinary. Should he shout a warning? Would anyone even listen to him? The Assassin was pulling the gun loose. It was now or never.

His eye once again ran over the electrical cables that ran up to the roof. Tearing one of the heavy wires free and gripping it tightly, he stepped back, took a running start, and swung over the railing. Behind him, people started screaming and shouting as he took off.

He could feel the wind in his face as the far side of the well zoomed closer. Now I know how Tarzan feels, he thought.

Al-Rousasa, his Uzi half-drawn, noticed Joe just half a second before Joe swooped in for a perfect two-point landing, planting both feet squarely against the terrorist's chest.

The submachine gun clattered to the floor as the Assassin rocketed backward, arms wind milling. Joe let go of the cable. He landed hard, rolling and skidding right to the door of the clothing store.

Joe jumped to his feet, rushing at Al-Rousasa. The terrorist was also rising, pulling something loose from under the cuff of his trousers. A gun? No. Light flashed on the six-inch blade of a combat knife.

One thing was certain: Joe's jungle-man impersonation had attracted everyone's attention-and concentrated it on him and Butler. Security people and cops were converging from all over. Joe noticed Frank running toward him.

In a quick glance, Al-Rousasa took it all in, too. He vaulted over a bench, kicking the occupant aside, and dove for his Uzi. No cops were near. He might still have a chance to fire.

Joe dove, too, trying to intercept the terrorist. They crashed together, slamming into the floor.

Al-Rousasa searched desperately for the gun. Joe went for the terrorist's knife. He already knew where the Uzi was. It was underneath him. He could feel the squat shape of the gun digging into his spine.

The Assassin put all his weight behind the knife, trying to shove it past Joe's resisting arms and into his chest.

Then he realized where the gun must be. "Fool," he said breathlessly, grabbing Joe by the collar and hauling him up. "Always you get in my way." Al-Rousasa's eyes blazed, and his control of the language began to slip. His English had a definite guttural accent, very different from Samuel Butler's careful speech.

Joe twisted around as he was pulled off the gun. He brought his foot up and kicked hard, sending the Uzi skittering under the railing, almost over the edge of the well.

His teeth showing in a silent snarl, Al-Rousasa hurled Joe against the concrete bench.

The impact brought stars to Joe's eyes. He blinked them frantically and cleared his vision just in time to see the terrorist kneeling over him, raising his knife for the kill.

Joe was trapped against the concrete. Twisting free would only open up his back to the blade. He had just one chance - to catch Al-Rousasa's knife hand. Joe threw up his left hand, grabbing.

And he missed.

A line of sheer agony opened in the palm of Joe's left hand as the knife edge sliced through. Joe gritted his teeth against the pain. Al Rousasa's eyes gloated at the sight of the blood.

Joe kicked him in the knee.

The terrorist lurched, and the blade faltered. It missed Joe's throat, scoring a line in the tile beside his right ear.

"Hold it!"

Joe heard the voice of a policeman behind him. Al-Rousasa hardly looked up. He simply thrust his knife upward. Even as the policeman fell, the terrorist was on his feet again, crouching low, reaching back for his gun. He turned to face Joe Hardy head-on as Joe lurched to his knees. And that was perfect. Joe's fist came up in a powerful roundhouse right, ramming straight into Al-Rousasa's face.

The punch knocked the terrorist outward, his body jackknifing back. The safety rail vibrated like a giant gong as the muzzle of the Uzi rammed into it. Al-Rousasa lost his grip on the gun, and it spun out into empty space.

The terrorist made a wild grab for the weapon. Arms flailing, he toppled over, following his gun into the central well.

Blood pounded in Joe's ears as he saw his enemy go flying. But Al-Rousasa had the agility of a cat. He threw himself around in midair, snatching at one of the posts supporting the safety rail. His fall slowed for one precious second-enough time to give him the chance to cling to the very edge of the floor. He grabbed that chance.

Joe stood, glaring down at those white-knuckled hands and the dark eyes burning with hatred. "You killed Iola, you scum," Joe whispered. "You don't deserve to live." His body shook with emotion, hands knotting into fists. Blood flowed between the fingers on his slashed left hand, splattering to the floor. His face was a mask of hatred-and Iola's killer was at his mercy. A quick stomp on those hands, a kick into that despised face. . .

Joe raised his foot, brought it back-and then spun away. "No," he said through clenched teeth, "no. Then I'd be no better than you."

He bent over the rail, extending his right hand. "Come on."

"You are a fool, Joe Hardy," said Al-Rousasa with a nasty grin. "I would never show you mercy."

"I know. That's why I'd make a lousy Assassin. Even lousier than you." Joe leaned out farther. "Reach up and take my wrist. I'll get you up."

Slowly, Al-Rousasa relaxed his death-grip and reached for Joe's right wrist. He tightened his clutch as Joe grasped his wrist. Then Joe brought down his left hand to get a double grip. He was bent over almost double, one leg wrapped around a railing post.

Al-Rousasa struck like a viper. He pivoted on the hand that still gripped the floor, tearing loose from Joe's hold. His free hand slapped Joe's left palm, which was still bleeding. The pain from the slash returned in all its fury as Al-Rousasa hung on, squeezing with all his might.

Excruciating pain pounded up Joe's arm, all the worse since it was unexpected. He flinched, unlocking his leg from the post. The terrorist gave a wild laugh as he kicked out, pulling both of them over the railing.

The crowd of spectators gasped as Frank Hardy fought his way through them. Nobody bothered to help Joe. They all stared as if the fight at the railing were taking place on TV. Frank reached the railing just in time to see Joe topple over it.

"Out of my way!" Frank grabbed his brother's belt, then hurled himself backward. Joe came to an abrupt stop, still dangling far over the railing.

But the grisly game of tug-of-war quickly came to an end. Joe's blood-slicked hand gave Al-Rousasa no grip. The terrorist had time for one incoherent yell as he slid into a three-story fall.

Joe, trembling and pale, watched the body hurtle down. He looked as if he were about to be sick. "W - We should have remembered," he managed to say. "Nobody takes an Assassin alive.”

"He lived by blood, and he died by it," Frank said. He helped his brother to his feet. "Well, Iola's murderer got what he deserved. How do you feel?" "It wasn't enough," Joe replied. He turned away.

FRANK AND JOE Hardy sat in their father's study, relaxing. Frank lay on the leather sofa, his hands clasped behind his neck. Joe rested in the recliner with his feet up. His left arm was in a light sling, an enormous bandage wrapped around his hand. "This thing looks like the hand of King Tot," he complained.

"Is that any way for a hero to talk?" Frank asked. "You personally overcame the dreaded international terrorist who was about to spray the mall with bullets."

"Yeah, and you're the one who stopped him from blowing the mall up." Joe grinned. "I hear the Mall Association is talking about giving us a reward. Then we'll be rich as well as famous!" He had started waving his hands as he talked but suddenly stopped with a grimace.

"Are you okay?" Frank said.

"I just forgot and moved the wrong hand. That's why the doctors have me in this stupid sling. To keep it immobilized."

Frank smiled. "It makes you look very heroic. At least, that's what all those girls said who were kissing you."

Joe grinned back. "Yeah. Maybe I should wear an eye patch, too." He leaned back in his chair. "Well, tomorrow everything will be back to normal. Mom and Aunt Gertrude will come home."

"We should be glad Aunt Gertrude wasn't here." Frank gave his brother an amused look. "If she'd been cross-examining us, we'd never have convinced Dad of our story."

Working together, Frank and Joe had concocted a tale to explain their escape from federal custody and their discovery of Butler's double identity-without mentioning such things as the Network, British Intelligence, and trips to London.

Their father had also told them about his investigation-going underground, trying to get close to the people in the Brixton safe house, and ending with some nasty comments about the British for raiding the place and making him lose the Assassins. Frank and Joe had to hide smiles when they heard that.

"In a couple of days, the papers will find something new to write about, and people will forget all about us," Frank said. "It will be like nothing ever happened."

"Yeah," replied Joe, but his face clouded over. Frank knew what he was thinking about. One thing had happened that they would never forget. And because of it, they'd never see Iola again.

Frank looked at his brother's sad face, wishing he could say something to make him feel better. The telephone rang.

Frank hopped off the couch and grabbed the receiver. "Hardy residence," he said. His eyes grew big. Then he motioned to Joe to pick up the extension on the table.

The voice that came to their ears was weak but recognizable. "Well, I see you two finished my case-even though I was out of action," the Gray Man said. "Good work."

"Not so good," Frank replied, thinking about the terrible moments in the subbasement of the mall. "We didn't figure that Butler was Al-Rousasa until he pointed a gun at us."

"But then you defused his bomb and stopped his last-ditch attack," said the Gray Man. "It's a shame you couldn't have captured him. We'd have learned a lot. "

"We're lucky he didn't take me along on his fall," Joe said. "If Frank hadn't been around to stop it.”

"The newspaper accounts made no mention of ah, any organizations being involved," the Gray Man went on. "What?" said Joe "You're annoyed because you didn't get any publicity?"

"No, you handled that side of things just right," the government man replied.

"Even our father doesn't know exactly what happened," Frank said. "We managed to convince him it was a lucky investigation that brought us to the mall."

Joe broke in. "So, if you need a helping hand to - "

"Do research for us?" The Gray Man's tone showed that he didn't want to say any more, not on an open phone line. "That's a possibility. I thought you'd have decided that this was enough. "

They heard a female voice in the background. "Speaking of enough, sir, you've been on that phone far too long. You have to get your rest."

"My nurse," the Gray Man growled. "It's worse than a prison in here. But there's one more thing I want to say." "What's that?" asked Frank.

"Thanks, kid. I owe you one for saving me from that bomb. When I'm on my feet again, I'll give you a call. Maybe you can come down to New York for lunch."

Before Frank could say anything, he heard sounds of a scuffle over the transatlantic line. "I must insist, sir," the nurse said.

"Give me that back! If I could use both hands. . ." The Gray Man gave an exasperated snort. "At least let me say goodbye."

Frank and Joe grinned at each other as they made their farewells and hung up the phone. "So," Frank said, "we now have a friend in the government.” Joe's face was serious as he nodded.

"You really meant what you said about doing more business with him, didn't you?" asked Frank.

"This is more than just doing something for Iola," Joe said. "I realized it when that killer was falling." He looked at Frank. "As long as there are Assassins, there'll always be more Al-Rousasas.”

Frank stared at him. "So you're going to fight them single-handed?"

"No. Not single-handed," said Joe. "That's why I wanted a line to the government. And we've got that reward money coming. Enough to replace our car and get some good equipment." He paused. "And I hoped you would be in it, too." He gazed at his brother's face, frozen in thought. "Look, it's not like I want us to give up our usual cases. But there are bigger things going on these days and we could make a difference." "We?" said Frank.