Dead on Target (4 page)

A sideswipe sent their car fishtailing down the road as the Gray Man fought the wheel. They'd turned almost halfway around before he was back in control.

Meanwhile, the van shrieked around in another U-turn, coming for them again.

"They'll catch us broadside!" Frank yelled.

The Gray Man twisted the wheel and tromped hard on the accelerator. Squealing tires left long rubber tracks on the road as the car whirled around and peeled out.

But the van was too close to escape. It smashed into the rear of the car, sending everyone lurching. Twice more it approached and rammed, coming close enough to give the Hardys a clear view of the driver. Although his face was masked, they could see the fanatical gleam in his eyes.

He was joined by a second figure, the machine gunner from the rear of the van. He leaned out the side window, firing the Uzi one-handed. The burst wasn't accurate; he was merely hosing the car with bullets.

"They can't hurt us with that," said the Gray Man, flinching as a stream of slugs smacked into the windows. "But they certainly are distracting.”

Now the van pulled abreast of the car, trying to force it off the road. The car bounced to the shoulder, throwing out a stream of gravel as its tires howled in protest. For a second it was off the road completely. Then the Gray Man pulled it back onto the pavement-only to find the van had turned again and was coming at them head-on!

"It's like a game of chicken," Joe muttered as he watched the now dented front end of the van loom closer. "Only this guy isn't going to back off.”

The van ate up the distance between them as the Gray Man tried desperate evasive maneuvers. He headed left, but the van drifted into his path. He aimed right, but the van moved to intercept again.

Faking left, then right, the Gray Man pushed the pedal to the floor. The car shot forward, swerving left yet again. For one horrible instant the van loomed before them, then they were past it, but they still took a glancing blow that left the car teetering on two wheels. For a second it hung there, about to flip over; then it bounced back to the road with a bone-jarring impact.

"I've had just about enough of this," the Gray Man said through gritted teeth, reaching for something mounted under the dashboard. His hand returned with a Browning automatic pistol. "Can either of you handle this?"

Joe took the heavy gun, hefting it. "Dad always makes us practice on the firing range," he said. "I'm the better shot."

He looked at the Gray Man. "But do you think it's a good idea to open a window with that Uzi out there?"

"No need." The Gray Man's fingers flicked over the dashboard, and a whirring noise filled the car. Joe turned to see a thin slit appearing in the rear windshield. "Gunport," the government man explained. Joe already had the pistol out, tracking the van. One shot, and a star-shaped set of cracks appeared in the windshield between driver and passenger. "Uh, Joe, we'd like them alive for questioning, if possible," said the Gray Man.

"Okay." But his second shot missed completely as the van swerved violently. The third went into the body of the van.

"I think you'll have a hard time knocking the engine out," the Gray Man said.

The gunner in the van slammed a new clip into his Uzi and sprayed the rear windshield, trying to hit the gun port.

Frank held his breath as bullets splattered closer and closer to the open slit. But Joe remained absolutely calm, taking his time as he aimed.

"How about this?" he said, squeezing the trigger.

The right front tire of the van exploded as his bullet hit home. While the driver struggled frantically, the van went into an uncontrollable skid across the road, onto the gravel shoulder, then tumbling onto its side in an empty field.

Joe handed the Browning back, smiling grimly. "Two down."

Frank's face was thoughtful as he looked at the overturned van. "I wonder how many more there'll be."

"I wonder what we're going to do about those two guys out there," Joe said. "I don't think they're going anywhere. But I wouldn't like the idea of having to face that machine gun."

The Gray Man was already on the car phone. "I'll pass the warning on to our backup. They can take care of it," he said. "They'll also clear everything with the local police."

"Speaking of the local police," Frank said, "you've got something else to clear-us. The police seem to think we're prime suspects in Iola's death." He went over their interrogation by Inspector Butler. "He doesn't want us to leave town, so he may get a little upset if he hears we've disappeared." Frank smiled. "Not that I'm against the idea of upsetting him."

"Everything will be straightened out," the Gray Man said. "We can take care of it."

They turned off the Interstate at the next exit. Moments later, they were driving through the tall trees and old-fashioned houses of the Hardys' neighborhood. Although Frank and Joe's house looked empty, the Gray Man went in with them, holding on to the Browning in his raincoat pocket. "All clear," he said after checking out the house. "My people will be here in a few minutes. Don't let anyone in unless they mention my code name. " “‘The Gray Man sent me,' " Frank said.

As soon as the government man had left, Joe turned to his brother. "You're not really gonna sit around here and let his friends take us to-Carolina, are you?"

"I didn't say that," Frank said, beading into the den. "I only promised not to open the door to strangers, like any good five-year-old would do."

"So what are you doing hanging around?" Joe asked as his brother warmed up the family computer. "We've got to get out of here."

"We need a place to go, first," Frank answered, putting the modem on-line. "And from what the Gray Man said that place is London." "What?" cried Joe.

"We don't have any clues here, and if we want to stay in Bayport, we'll have to hide." Frank looked up at Joe as his fingers danced over the computer keyboard. "That's not the best way to run an investigation. . . . Ah!" “‘Ah’ what?" Joe asked.

"I'm in the airport reservations computer. It's not easy getting in, but a friend of mine showed me how."

Joe stared. "I thought you hated hacking!" "This time it's for a good cause." Frank hit more keys. "There's only one direct flight to London in the next few hours, and here's the passenger list." He scanned the screen. "What a surprise. Mr. Arthur Gray." His fingers resumed dancing all over the keyboard. "Frank, what are you doing?" "Entering our reservations and selecting our seats. You'd better dig out our passports."

Joe was still staring. "But how are we going to pay for all this?"

Frank got up from the computer. "Plastic. Dad gave us credit cards to cover unforeseen contingencies. Well, what do you call this?"

"But London. . ."

"I made it as cheap as possible," Frank said, heading for the door. "We're only booked one-way." He stopped in the doorway, grinning at Joe. "Well, come on, pack a bag. We've got to get out of here."

Shortly afterward, the Hardys stood at the airport security checkpoint. They'd picked up their tickets, and their bags had already been X-rayed. But a delay developed when an elderly couple-a man pushing a woman in a wheelchair-approached the metal detector gate.

"Now what do they do about that?" Joe asked.

"The metal in the chair will set the alarm off."

He watched as the airport security people wheeled the old woman off to the side. "Look at that," he said, fascinated. "They're frisking her!"

The security officers were thorough, even checking the pillow on the seat of the wheelchair for contraband. "Well, I guess she's okay," Joe said.

"Yeah, she wasn't sitting on a shotgun or any thing," Frank responded in a solemn voice. Joe laughed. "Quiet. Now let's see what happens to the lady's escort."

"Me?" the elderly man said to the guards. "I'm only seeing Martha onto the plane."

Frank grinned as the security people waved him past the gate. "I think we've just learned an important lesson here, Joe. If you want to smuggle something into an airport, carry it yourself while pushing a wheelchair."

They walked through the detector and rushed for their departure gate. The boarding announcement for their flight was already being broadcast over the airport loudspeakers. They reached the gate and found the old woman being wheeled aboard the plane ahead of everyone else.

What do you know? Old Martha is heading for London! Frank thought. He followed the flow of people into the gate and noticed that the old man (her husband?) was being allowed to accompany his wife onto the plane. Frank shrugged and filed after Joe.

As he entered the plane, he saw Martha being seated by the old gentleman in the very first seats of the cabin, just behind the cockpit door. Then Frank and his brother reached the seats Frank had reserved-right beside the Gray Man.

Frank thought the government agent was going to have a stroke when he saw them. "You two!" he sputtered.

"We thought you'd like the company," Joe said.

"And London is so beautiful this time of year," Frank added. "So much nicer than Carolina."

"You two are trouble," the Gray Man growled as the boys sat down. "I had to pull about fifteen kinds of rank on that police inspector investigating your case, and you turn around and do this." He turned away, buckling his seat belt as the takeoff announcement came.

Frank and Joe settled into their seats. But as he sat down Frank noticed that the old man was still on the plane, in the seat beside Martha.

Why did that guy lie about getting off the plane? Frank wondered. Then he stiffened as a thought hit him. He was never searched for weapons. He could be carrying anything!

THE JET'S ENGINES worked their way from a high-pitched whine to a dull rumble.

"Hey, c'mon," Joe said, breaking into Frank's thoughts. "Buckle up. We're almost on the runway." He hunched his shoulders in annoyance. "I don't know why you stuck me in the middle seat.”

The Gray Man glared at him. "I was here first, and I didn't invite you. That's why I get the window seat."

"And I'm the older brother," Frank said, clicking his seat belt together. "That's why I get the seat on the aisle." "I had to ask," Joe grumbled.

"I'll ask you something." Frank lowered his voice, staring suspiciously toward the front of the cabin. "Notice anybody else on the plane?"

"The old lady?" Joe said, leaning back as the plane began taxiing down the runway.

"The old guy is with her." Joe stiffened. "He was supposed to get off," he whispered. Frank nodded. "That's why I want the aisle seat.”

The force of the plane's takeoff pushed the Hardy boys back in their seats. "It's probably just a coincidence or some kind of misunderstanding," Joe insisted in a whisper. "Yeah." But Frank kept his eyes on the cockpit door-and on the seats right in front of it.

The takeoff was routine, and soon they were at cruising altitude high above the Atlantic. Over the intercom came the voice of a stewardess. "Passengers may now leave their seats if they desire.”

The first passenger out of his seat was Martha's elderly friend. He shuffled back to the restroom with an embarrassed smile.

Joe saw that while Frank seemed to take no notice of the man, his fingers were on the buckle of his seat belt, ready to release himself in an instant if necessary.

"I think you're getting a little paranoid over all this business," Joe whispered after the man had entered the lavatory. "The poor guy's just going to the john. Do you really think that old geezer and his lady friend are going to try anything? You must be crazy."

The door to the restroom swung open with a bang. Standing in the doorway was the old man, but somehow he'd washed sixty years off his face. His clothes hung baggily around him. Joe gasped. In the man's left hand was an aerosol can-Mace. But gripped in his right was a hand grenade. At least he hasn't pulled the firing pin, Joe thought.

"Stay in your seats, and no one gets hurt!" the man commanded as he ran up the aisle. Too late, Joe realized that he spoke with a slight but detectable accent. "We're taking control of this plane in the name of the Assassins."

Frank burst from his seat, snapping a karate blow at the hijacker. It connected with his right wrist, paralyzing the hand. The grenade flew from nerveless fingers.

But the hijacker's other hand was operating fine. It sent a spray of Mace into Frank's face. The acrid stench of the chemical filled the air as Frank involuntarily backed away. He was choking and reeled in sudden blindness.

"Now you pay." The hijacker's voice was venomous as he prepared to club the helpless Frank.

But Joe had snapped open his seat belt. He barreled out of his row and crashed into the guy. They staggered across the aisle, crashing against the seat on the other side. Joe's hand clamped over the top of the spray can. He didn't want the Mace in his face. He could hear sputtering sounds from the spray nozzle as the contents of the can squirted into the palm of his hand. Even there, the chemicals burned his skin. Still worse, they made his hand slippery. He was losing his grip!

The hijacker twisted Joe's hand-and the can-free. Joe had just one move to make. Bracing one foot behind the man's ankle, he propelled them both into the laps of the people on the seat. At the same moment, he shoved his own chemical-covered hand straight into the terrorist's eyes.

The man tried to raise the spray can again, but the people in the seats had overcome their surprise and grabbed the man's arms. Still, he was able to release a cloud of the chemical as he thrashed about wildly.

But the Mace worked against him, too, as Joe kept his soaked hand over the man's face. The hijacker bucked and tore his face free, which was the opening Joe had been waiting for. As soon as the man had blindly twisted out of his grip, Joe's other hand drew back, cocked in a fist, and homed in for the point of the guy's jaw.

Frank, meanwhile, couldn't tell what was happening. He stumbled along the aisle, coughing. Tears ran down his cheeks, the effects of the chemical sprayed into his eyes. His brother's battle was a painful blur-until he felt a body brush past him.