Deathgame (3 page)

Sand and dirt were spraying up everywhere as more and more guns joined in the firing. Mound after mound erupted with pop-up soldiers like a cardboard army of villainous jack-in-the-boxes. The roar of gunfire was continuous now. Bullets ricocheted off nearby rocks as Joe squirmed backward.

Too late, he realized where he was.

He was trapped in the middle of a target range—and he was the target!

JOE HARDY SWEPT the back of his hand across his stinging cheek. A thin smear of dirt and blood rubbed onto his hand. He was already moving, rolling toward the nearest scrub grass-covered hill. Got to get out of here. Grab some cover, he kept repeating to himself.

A new wave of gunshots smashed into the wooden figures. Bullets ripped through the dirt around him, even though he was clear of the clustered targets.

He kept rolling, his world shrunk to that little hillock. A near miss sent sand spraying into his eyes. The noise was deafening. Keep moving! he urged himself.

Joe heard shouting. It seemed very faint, under the staccato of gunfire. But he thought he recognized the voice — Brand's.

"Ceasefire! Ceasefire!" Brand yelled, charging from the tour group toward the firing line. "Live target on range!"

Only a few steps behind Brand, Frank Hardy raced toward the hill. They had reached the line of trainees now. The instructors had taken up the call of "Cease fire!"

But Frank still heard shots. He knocked a rifle from one kid's hands.

"Are you deaf?" he shouted furiously. "Can't you hear? You want to get somebody killed?"

"Killed? What?" the kid asked, looking down at the gun in confusion.

Brand strode off across the field. He shouted back to the counselors, "Secure all weapons from the trainees immediately. Make sure all weapons are unloaded."

The counselors quickly followed his orders.

"Sheriff, if you would kindly follow me!" Brand called without looking back.

Frank didn't wait for an invitation. He followed in Sheriff Kraft's footsteps.

Joe Hardy had continued to roll during Brand's cease-fire orders. That little hill has got to be near, he had thought, astonished that he hadn't been hit yet by a bullet.

Then he realized that something had changed. The thunder had stopped.

Joe was behind the tiny hill, flat on his back.

He lay gasping as if he had run a marathon, blinking his sand-filled eyes.

His vision slowly came back. The first thing he saw was a pair of combat boots striding toward him. Brand, Joe thought, shaking his head, trying to free his eyes of grit. I must be seeing things.

But Brand was still there, towering over him. Joe stared up into dark eyes raging with fury. Brand's leathery fingers were curled into fists, ready to strike. But then the major glanced over the hill and forced himself to relax.

He wanted to hit me. But not in front of witnesses! Joe thought.

Frank and Sheriff Kraft rounded the hill.

Brand spoke in a harsh, grating whisper. "Do you know you might have been killed?"

Shakily, Joe got to his feet. If he had to have it out with this man, he'd do it standing up.

"Sure, I figured that out right when I found out this wasn't the camp softball field. I didn't realize — "

"Didn't realize?" Brand fumed. He looked at Sheriff Kraft. "I swear to you, Sheriff, we have never had an accident like this in the entire history of our camp. This area is cordoned off with barbed wire and is clearly marked as restricted — no trespassing allowed!" Brand looked back at Joe accusingly. "But, then again, we usually have only mature young men here, not lunatics!"

"Say it!" Brand demanded. "Tell the sheriff. Admit that you saw the warning signs."

"I did," Joe said quietly.

"Then you purposely chose to disregard them. It isn't easy to get through that fence. You had to work at it to get yourself into such a dangerous situation. What could have possessed you?" Brand growled.

Joe glared at him in frustration. I could say that I was looking for Biff, but that would sound phony. Especially since Brand just saved my tail.

A counselor appeared beside Brand, removing his cap. He had wispy hair and on the right side of his scalp, a curved bald spot in the shape of a sickle. It was a scar from a very old wound — hair didn't grow over scar tissue.

"All the weapons have been emptied and locked up, sir," he reported.

"Thank you, Sergeant Collins," Brand said succinctly.

As Collins did an about-face in the sand and started to return to the firing line, Joe caught a glimpse of something attached to his utility belt. It hung from a strap and slapped against his thigh as he walked — a pair of goggles.

Dark rubber goggles with oddly shaped lenses.

Octagonal? Was that a suggestion of silver on the dark rubber?

Brand stepped in front of Joe, cutting off his sight line. "Come along."

Joe moved to try to get another look at Collins, but by then the counselor was too far in the distance. I want another look at those goggles, he thought. He remembered the aftermath of that wild survival game, how Biff had slapped his thigh with his night-vision lenses, how the silver initials had glinted.

Brand led them back toward the area where Mr. and Mrs. Hooper were still standing. He and the Sheriff were far enough ahead of the Hardys so that Joe could quickly tell Frank about the glasses on Collin's belt.

"I wanted to demand to see them," Joe said. "But how could I? Brand's already got everyone convinced that I'm a dangerous hothead."

"You gave him some help on that," Frank said, "blundering onto the target range."

In fact, Brand was already pouring it on as they arrived. "Fortunately, most of our charges here understand the dangerous nature of weapons," Brand was saying. "They know that rifles are not toys. And they follow the strict rules that are laid down for their own safety."

As they reached Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, Brand turned to Joe and attempted a smile. "I'm sorry if I was harsh with you," he said reasonably. "But you must understand that that was a foolish thing you did."

"It's a mistake I won't make again," Joe promised.

"Ah! I'm glad!" Brand said. He was really smiling now.

"We've taken up enough of your time," Sheriff Kraft said. "Thanks for being so understanding. You can see how concerned the Hoopers are."

"Certainly, Sheriff," Brand answered. "I only wish I could do more. Come, let me escort you back to the car." Brand walked off the firing line.

Mrs. Hooper stopped and looked up at Joe, her eyes bleak.

"Biff's not here." Her voice was hoarse. "I wish you hadn't been so certain we'd find him." Then she walked away blindly.

Frank and Joe both stared at her back, wishing there was something they could say.

"We'll find Biff," Frank called after her. "Whatever it takes."

"Very admirable."

Brand's voice startled the Hardys. They had not been aware that he had returned.

"I like a man who doesn't desert his friends," Brand said as Frank and Joe followed him down the slope in the direction of the command center.

They passed the blockhouse, then walked in silence to the police car. Before Joe climbed into the backseat, he stopped and looked back at Brand. He knew it wouldn't be the last time he'd tangle with that guy.

If those were Biff's goggles, Joe told himself, then Brand knows Biff was here. And if Biff is or was here and then disappeared — well, then it looks like this place isn't all fun and games!

"That was a real interesting tour," Sheriff Kraft said. "Much obliged."

"Feel free to drop by again," said Brand as one professional to another.

"Hey, maybe you'll see me again, too," Joe said blandly.

"I'll look forward to it," Brand replied.

Both meant more than they were saying. Under their words was a promise—and a threat.

For a long moment, Joe met Brand's hard, cold stare. So this guy teaches people how to survive, he thought. The only question is, how well did Biff learn his lessons?

"I'M NOT ARGUING with you, Joe," Frank Hardy said, sitting on one of the beds in their hotel room. He did not look up at his brother, who was pacing furiously. Instead, he tapped the Access key on his lap computer.

"Well, then, you're not agreeing enough," Joe countered, stopping at the one window in the room.

It was only nine-thirty that night, but the whole town of Clayton had shut down. There were neither cars on the street nor people on the sidewalks. Joe noticed a black van parked just beyond the glow of light thrown by the nearest street lamp.

Frank tapped GRUNTS and then, ACCESS TO ROSTER FILE on the keyboard. "I know you feel responsible for Biff's disappearance." He was speaking almost absently as he worked on the computer. A grim smile appeared on his face as the first roster sheet of the Ultimo Survival Course appeared.

"I guess I am acting a little crazy over it." Joe turned away from the window, leaning against the frame. "Mrs. Hooper kept laying a guilt trip on me, all the way back to the airport." He sighed. "Then, as she was boarding the plane, she asked me to forgive her. Said she was so worried about Biff that she didn't know what she was saying."

"And?" Frank asked, continuing to type. He started noting down the home phone numbers beside each trainee's name.

Joe slammed a fist into his open palm. "It just made me feel worse! I don't know what's going on here, but I'm not leaving until we've found Biff! If he didn't want to go to the Ultimo Survival Camp, why did he make such a big deal out of telling me?" He whirled toward Frank. "I tell you, Brand is covering up Biff's disappearance!"

Frank looked up from the computer. "Okay. Nice theory. The only problem is, why? What reason could the camp have for kidnapping Biff? We've seen for ourselves that they're a legitimate business with a high safety record. Sheriff Kraft vouched for that, even though he admitted he wasn't thrilled to have a place like it operating in his jurisdiction."

Frank disconnected the computer from the phone between their two beds and began dialing a number.

"Who are you calling?" Joe asked. "I don't think they have takeout pizza service around here after the sun goes down."

Frank kept dialing, but he looked at Joe and grinned, "While you were busy getting Major Brand good and riled, I learned how to break into the camp's computer system."

He put the phone to his ear, listened to ringing on the other end. "Now, I thought we'd talk with these supposedly satisfied customers. You know, check if any other parents had kids who never returned. Let's see if they really do give a product endorsement."

Joe jumped up in the air, making a victory gesture with his fist. "Frank! You're a genius!"

After the first three calls, Joe stopped listening. He slumped on the bed. None of the attendees had disappeared. They vouched for the camp like actors in a television commercial.

Joe thrust himself off the bed, stalking back to the window. The street was still quiet. The black van was still parked just beyond the circle of light.

Frank hung up the phone with a clatter. "Well, that idea's a bust."

Joe spun around from the window, excitement lighting his blue eyes. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!"

"Uh - oh," said Frank. "The great brain is at work."

Joe ignored the crack. "Sheriff Kraft told us about the investigation he did. But I just thought of something he didn't do."

Frank turned off his computer. "Such as?"

"The police checked flights into the airport to see if anyone had noted Biff's arrival."

"Right. Sheriff Kraft told us that," Frank admitted with a shrug. "So what?"

"So, Biff didn't have a lot of money. What if he came in by another route? Suppose he came in by ] bus?" Joe grabbed Frank's arm and yanked him off the bed. "Come on! I know you'll want to see the nighttime hustle and bustle of the Clayton, Georgia, bus terminal."

Joe approached a ticket window and started to describe Biff. Almost before he began, the clerk interrupted him.

"Sure, sure," he said, sounding grateful for ' anything that might enliven the humid night. There were only a handful of people in the terminal, and most of them were sleeping on benches. "I saw that boy, right here."

"You did!" Frank exclaimed incredulously.

"Yeah! Except I didn't see him arriving. Saw him leave about a half hour ago."

Joe scarcely dared to breathe. "Half an hour ago!"

"Sure enough. He bought a ticket for Fayetteville."

Frank looked at Joe, puzzled. "Why would Biff want to go to Fayetteville?"

"You got me," the ticket clerk said, shrugging. "But customers don't have to tell why they're going where they're going. Long as they pay the fare, they can go any doggone place they want."

"Come on." Joe grabbed his brother's arm. "We'll find out when we've caught up with him."

It took them another hour to catch up with the Fayetteville bus.

Frank was at the wheel of the rental car, a worn sedan with sloppy alignment and virtually no pickup. "This crate was not built for speed," he said as they jarred against a rut. "Especially on a road like this."

The bus did not go on the interstates. Instead, it took dark, back country roads that twisted maddeningly through the hills and pine forests.

It was not a route to drive blind. But that was what Frank was doing, sometimes going into wild tire-screaming skids as they navigated lethal hairpin turns in the middle of nowhere.

"How about staying on the road?" Joe asked, unable to resist needling his brother.

"Why don't you — " Frank stopped and concentrated on avoiding a tree. "This stupid wheel keeps pulling to the right." He breathed a sigh of relief when their high beams finally picked up the rear of the bus.

Joe stared intently through the bug-splattered windshield of the car.

"Pull up alongside. Maybe we can get a glimpse of him."

"Lots of luck," Frank muttered, shaking his head.

"Just do it, will you? How else can I see if Biff is in there?"

Frank swung the car to the left and stepped on the gas. The road veered, but at least there were no lights coming toward them. The rental car inched up beside the bus.