Deathgame (5 page)

"I'm here to tell you there's nothing further from the truth."

Joe glanced at Frank.

"I have a plan in mind," Joe said hesitantly, and climbed out of the car. Frank joined him.

"Well, now's not the time to keep it to yourself, Joe," said the sheriff. "I think we've decided we're on the same side. You know, I don't like having an armed camp right in the middle of my jurisdiction." He stared down at Joe.

"I want to find a way to get into that camp undercover," Joe said fiercely. "See what we can find out if our good buddy Orville Brand doesn't know we're around."

"Well, I don't rightly know how you'd go about doing that," Sheriff Kraft said, rubbing his chin. "But if you did figure out a way, and you did find some concrete evidence of wrongdoing, something 1 could take to a judge and get a search warrant for, I'd move right in."

"Just one problem — I haven't figured out how to get in," Joe said.

Sheriff Kraft said quietly, "Well, I hope you do, and I hope you find your friend."

Joe stared straight into Sheriff Kraft's eyes. "So do I. But—I'm not so sure anymore."

"What do you mean?" Sheriff Kraft questioned.

Smoke drifted past.

"If it was Brand who tried to kill us — well, I don't think he's trying to hide Biff anymore." Joe shuddered slightly. "He's trying too hard to stop any investigation. There's something bigger at work here — much bigger." He turned to Frank and said what had been on his mind all along. "Maybe their training got a little too rough—and Biffdidn't make it!"

FRANK AND JOE HARDY stood at attention in the early-morning mist, risking the threat of discovery. They both had on fake eyebrows and thin mustaches, and Joe sported a false gold front tooth.

It was just after six in the morning, and they were surrounded by Ultimo Survival Camp trainees. Sergeant Collins, the counselor with the sickle-shaped scar on his head, stood at the front of the group. He had a clipboard with a roster sheet attached in the crook of his right arm. He was taking roll call.

Collins had not yet shouted the names Fred and Jim Cassidy. Sheriff Kraft had suggested the names to Frank and Joe, and Joe hoped desperately that the names were on the sheet. If not, he and Frank would quickly be discovered and turned over to Brand.

"Atwood, E.," Collins read off the clipboard. The name echoed faintly. "Here!"

It was the second morning after the explosion. Frank had figured out how to get them inside the camp compound without going through regular entrance procedures. They would never have slipped past Brand.

Using the Ultimo Survival Course's computer access code, Frank had broken into the camp's system and added the pair of fake names to Collins's squad. This tactic, he hoped, would allow them to bypass the command center—and Orville Brand.

"Bartlett, K.!" Collins called.

"Here, sir!"

In the middle of the night Sheriff Kraft had dropped them off in a wooded area on the edge of the Ultimo property. He had driven away before they began their efforts to sneak through the outer perimeter fences. No one could say he was a witness to illegal trespass.

"Brown, R.!"

"Right over here!"

" 'Here' or 'Present' will suffice," Collins said as a rebuke.

They had made their way through thick woods until they reached the base of the mountain. Just before dawn broke, they had hidden themselves in the crawl space under the barracks that housed Collins's troops. When reveille sounded and everyone clomped out of the barracks and down the steps to form a squad, Frank and Joe — now Fred and Jim—had stepped out nonchalantly from under the raised section and joined the ranks.

Now Collins was shouting names, but still he had not reached theirs. Joe wondered if Frank had truly managed to bypass the command center and gotten their names entered on the computer roster lists.

"Cassidy, F.!" Collins read.

"Here!" Frank called smartly.

Joe exulted. They had done it! Success!

They're trying to kill us, Frank thought, nearing the end of the morning's five-mile run. This had followed a set of a hundred chin-ups and endless sets of push-ups. The sun had not yet climbed above the mountains. There was still mist rising from the ground. And he was sweating. His lungs were laboring. His legs ached. No wonder they call this the Ultimo Survival Camp. It's a major accomplishment if you survive, he told himself.

Joe was relieved to get on the obstacle course. Ordinarily, climbing over fences and crawling through mud would not have been comforting. But at least he had managed to escape the mess hall, where they served the most disgusting scrambled eggs he had ever tasted.

If that hadn't been enough to make him lose his appetite, Brand had strolled around the long breakfast tables. Both Joe and Frank had kept their heads bowed whenever he came anywhere near their table.

Collins had sat at the head of their table. He still had the pair of goggles at his waist that looked an awful lot like the ones Biff wore, but Joe would have to see the initials B.H. to be absolutely sure.

That was easier said than done. Collins treated his squad like a bunch of green recruits in boot camp; he kept his distance. Joe had seen rocks that were friendlier.

Now, as the squad approached the obstacle course, Joe drew abreast of Collins. "Uh, sir," he began.

Ignoring him, Collins spun about and ordered all the trainees to leave their personal belongings on a table nearby. Joe stared down at the goggles dangling at thigh level. Collins caught him.

"Something wrong with your ears?" he asked suspiciously. "And what are you staring at?"

"I was wondering where I could get a utility belt like the one you have," Joe replied.

"Let's just see if you can get through the course like a man," Collins snarled, "before you start thinking about dressing like one."

Joe positioned himself to begin the course. To his right, on a long table, were the trainees' personal belongings: watches, neck chains, hunting knives.

"Get going!" Collins ordered Joe.

Joe began the rigorous course. He hurdled fences, pulled himself across a rope strung over a huge, muddy pit, then crawled through a shallow ditch topped with barbed wire. But when he was at the top rung of a wooden barrier, he paused, looking back at the beginning.

Well, what do you know about that? Joe thought. Their drill instructor was going through the items left on the table. Collins was ripping off the trainees!

When he finished the course, Joe stretched out on the ground, exhausted. After about five minutes, one of the trainees ran up to Collins, an angry look on his face.

"My watch is missing!" the trainee complained.

Collins's right forefinger traced the livid white scar in his hair. "What's the matter, Bartlett? Can't keep track of your stuff? What do you think I am, your personal watchdog? You're responsible for keeping an eye on your own equipment, I just make sure you don't wreck it going through the course."

Collins gestured at the trainees who were recovering from the course. "Better check your buddies. One of them's not trustworthy."

Frank Hardy decided to skip the lunch of creamed chipped beef on soggy white bread. He managed to find himself a good hiding place in the maple trees that stood not far from the command center from which he could observe. There was a truck pulled up near the front door, and men and women in fatigues were carrying out record files and handing them up to others stationed in the back of the truck.

What were they doing? Packing up? Getting ready to abandon the camp?

It can't be! Frank told himself. He and Joe weren't on to anything yet that was of real danger to Brand's crew.

He heard a snap behind him. Someone was approaching through the trees nearby! Frank peered cautiously behind him. It was Brand, walking in his direction!

His mind raced. Should he sneak away? No. Any movement would catch Brand's eye. Frank would have to lie low. He tried not to think of what would happen to him if Brand tripped over him.

Brand did walk by, only six inches away.

Frank wished he'd gone in to eat the creamed chipped beef. But then he got a break. He could not hear Brand's words when the man stopped by the back of the truck, but he obviously ordered the people down and back into the center. Within moments the truck was clear.

Frank ran to the back of the truck, and went through the first batch of files he came to. He pulled one out at random and studied it.

The papers inside were mainly letters between the Ultimo Survival Camp and General Issimo Manuel Strosser, the merciless dictator of San Marcos. The papers outlined a business deal in which the camp would provide mercenary troops for the dictator.

Hardly able to believe what he had found, Frank continued to scan the page. But he came to an abrupt stop when he read the bottom line — the fee for those fully trained troops: one million dollars!

If Biff had discovered this, and if he'd been caught ... Frank couldn't stop the thought. It would certainly be a strong motive for getting rid of Biff—permanently!

Later that day Joe Hardy, a.k.a. Jim Cassidy, was in trouble! Collins saw it at once. He had been showing the greenhorns, as he liked to call them, how to climb up a mountainside. He had a headache and would rather not have been teaching wimps how to rappel. Only the dark-skinned one — what was his name, the kid over to his right, Fred Cassidy—had any talent for climbing and descent.

The brother, Jim Cassidy, was directly above Collins right then, only ten feet farther up the uneven rocky surface. Collins remembered how this blond kid had been staring at him just before the obstacle course. He could have sworn he had been watching him—as if he knew that Collins was about to check the contents of the trainees' table to see if they'd left him any little treats worth taking.

From where Collins hung from his rope, feet planted firmly against the side of the mountain, he could easily see the blond kid. Jim Cassidy had stopped on a narrow ridge covered with mountain laurel.

When Jim grabbed a handful of dark green branches in an attempt to gain some leverage, Collins knew there was trouble!

The roots pulled loose from the ledge. Specks of dirt splattered across Collins's face as Jim Cassidy's boots scraped against rock. His hands searched wildly for some kind of hold. He didn't find one. He fell backward, and now, like the dirt, he was hurtling downward!

Collins stared in disbelief as the kid's body grew rapidly larger.

He could only think one thought: This kid is going to get himself smashed to a pulp!

JOE HAD NOT counted on Collins letting him fall.

The way Joe had it planned, Collins would reach out, like the seasoned mountaineer he was supposed to be, and snatch him from the long, bumpy descent to broken limbs or death! Collins, the hero of the day, with theft as a sideline. And then Joe could get a good look at those goggles dangling from Collins's waist.

The only problem was that Collins was not going to grab him. Collins had frozen in the clutch!

Joe scraped against the gray rock, hitting his thigh hard. That's going to leave one wicked bruise, he thought.

Joe twisted his body violently, one hand holding tight to the rope lashed about him.

Well, if Collins wouldn't reach out to grab him, he would swing himself toward Collins and grab onto him!

He banged across the side of the mountain in a long swing that carried him down and to the left. He crashed right into Collins, who had thrust out his arms as if to stop him. As Joe's body slammed into Collins's stiffened fingers, the instructor's eyes went wide with pain. Joe wrapped his arms tightly around Collins's neck, as if he were afraid.

Don't put on the frightened pupil bit too thick, he silently warned himself.

The two of them swayed from Collins's an-chored rope. Collins ripped Joe's arms from around his neck and shoved them up against the mountainside.

"Find a handhold there!" he shouted. "What are you trying to do, get us both killed?"

Collins pushed himself out from the cliff edge, holding onto his rope, and rappelled down from Joe a couple of feet. Joe could barely stop himself from screaming in anger. He still hadn't managed to get a clear look at the dark goggles.

"You take it nice and easy," Collins called to Joe, "and get yourself down to the bottom. And don't do any more stupid things like grabbing onto vegetation without having your rope secured."

Frank swung expertly over to Joe's side. Joe saw dread in Frank's brown eyes.

Oh, no, Joe thought. He really thought I was falling.

"You okay?" Frank asked tensely.

"Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," he whispered. "It didn't work out as I planned."

"You were almost killed twice in the last two days, and when I saw you falling, all I could think about was how people say things happen in threes." Frank also kept his voice to a whisper, but Joe could read his worry and anger.

"It was a spur-of-the-moment idea," Joe whispered.

"I hate your spur-of-the-moment ideas!" Frank hissed back.

Joe shrugged. "Sometimes I'm not too crazy about them myself."

Joe climbed cautiously down. Collins gave him a wide berth.

One of the trainees called over to Joe, "Hey, what happened up there? You slip on a banana peel?"

The other trainees, clinging like awkward spiders to the side of the cliff, laughed. Trainee Brown laughed so hard that his feet slipped and he was left dangling from his rope, which fortunately was secured. He stopped laughing.

As Joe passed by Collins on his way down he tried to get a clear view of the goggles, but they were hidden by Collins's leg. He could only see the tops of them. They were certainly similar to the ones Biff had had.

"Cassidy," Collins snapped. "The point of this camp is survival. You want to pull stunts, pull them at home — I shouldn't have to nursemaid you." He scowled. "Know what would have happened to me if you'd fallen?"

"I can't imagine," Joe answered, stopping his descent for a moment. "I was thinking about what would have happened to me."