Hardy Boys CasefIles - 07
Deathgame
By
Franklin W. Dixon
Chapter 1
"JOE, I CAN'T believe I let you talk me into this." Frank Hardy glared at his younger brother, Joe. Then his eyes went to the gun clenched in his own hand. "It's crazy and — "
"Keep it down, will you!" Even in a whisper, Joe Hardy's voice was sharp. He nodded toward the area beyond the thick bushes that concealed them. "One of the guys out there will hear you."
Frank peered into the early-evening dusk, trying to catch any trace of movement in the dark woods. The air was full of nighttime sounds: crickets, wind beating against the upper branches of the trees, the occasional buzz of a mosquito seeking blood.
Beyond the woods, the Hardys could hear waves battering the rocky cliffs at the Bayport inlet. Half-seen in the shadows, an overgrown path twisted serpent-fashion through the woods, past bushes and rocks.
Joe Hardy checked the load in his pistol. It was exactly like Frank's weapon. Satisfied, Joe cautiously closed the chamber and let his eyes scan the path.
He could see no movement. Still, he knew they were out there, waiting to close in for the kill.
In the shadows Joe could see his eighteen-year-old brother running a hand through his brown hair — a sure sign that Frank was nervous. Joe thought the whole thing was turning into a lot more than he had bargained for. Here it was, a warm Saturday night in July. Joe could have been at a movie, having fun. Instead, he was sweating in the woods, waiting to kill or be killed.
Joe's eyes went back to the trail. It was too dark to see. He'd have to rely on sounds: a snapped twig, leaves brushing against clothes. All he had to do was listen for that one out-of-place noise.
"Come on, Frank, this will be a piece of cake," Joe whispered, trying to reassure himself. "They don't realize who they're up against. We're practically professionals."
Like Joe, Frank was crouched behind a low bush. He stirred, irritated. "The reason we're so good is because I take nothing for granted. So be quiet. I want — "
He stopped as they both heard a loud snap.
"That's them!" Joe whispered tensely. He strained his eyes, staring toward a rise where the trail curled around a boulder covered with lichens. Joe saw something move near the rock. Could it have been just a branch or — no! A hand.
A hand holding a pistol. No mistake.
The hunter had pressed himself against the jagged rock at the rise in the trail. His body almost blended in perfectly with his cover. He seemed content to remain where he was.
"See him?" Joe murmured to Frank.
"I'm not blind," Frank whispered. "But where's his friend?"
Where was the hunter's partner? On the trail? Creeping up behind them? Joe's skin crawled at the thought of being shot in the back.
Rising from his cover, Joe dashed for the dense woods a few feet away.
Frank didn't question his brother's move. "I'll cover you," he whispered, raising the barrel of his gun.
Joe made his way through the trees, dropping behind his brother. Now to circle around, so I can come out onto the trail behind the hunter, Joe thought, ducking under branches. Every now and then he heard a suspicious noise, paused, and then moved on. The breeze was working for the enemy that night.
Joe eased out of the woods. He was closing in on the rock where his quarry was hiding. Only a few more steps, and he would be ready to nail him.
That was when he saw the second hunter. Like the first one, he was a large male dressed in black. And he had risen out of the underbrush only a few feet from Frank. Joe could see a glint of silver over the hunter's eyes. That meant he was wearing special night-vision goggles.
Joe had to do something to save Frank! But he was too far away for a clear shot. He thought of screaming to confuse the predator, but that would warn the hunter near the boulder; he'd shoot Joe dead in a second. Joe began to breathe faster, awaiting the inevitable.
Frank Hardy held his breath as he heard the telltale rustle of brush. Close. Too close. He squeezed the handle of his pistol. Could it be Joe? No, Frank had no idea where his brother was, but he did know he was being watched by hostile eyes. He must move, whatever the cost.
Frank dove backward toward the trail, branches whipping past his face. He heard Joe shout, "Frank!"
Almost immediately he heard a shot. Something ripped through the bushes where he had just been.
After Frank landed on the path, he came up into a crouch. Immediately, the person who had molded himself to the rock jumped out and rushed toward him, shooting as he ran. Someone else was moving rapidly through the trees in Frank's direction.
Frank whipped his pistol toward the first attacker, firing two quick shots. That ended the charge. The guy made an awkward about-face and scuttled back to the safety of his jagged rock. Another shot sounded from farther away. Joe. The unlucky attacker hugged the ground.
Frank felt safe for only a moment. The second attacker was gaining on him quickly, and Frank was an easy target on the path.
He leapt to his feet and started running through the woods toward the sound of the crashing surf. Once free of the woods, he could find a hiding place among the craggy cliffs and wait for his pursuers. He would have more of a chance against them there. He knew the terrain above the beach as well as anyone.
It took Frank two minutes of hard running before he came to a bank of huge boulders at the top of the Bayport cliffs that edged down to the Atlantic. Waves smashed onto the rocks far below him.
He knelt beside a boulder, looking toward the woods. Feathery clouds, pushed by the gathering wind, slid across a half-moon. He held his gun ready.
Frank was calm now. He could hear someone running through the woods. In a few seconds, whoever it was would come out into the open and be caught in his gunsight.
He sensed victory and waited eagerly for his pursuer.
"Hey, Frank Hardy. Guess what?" a voice asked sarcastically. Three feet behind Frank, the leader stood up. "You lose," he said coldly, and pulled the trigger of his gun.
Frank fell backward on the rocks.
The leader approached slowly, his gun still aimed at Frank's body. He pulled off the infrared goggles, checking his kill.
An indisputable kill, marked by a splash of shocking red spreading over Frank Hardy's chest, its center directly over his heart!
Chapter 2
JOE HARDY BURST from the woods, his pistol ready. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw Frank.
His brother lay on the rocks, a black-clad figure standing over him. A second figure came to a halt close to Joe and whirled, gun in hand.
Joe turned and snapped off a shot without even glancing to see where he had hit the guy. He was too busy bringing his gun to bear on the leader.
"Too late, Joe. It's all over."
The leader's gun had already covered Joe. The first pellet splattered against his gun hand. A second pellet burst against his knee, and the third hit dead center in his stomach. Three shots in as many seconds. There was red gel everywhere.
"How's that for fancy shooting?" The black-initials, B.H., glinted silver where they were inscribed near the edge of the octagonal lenses.
"Show-off!" Joe grumbled, dropping his gun.
"You can get up now, Frank," Biff said in a mocking tone.
Frank sat up, a disgusted look on his face. He ran a hand through the red goop on his chest.
"You're a real mess, Frank," Biff said, helping him to his feet.
"You said the paint in those pellets would wash out," Frank said, staring at the red goop on his hand. "If it doesn't come off, I'll be after you for real."
Tony Prito shook his head as he walked over to Joe. "Well, you got me, Joe, if it makes you feel any better," Tony s
aid. His fingers touched a red smear through his dark hair. He looked about as happy as Frank. With a shrug he headed back toward the woods.
Biff walked jauntily over to Joe. "Cheer up, Hardy. You took my challenge to a survival game and you lost. Too bad you were up against the master."
Throwing an arm around Joe, Biff patted his shoulder in an ironic gesture of comfort. "And don't sweat my telling everybody that I outdid you guys. I've got class. I know how to win."
"Oh, great," said Frank. He glared at Joe. "How'd I let you talk me into this stupid game?"
"Hey!" Biff protested. "It is not stupid. It's a sport that takes skill, patience, daring, and strategy! There are professional camps all over the country for it. And I bet I could turn up at any of them and come home a winner."
"Let's get back to where we parked the cars," Frank said curtly. He stopped for a second to scoop up some leaves to wipe his hands on.
Joe stopped beside Frank. "You just didn't take it seriously," he growled. "If you hadn't been complaining all the time, we'd have beaten them."
"Not a chance!" Biff said, laughing and twirling his gun in three quick flips.
Biff was blond and stood well over six feet. His wide shoulders looked as if they'd have trouble passing through a doorway. His chest was almost as wide, layered with muscles from working out. He was friendly, quick to smile, and usually easygoing. Only on the football field had Joe seen the tough competitiveness that lay beneath the nice-guy exterior.
At least, that was how he'd been before his new interest in survival games. Joe had to admit that that night Biff hadn't been playing like a nice guy. He'd better control that aggressive streak, Joe thought. It could get him into trouble.
Fenton Hardy always told his sons that analyzing personality was as important as gathering physical evidence in solving crimes. That was how he had become a top private investigator.
Joe liked to think that reading people was his specialty while high-tech information gathering was Frank's strong point. And watching the new Biff rang warning bells in Joe's head.
"You know, this game wasn't really on the level," Joe said as he started to trail after his brother into the woods.
"How do you figure that?" Biff asked.
"Well, you had those special night-vision goggles. They gave you an edge."
"I just call that being prepared," Biff said with a grin.
"You're overdoing it, Hooper." Joe shook his head.
Biff grabbed his arm. "Hey, Joe? Can you hold up a minute?"
Biff's voice was suddenly quiet. Joe turned around. "Everything okay?" he asked.
Biff unsnapped the pouch on his utility belt that held his initialed goggles. His eyes didn't meet Joe's. "I can't tell Frank this. You know how he is," Biff whispered. He looked vulnerable, anything but the tough victor of that night's survival game.
The other two were far ahead, walking through the dark to the road. Joe could hear them laughing. He stood patiently, listening to the waves break while Biff decided to tell him whatever was on his mind.
"See, I buy these survival game magazines," Biff began. "They have ads for seminars. You go someplace in the wilderness and play the game for two or three days. There's this one place that sounds really fantastic." "So?" Joe asked.
"So, it's called the Ultimo Survival Camp. It's kind of far away and expensive, but I think I'm going to go."
"Where is it, Australia?"
"Not that far. It's in Georgia. The nearest town is called Clayton," Biff said.
"How much does it cost?" Joe asked.
"Well, let's just say that I'll have to mow a lot of lawns when I get back to make my savings account healthy again," he said. "But how can you beat a survival camp at a place called Screamer Mountain?"
Joe realized that as Biff spoke, he was trying to convince himself that going to the camp would be okay.
"I'm sick of hanging around Bayport," Biff said abruptly. "You have your detective thing, so I thought you might understand. This is a chance to have some real adventure in my life." He grabbed Joe's arm. "I'm going tomorrow. I'll be back in three days."
"You aren't going to tell your parents, are you?" Joe asked, understanding at last.
"No, you're the only one who knows, and you've got to keep it a secret. I've told my mom and dad that I'm going to visit my aunt and uncle near Albany."
Joe shook his head. "I don't think this is a great idea, but I won't rat on you," he said. "Just be back in three days."
"Sure—I will." Biff sounded excited now, as if his plan seemed more real for having confided it. "Remember—don't tell Frank."
"I won't," Joe said. And they ran to catch up with the others.
***
"Do you know where he's gone?" demanded the voice over the phone. "It's been four days. We've tried everything. Please, if you know anything, you must help us."
Mrs. Hooper sounded as if she was close to hysteria. Joe Hardy felt a sick emptiness in his stomach. Something had happened to Biff at the Ultimo Survival Camp, and Biff's parents didn't have a clue as to where their son was.
"We thought he'd gone to my brother's place uPstate," Mrs. Hooper's voice shook. "That's what he told us, but — but he didn't. When he didn't come back in three days, we called — and he had never been there. This is turning into a nightmare."
Joe took a deep breath. "I think I may know where he is," he said simply. He told Mrs. Hooper everything Biff had confided in him— which he realized wasn't all that much.
***
Georgia in July was hot, very hot.
Joe and Frank sat on either side of Biff's father in the back of a black-and-white police car. Mr. Hooper was a tall, slender man, not given to showing emotion. He sat silently, dabbing at his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. Biff's mother sat in the front, her blond hair awry. She was silent, too.
Sheriff Kraft, from the town of Clayton, drove them over the dirt road that cut through the lush, low mountains. Periodically, he would try to start a conversation, without success. The air-conditioning in his car was broken, but he didn't seem to mind a bit.
Frank Hardy studied his brother's set face. Joe usually wasn't so quiet. He'd been like that once before—when Iola Morton, his girlfriend, had died in a car bombing. He feels guilty, Frank realized. He knows he should have tried to talk Biff out of going but he didn't.
Joe ignored the hot wind blowing in the window. What if he were responsible for the injury — maybe even the death—of Biff Hooper? Joe knew he couldn't live with himself until he found Biff— healthy and in one piece.
Sheriff Kraft pulled up to the outer perimeter of the Ultimo Survival Camp. Ahead was a mesh fence topped with heavy, rusted barbed wire. At a small guardhouse, a young man in camouflage fatigues stopped and asked for identification, and then waved them through.
"Was that a rifle on that young man's shoulder?" asked Mrs. Hooper.
Nobody answered. The M-16 on the kid's back was answer enough.
They drove past areas where instructors were drilling groups of teens in vigorous calisthenics. Beyond them, where gray stone cliffs thrust up, an instructor was demonstrating rappelling techniques.
Joe's attention was caught by a squat blockhouse half-hidden by a stand of maple trees. It looked like a military command center, built out of cinder blocks, with bars on the windows, a satellite dish in the yard, and an antenna poking out of the roof.
As the sheriff's car pulled up to the front of this building, a man stepped from the doorway.
"We've had no problems before this with the Ultimo Survival Camp," Sheriff Kraft said gently to Mr. Hooper. "But they do rough it out here, make no mistake about that. Do away with all the modern conveniences. Part of their appeal, I guess.
"Today, I couldn't personally get hold of Orville Brand, the guy who runs this place. There aren't any phones on the premises, and as you can see, they're pretty isolated out here. I sent my deputy ahead to tell them we were coming, though."
Let's get on w
ith it, Joe thought. He opened the back door and stepped out. Frank watched him, then glanced at Mr. Hooper.
As Joe walked around the back of the car, Sheriff Kraft opened his door. The man who had emerged from the building stopped near him. "Sheriff Kraft."
"That it is. Good to see you, Major Brand." Sheriff Kraft extended his hand, and the two men shook.
"And you, too," Brand answered with a slight smile. His hair was shaved to the scalp, which appeared white in contrast to his sun-weathered face. His skin seemed to be too tight over his face, a thin layer covering muscle and bone, so lean that it was almost skeletal. He had hard, high cheekbones and dark, deep-set eyes.
He walked briskly around the front of the car and opened the door for Mrs. Hooper before she could do it herself. He even bowed slightly.
"I'm sorry to hear of your trouble, Mrs. Hooper." Brand's voice sounded better suited to barking orders than to soothing people. "Whenever one of the boys in my outfit went missing — "
Joe stalked up to Brand and stopped in front of him, the door between them. "Thanks for your concern, but just tell us what's going on, will you?"
Brand was silent for a moment, staring at Joe. The skin over his face seemed to stretch almost to the breaking point. Large teeth showed behind his pencil-thin lips.
"I'll forgive your bad manners," Brand said.
He reached a hand into the car to help Mrs. Hooper out. "I am saddened to hear about your son. But, as I telegrammed, I checked our records thoroughly, and I even had the entire camp searched."
His dark eyes were unreadable as he paused to consider his next words.
"But nobody here," he announced, like a juror delivering a death sentence, "has ever seen or heard of anyone named Biff Hooper."
Chapter 3
THE EXTERIOR OF the Ultimo Survival Camp command center might look like a wartime bunker, but inside it was a startlingly modern office.
Fluorescent lighting made the big room shad-owless. Against one wall stood a series of computers, their screens glowing with green letters.
Deathgame Page 1