Dead on Target

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "Ouch!" Frank croaked, yanking his fingers away. "It's hot!"

  Using a piece of torn jacket to protect his hands, Frank pulled the door free. "Now! Up!" he said.

  They rushed up the stairs, then onto the Food Floor. The cavernous black pit they'd crossed the night before was flooded with light, packed with people, and full of noise. The rally had started!

  "How will we ever get through?" Callie said. "I'll show you," Joe said, ramming his way into the crowd.

  Some people gave them angry looks as the Hardys and their friends shoved them aside. Many more gave way nervously at the sight of five dirty, tired-looking kids in rumpled clothes.

  At last they reached the police barricades and climbed right over. "Hey, you little punks!" Officer Con Riley froze in surprise. "Joe? Frank?"

  "Let us pass, Con," Joe said, darting around him. "This is an urgent message." He turned to the podium and stared. It was empty.

  Then a lane opened in the crowd on the opposite side of the floor. People began chanting "WALKER, WALKER!" "Looks like the candidate was delayed," Frank said.

  Waving from the middle of a police escort was Philip Walker, accompanied by Fenton Hardy. And hustling them along, with frequent worried glances at his watch, was Al-Rousasa, alias Inspector S. Butler.

  "STOP THAT MAN!" Joe yelled, pointing at Butler. He, Frank, and the others rushed around the podium.

  Butler stared at the charging kids with an expression of complete shock on his face. He whirled to face Philip Walker-and found Fenton Hardy standing in his way.

  Joe almost reached him, but the terrorist dived through his own astonished police escort and disappeared into the crowd. The surprised cops tackled the kids, wrestling them to the floor. The crowd began to scream as they watched what seemed to be a terrorist attack.

  But over all the noise came the furious voice of Fenton Hardy. "Frank! Joe! Why are you here?" His eyes widened as he took in their condition. .. And what are you doing?"

  Joe tore loose from the policeman who was sitting on him and pointed into the crowd. "Watch out for Butler." "The cop?" Fenton Hardy asked. "He's no cop,'" Frank shouted. "He's an Assassin!"

  Fenton Hardy's lean face tightened as he realized what Frank had said. "You're saying he's one of the Assassins? Where did you learn about them? And why are you still in Bayport?"

  "We stayed to investigate Iola's murder, Dad. Butler is the one who did it, except he's really called Al-Rousasa, and he's got a hundred pounds of plastic explosive set under that podium. " Fenton Hardy looked more appalled than shocked. "The Bullet!" he exclaimed. Immediately, he called Con Riley over. "I want half of this detail to stick to the candidate like glue. The other half is to come with us."

  "Hardy! What's going on here?" Philip Walker's deep, penetrating voice went perfectly with his appearance. His long dark hair, with just a trace of silver in it, was brushed straight back, and his square chin showed a deep cleft. He was the perfect Hollywood casting for a senator-and maybe for president.

  At that moment, though, his famous smile was turned off. "Who are these people?" He glared at Frank and Joe as they were introduced to him. "Your sons! I thought they were coming out to kill me!"

  "Someone else is trying to do that," Frank said. "Come with us and see."

  Down in the subbasement, Walker's face went as gray as the plastique when he saw the bomb at the top of the pillar.

  "The police bomb squad will be here any minute to remove this," Fenton Hardy said. "They're also putting out an all-points bulletin for Butler."

  The politician was still shaken. "The man in charge of police security was trying to kill me? It's hard to believe." He looked at Frank and Joe. "I owe you boys an apology." "Under the circumstances, I'd say it's best to cancel the rally," Fenton Hardy went on. "At least we won't have to evacuate all those people."

  "Cancel?" Walker looked up. "We can't do that. "

  Fenton Hardy stared at him. "Sir, you've nearly been assassinated. Don't you see-"

  "No, you don't see. If I don't go through with the rally, it will be political suicide. People will only see me running away from terrorists." Walker shook his head. "I've got to make this speech.”

  "If you do go through with the rally, it may be physical suicide," Frank said. 'This guy is really dangerous. He nearly got you once. He nearly got us. The safest place for you is out of here."

  "But the police are looking for him," Walker protested.

  "They haven't found him yet," Fenton Hardy pointed out. "For all we know, he could still be in the mall."

  "More likely, he's running for his life," Walker said, sounding as if he were convincing himself. He turned to the police escort. "Gentlemen, shall we head back upstairs?"

  Fenton Hardy stared open-mouthed at the retreating back of the candidate. Then he turned to Frank and Joe. "Boys, you've had the most dealings with this Al-Rousasa. Do you think he's gone?"

  "I think he's still here," Frank said. "He likes to finish his programs." "I hope he's still here," Joe said venomously. "I want him."

  "We'll have half the police detail and all the mall security people searching for him-and as many more cops as Chief Collig can send," said Fenton Hardy.

  "Have them concentrate on the off-limits areas," Frank suggested. "Service stairs, maintenance corridors, those sort of places. He's studied the plans here thoroughly."

  Fenton Hardy's face tightened. "Wonderful. It's a shame Walker isn't an official candidate yet. At least we'd have Secret Service help."

  "Well, Dad," said Frank. "You've got us." "And Callie, Tony, and Chet," Joe added. "We could circulate on the shopping floors, keep an eye out for him."

  Fenton Hardy nodded. "Good idea. We'll work in teams. Chet and I will take the first shopping level, Tony and Callie will take the second, and you'll take the top floor." He led the way to the Food Floor and their reinforcements.

  Moments later, Frank and Joe stood in the glass-walled elevator, heading up to the third shopping level. Frank stared out the glass at the crowds of shoppers. "How many people do you think are here today?" he asked. "Thousands," Joe answered.

  "And we're supposed to pick one guy out of all of them." Frank's lips tightened. "I don't like the odds.”

  "Well, Dad said the cops are sealing the place off-nobody gets in, and everybody is checked coming out." Joe drummed his fingers on the elevator rail.

  "This guy is already in here-and he knows all the good hiding places," Frank said. "It's like playing hide-and-seek, betting on the game with Philip Walker's life. And Butler has the home team advantage."

  "Al-Rousasa," Joe corrected him. He shrugged. "At least the Bullet has missed so far."

  "This is the slowest elevator in Bayport," Frank said, abruptly changing the subject. "I wish it would hurry. I want to be doing something."

  "You're beginning to sound like me," Joe said, laughing. "I thought you'd be trying to think your way to a solution."

  "We're past the thinking stage," Frank said somberly. "I just hope we catch this guy before he gets another chance at Walker."

  The elevator finally reached its destination. The glass doors opened, and the Hardys heard the sounds of patriotic music drifting up from the central well.

  "Boy, this is a real production," Joe said. "Look at all the stage lights they set up in the roof." Dozens of red, white, and blue spotlights were anchored into the atrium roof of the mall, their cables snaking down to heavy-duty electrical receptacles at the edges of the central well.

  "A real show, all right," Frank agreed sourly. "Let's just hope we can avoid fireworks for the ending." He looked out over the people walking along the promenade. "Don't they have anything better to do? How can we check them all out?"

  "And what about the people in the stores?" Joe added.

  "We better just forget about them," Frank decided. "Let's concentrate on the railing around the well. He'll have to stand there to do anything. You take the left side, I'll take the right, and we'll keep circling."

/>   Joe nodded. "Sounds like the best we can do." They set off in opposite directions, scanning the crowds, paying special attention to anyone standing by or leaning on' the railing overlooking the central well.

  Joe discovered no suspicious characters, though he did find that the railing attracted several kinds of people. He counted three women with baby carriages, and an old woman with a shopping cart there, as well as about thirty-nine kids all resting their chins on the railing, their arms draped over it, watching the rally below.

  Apparently, Walker was putting on quite a show. Words and sometimes whole phrases of his speech came floating up-things like "I refuse to be intimidated. . ."

  Joe smiled. "You tell 'em, Phil, baby," he muttered.

  A little later, he heard the phrase "Freedom from Fear." That drew lots of applause.

  Some of the people below chanted, "U.S.A., U.S.A., U.S.A."

  Joe stopped. If things had happened differently, Iola would probably be down there, leading those chants. She'd been so up for the rally, so excited over the chance to meet Philip Walker in the flesh. Iola ... "

  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?

  Chapter 17

  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."
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br />   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.

  Chapter 18

  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.