Hurricane Joe

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank and I bounced up in the air, our feet leaving the bumper and shooting backward.

  WHAM!

  Our bodies slammed back down again, smashing hard against the steel door of the van. After a little kicking and struggling, we managed to regain our footing. The van made another sharp turn, but this time we were ready for it.

  Ka-thunk, ka-thunk!

  The road beneath us suddenly got bumpier. I looked down and saw dirt and gravel instead of concrete.

  We’re close to the docks, I realized. Finally.

  I turned my head and spotted the choppy waters of the bay. The storm was raging harder than ever now, and I couldn’t make out the numbers of the warehouses as we drove by.

  Are we there yet?

  Suddenly the van screeched to a stop.

  I looked at Frank. Without saying a word, we jumped off the bumper, dropped to the ground, and rolled underneath the van.

  The two men opened the doors and got out.

  “How long do you think this storm will last?”

  “I don’t know. Help me get this stuff inside.”

  They walked around to the back of the van. I could see their black rubber boots sink into the dirt just a few feet away from my face.

  Who are you guys? I wondered for the millionth time.

  They unlatched the metal door and slid it open. Then one of them grabbed a heavy object and dragged it toward the edge of the van.

  “Grab the other end.”

  I heard a crackling electronic noise and a strange voice: “Rescue 911, Rescue 911, please respond.”

  It sounded like a walkie-talkie.

  I glanced at Frank, who looked as puzzled as I was.

  “Are you there? Rescue 911!”

  I inched forward until I spotted a large walkie-talkie dangling from a man’s belt. A large hand reached down, grabbed it, and pushed a red button.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Yes, we read you.”

  The walkie-talkie crackled again. “We’ve got a major hurricane situation here. Can you report to duty ASAP?”

  There was a short pause.

  Then the man in front of me said, “Negative. We’re handling another crisis right now.”

  I can’t take this anymore, I thought. I have to know who they are.

  Crawling in the mud a few inches closer, I ducked my head beneath the bumper to get a better look.

  The man lowered the walkie-talkie and revealed his face. Then his partner leaned forward a little bit, and I was able to see him, too.

  No way! It can’t be them!

  I blinked my eyes just to make sure it was true.

  Yep, it’s them.

  I didn’t want to believe it, but there they were: Wilson and Grady, the former football heroes from the Emergency Rescue Team!

  I turned my head to look at Frank.

  He seemed just as shocked as I was. But there wasn’t much we could do about it right then and there. We were trapped beneath the van and half-buried in mud.

  “Help me with this box, Greg,” said Wilson.

  Grady didn’t move. “We’re not going to respond to the 911 call?”

  “No! We joined the team so we could rob people, not save them.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I feel bad about it—especially when it’s a hurricane emergency”

  “Shut up and help me move this stuff inside.”

  Grady stopped talking and helped his friend carry the box into the warehouse.

  “Okay, the coast is clear,” I said to Frank. “Let’s go.” I started to crawl out from under the van, but Frank grabbed me by the belt and pulled me back.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, reaching into his Windbreaker.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to check the weather again.” He pulled out the emergency radio.

  “Why?”

  “Because I think this is a real hurricane.”

  Frank started playing with the knobs until he found a local weather report.

  “After much confusion, weather authorities have confirmed that this is a hurricane,” said the broadcaster. “Its name is not Jason, as reported by the Weather Network. This one is called Hurricane Joe, and the national experts say it could be the biggest storm ever to hit the Northeast coast.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Frank looked at me, then glanced nervously back at the warehouse.

  “We believe it’s a Category Four,” the broadcaster continued. “So please—I urge you—if you evacuated your homes after the false reports of Hurricane Jason, stay right where you are. A very real storm is on its way. This is not a test. Hurricane Joe is coming.”

  I looked at Frank and shrugged. “So what if this is a real hurricane? We’re here, and so are the burglars. Let’s go get ’em.”

  Frank shook his head. “No way. We shouldn’t even be here now. It’s too dangerous. Just a few weeks ago, these docks were completely flooded. Remember?”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “Go back to the evacuation center and tell Chief Collig about Wilson and Grady.”

  “But we’re already here, Frank!”

  “Yes, and we could die here too!”

  The wind started howling even louder. The rain pounded down harder and heavier, forming huge puddles all around us. The sound of a steel door slamming made us look up.

  “They’re coming back,” said Frank. “Stay down.”

  We watched Wilson and Grady running toward us through the rain.

  Frank grabbed my arm. “Don’t do anything stupid, Joe.”

  “Give me a break, Frank. What are you so afraid of?”

  “Hurricane Joe is coming,” he answered.

  “Shhh.”

  Wilson and Grady jogged up to the truck and hopped into the back. We could hear them dragging things around and arguing back and forth.

  I started to formulate a plan in my head.

  We could launch a surprise attack: just grab their legs when they stepped out of the van and knock them to the ground.

  But I figured Frank was right. We should forget about these guys and get away from the shore as quickly as possible.

  Hurricane Joe is coming.

  Wilson and Grady got out of the van. Their boots hit the ground with a soft thump—and splattered my face with mud.

  I didn’t do anything stupid.

  But Frank did.

  Believe it or not, he forgot to the turn the radio off.

  With the loud wind and heavy rain, it shouldn’t have a made a difference. Wilson and Grady would never have heard the broadcaster’s voice under the van. But all of a sudden, without any warning, the rain stopped falling and the wind died down.

  We were in the eye of the hurricane.

  And all you could hear was a lone voice ringing out from the radio.

  “HURRICANE JOE IS HERE.”

  For a second nobody moved. My brother and I held our breath. Wilson and Grady froze in their tracks. Even the puddles around us stopped rippling.

  So much for my surprise attack.

  Before the broadcaster could say another word, I grabbed the radio from Frank and turned it off.

  “What was that?” said Wilson.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you leave the radio on inside the van?”

  “No. It was probably one of the CD players we stole.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  I couldn’t wait for the two guys to walk away. I was dying to let out a huge sigh of relief

  But for some strange reason, they didn’t walk away. They just stood there outside the van, not talking or moving. I listened carefully, but all I could hear was the gentle lapping of the waves against the docks.

  Then I thought I heard something: the sound of Wilson and Grady whispering.

  But that didn’t make any sense.

  They think they’re alone on the docks. Why would they whisper?

  Then it hit me.


  They know we’re here.

  I nudged Frank and pointed at the rescue workers’ legs. I tried to hand-signal my plan for a surprise attack, but he didn’t seem to understand.

  It was too late anyway.

  Wilson and Grady crouched down to the ground and poked their heads under the van.

  “Hello, boys,” Wilson said with a big, scary grin.

  Then the two former football players grabbed us by the shoulders and dragged us kicking and screaming from our hiding place.

  14 Blown Away

  “Hey! Let go!”

  I swung my fists and pumped my legs, trying to break free from Wilson’s grip. Joe rolled next to me in the mud. He didn’t pull any punches either as he struggled to fight off Grady.

  But let’s face it—we didn’t stand a chance.

  Wilson and Grady were former football champs—and they had the strength, speed, and skill to prove it. Joe and I were like a pair of puppies compared to these bruisers.

  Trying to fight them with our bare hands was a waste of time and energy.

  “Take them into the warehouse,” Wilson grunted to his buddy.

  “What are we going to do to them?”

  “What do you think?”

  Great, I thought.

  The last person who knew their identities ended up sipping a soda bottle full of poison.

  This doesn’t look good.

  Grabbing us under the arms, they dragged us down the pier toward the warehouse door. Our feet and legs bounced and scraped against the wet wooden planks. It started raining again, but not very hard—just enough to blur our vision.

  Clunk, clunk.

  I felt myself being pulled over the threshold of the warehouse door. I blinked the rain out of my eyes and glanced up at Wilson.

  “Put them in the corner,” he barked.

  Grady nodded and pulled Joe along by the neck of his Windbreaker.

  WHUMP!

  They tossed both of us into a heap on the floor. Then they stepped back and stood over us, glaring down at Joe and me like a pair of cobras getting ready to strike.

  “I knew you brats were trouble,” said Wilson. “As soon as I saw you at Velma’s Pawnshop, I knew you were up to no good.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Joe shot back. “You creeps are the lowest of the low. Robbing people in the middle of a hurricane? It makes me sick.”

  Wilson lunged forward, pointing his finger in Joe’s face. “You better watch your mouth, kid.”

  Joe wouldn’t back off “Or else what? You’ll kill us?”

  “We won’t have to kill you,” said Wilson. “The hurricane will take care of that.”

  I looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “Yeah, Billy. What do you mean?” asked Grady

  Wilson crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot. “It’s simple,” he said. “Right now we’re in the eye of the hurricane. But the storm is going to get worse. And when it does, you boys will take a nice long walk—down a very short pier.”

  Grady’s eyes widened. “You mean …?”

  “Yep They’re going to be victims of Hurricane Joe. Their bodies will be washed out to sea. And even if someone finds them on a beach somewhere, they’ll never be able to trace it back to us.”

  I looked at Joe. He didn’t look back—he just stared up at Wilson with total disgust.

  “Okay, you got us, Wilson,” I said. “But tell me how you did it. How did you get the Weather Network to report those fake hurricanes?”

  A slow grin spread across Wilson’s face. “It was easy. The Emergency Rescue Team has a computer that’s linked directly into the Weather Network’s mainframe. I made copies of old hurricane reports, changed some of the data, and made it look like it was sent from the national bureau’s e-mail address.”

  I could tell he was proud of his scam.

  “That’s pretty darn clever,” I said. “But why would a guy with computer skills turn to burglary? Why not go to school and get a job?”

  The smile faded from Wilson’s face. “I’ll tell you why,” he snapped. “This stupid little town refused to give us scholarships. Can you believe that? Grady and I won the state trophy for Bayport High, and what did we get in return? Nothing.”

  “We applied for college aid, but our grades weren’t good enough,” Grady added.

  Wilson shot his buddy a dirty look. “That’s none of their business, Greg.”

  “I just want them to know that we tried,” said Grady. “We’re not common criminals. We’re saving money to go to school.”

  “Don’t you get paid by the rescue team?” I asked.

  “Yes, but not enough,” said Grady.

  Joe shook his head. “So you joined up just to rip people off?”

  “Hey,” Grady replied. “We saved people too.”

  “Like Velma Carter?” said Joe.

  Grady gulped.

  Wilson stomped his foot down. “Enough of this talk! Go find some rope so we can tie them up. They might try to make a run for it.”

  Grady turned around and lumbered off into the warehouse, leaving Joe and me alone with Billy Wilson.

  It’s two against one, I thought. We have to do something while we have the chance.

  “You’re not going to get away with this,” Joe said, glaring up at Wilson.

  “Oh, no? Why not?”

  Joe started telling him a whopper of a lie—that the police found their names in Velma’s Pawnshop records and they were already on their way—but I didn’t pay much attention.

  I was too busy looking around for a weapon.

  I leaned back against a wooden crate and gazed upward. Sticking out over the edge was a large silver serving tray—the kind you would use for a fancy tea party.

  Perfect.

  “I got the rope!” Grady yelled from across the warehouse.

  Wilson leaned over Joe and snarled, “You’re lying, kid. The police aren’t coming.”

  Grady started walking toward us.

  I had to move fast.

  Reaching up, I grabbed the silver tray with both hands.

  It’s teatime.

  I swung it through the air as hard as I could—and slammed Wilson in the side of the head.

  CLANG!

  “Ooof!”

  Wilson went down like a ton of bricks.

  You’ve been served.

  Unfortunately, he landed right on top of Joe, who wriggled beneath the ex-football player like a squashed bug. Finally he managed to crawl out from under him and jump to his feet.

  Wilson was stunned and dazed—but reviving fast.

  I reached into the crate, pulled out a teapot, and tossed it to my brother.

  “Thanks, bro.”

  Joe tightened his grip on the handle-—and offered Wilson another serving.

  CLANG!

  “Ooof!”

  Down he went.

  I would have cheered, but I had another problem to contend with: Greg Grady was hunched down and charging straight toward me. In about three seconds, I was going to be tackled by a 240-pound former linebacker.

  This is going to hurt.

  But it was Grady who got hurt—because I used the serving tray as a shield. A split second before he hit me, I slipped it over my chest and braced myself

  CLANG!

  Greg Grady smashed face-first into the tray and stumbled to the ground, banging his knee into a wooden crate.

  “Owww! My bad knee!” he howled, writhing on the floor.

  I looked at Joe. “Let’s get out of here!”

  We ran to the door of the warehouse. Reaching up, we grabbed the steel bolt and pushed hard.

  Nothing happened. The door wouldn’t open.

  “It’s locked,” said Joe. “What’ll we do?”

  I tried to think.

  Suddenly, without warning, the whole warehouse started to shake. The floorboards creaked and groaned. The wind lashed at the walls and the rain pounded the roof like a big bass drum. I could even hear the waves crashi
ng against the pier, pummeling the sides of the building.

  “The window,” said Joe, pointing. “Upstairs.”

  We ran for the stairs.

  “Hurry!”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Wilson and Grady were climbing to their feet—and coming after us.

  “You can run, but you can’t hide!” Wilson shouted.

  He and his buddy charged up the stairs.

  “You’re trapped!”

  Joe and I scrambled up to the balcony and turned around. Then we grabbed whatever we could find—TV sets, computers, Zboxes—and started throwing them down the stairs.

  “Ouch! My knee!”

  Grady stumbled down the stairs. But Wilson jumped out of the way, knocking the items aside with his hands and feet. Grady picked himself up and joined Wilson on the stairs. Working as a team, they managed to toss the heavy computers and TVs over the railing like they were baby toys. Then they rushed up the stairs.

  These guys are unstoppable.

  I looked around for something else to throw—and that’s when Wilson grabbed me by the arm.

  “Gotcha!” he growled.

  Running to my aid, Joe tried to tackle Wilson. But—

  WHAM!

  Grady tackled Joe first.

  The two of them slammed down hard on the floor of the balcony. Rolling around, they kicked and fought until—bang—Joe hit his head against a wooden crate.

  His eyelids fluttered and closed—and then his whole body went limp.

  “Joe! No!”

  I screamed and tried to pull away from Wilson. But he held on to me with both hands, dragging me toward the steel shelves against the wall.

  “Put the kid inside one of those crates,” he said to Grady

  The former linebacker grunted and picked up Joe with one arm. Then he dumped my brother into an empty crate and sat down on the lid.

  “Joe! Wake up! Joe!”

  Wilson laughed. “Don’t waste your breath. You’ll need it when you’re underwater.”

  I stopped struggling. He stared at me and smiled. Then he shoved me against the shelving unit, pressing my arms against the cross braces.

  “Greg, where did you put that rope?” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “It’s downstairs.”

  “Go and get it.”

  “But what about …?” Grady pointed at the crate he was sitting on.