Danger in the Extreme (2 page)

“His chute's out,” Frank said. “But he's still going too fast!”

An oversize rectangular-shape parachute unfolded above the sky surfer. The force wrenched him sideways into a spiral. He was now only a couple of hundred feet over the stadium, falling like a bird with a wounded wing.

“He's headed toward the upper deck,” Joe said, pointing. “He's going to land right on the crowd.”

The athletes watched as hundreds of spectators jumped to their feet and started scrambling over one another to get out of their seats.

At a height barely higher than the tops of the stadium light poles, Sammy Fear pulled down hard on the brake toggles of his chute.

Lifting his feet up like those of a long jumper reaching for extra distance, he swooped down over the panicked crowd. His feet barely missing people's heads, he arced along the upper decks, then swung down smoothly over the center of the field. Dropping his feet, he landed at a jog neatly on top of one of the snocross jumps. He pulled the releases, and his chute billowed away from him in the breeze.

“Wow!” was all Frank could say.

The crowd was silent for a second or two, then everyone erupted into wild cheers. The other Max Games athletes were on their feet clapping.

“Here comes Mollica,” Joe said as Fear's partner drifted in and landed softly next to him.

The stadium lights snapped back on. The Jumbotron picture came back up, showing the two sky surfers standing next to each other.

Mollica and Fear seemed to exchange a few words.

“Looks like she's mad at him,” Frank said. “She must not have known he was going to pull that stunt.”

As Mollica and Fear took their bows and gathered up their chutes, Fred Vale came back on, breathless and relieved. He led the crowd in a final ovation.

“I hope you'll come to as many events as you can this weekend,” he continued. “The Max Games are always this exciting!”

“I sure hope not,” Jamal said with a wry grin. “I don't think I could take it.”

“Stay in your seats, everyone,” Vale continued. “The preliminary heats of the snocross are coming right up.”

Joe started down the bleachers. “That's me.”

He, Frank, and Jamal stepped out of the stands along with the other athletes who had to prepare for events.

As Fear and Mollica came walking over, a voice from high in the stands shouted down: “Hey, Fear! You're dangerous—you take too many chances!”

Fear raised his fist, punching the air. “That's why I'm the best there is, man!”

Mollica put her hand on his shoulder, obviously upset by his crazy antics.

Before the confrontation could get out of control, Max Games officials rushed in and whisked the two sky surfers away.

“I have to agree with whoever that was,” Frank said. “If Fear's chute hadn't opened perfectly, he'd be dead.”

“And a lot of people in the stands would have been hurt,” Jamal added.

“Yeah, but you've got to admit he knew how to make a good show,” Joe said.

Jamal shrugged, turning up the collar of his
leather flight jacket. “The Max Games TV ratings will skyrocket after tonight, if that's what you mean. I'm going to check out the climbing wall. You want to go, Frank?”

“Not yet,” Frank replied. “After Joe's heat I might be over.”

Jamal wished Joe good luck and took off. The Hardys headed around the snocross track toward a wide tunnel that led under the stadium stands. As they reached the mouth of the tunnel, a woman in a dark suit and coat approached them. She stepped in front of Joe and held up an official-looking ID.

“Joe Hardy?” she asked.

Joe stopped in his tracks. “Yeah.”

“My name is Michelle DuBelle. I'm with the Secret Service. Can I talk to you and your brother for a moment?”

Joe glanced at Frank. “Sure,” he said. “What's going on?”

DuBelle pocketed her ID and led the Hardys a few yards away from the athletes milling around the mouth of the entrance tunnel.

DuBelle shot a glance back over her right shoulder. “You know who that is?”

The Hardys followed the agent's gaze about thirty yards down the running track. Frank spotted a sullen-looking kid about sixteen years old standing next to the wall leading up into the stands. He wore a bulky green army surplus jacket, baggy jeans, heavy black boots, and a baseball cap on
backward. Two square-shouldered men in dark overcoats stood next to him.

“Hey, isn't that . . . no,” Frank said doubtfully.

“Yes, it is,” DuBelle said. “That's Neal Jordan, the son of the president of the United States.”

“Excellent,” Joe said. “He's here to watch?”

“No, he's here to compete,” DuBelle said. “Even though we advised against it, he's going to be in the snowboard aerials.”

Joe frowned. He'd never seen Jordan at any previous contests. He wondered how Neal had qualified for the Max Games.

DuBelle answered his question for him.

“Neal called Fred Vale behind his father's back, and of course Vale said he could compete. I'm sure Vale figures having Neal here will help the games get extra attention. We've been fighting off his cameras all night.”

“Why tell us all this?” Frank asked. He noticed Jordan looking over at them.

“I met your father in Washington last year,” DuBelle replied. “He told me about you two, and I decided to ask you if you'd be willing to help us keep an eye on Neal during our stay in Bayport.”

The Hardys looked at each other. Their father, Fenton Hardy, was a well-known private detective who often helped government agencies with their investigations. Still, Frank couldn't believe they were being given such an incredible responsibility—to guard the president's son!

“Sure,” Frank and Joe said in unison.

DuBelle smiled. “Great. Listen, Neal's a good kid, but he hates having us crowding around him all the time. Sometimes he even tries to sneak away.”

Joe crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Doesn't he understand someone might try to kidnap him or something?”

“I think so, but he wants to feel like a normal teenager. He's seen you guys compete, and I think he'd really like to hang out with you, if you're okay with that.”

One of the other agents came striding over, his hands jammed in his coat pockets. “Michelle, I have to tell you again—this is a bad idea.”

“Frank and Joe Hardy, meet Agent Kenneth Ardis.”

Frank held out a hand to shake Ardis's, but the agent ignored him.

“These two kids can't protect Neal,” he said to DuBelle. “And having them around may cause other agents to relax instead of doing their jobs the way they should.”

“It's my call,” DuBelle said sternly. “Get back to your post.”

Ardis glared at the Hardys, his teeth clenched. He turned and marched back to his station a few yards away from Neal.

“Come on,” DuBelle said, smiling. “Let me introduce you.”

DuBelle led the Hardys over to Neal, dropping
back just before they reached him to give the teens room. “Neal,” she said. “This is Frank and Joe Hardy.”

Neal leaned forward a little and pulled one hand out of his pocket. He held out a clenched fist.

Joe knocked his fist against Neal's. Frank did the same, then Neal's hand disappeared back into his jacket. “So, you two got drafted to be my friends?”

Frank smiled. “No, we volunteered. You aren't going to make us sorry, are you?”

Neal just shrugged. “Hey,” he said, nodding at Joe. “You in the snocross?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied. “Actually, I've got to get ready now. You gonna watch?”

“ 'Course,” Neal said. “Rage, man. Get out there and tear it up.”

“Just watch,” Joe said. “Later.”

After his brother disappeared under the stands to change and get his snowmobile, Frank tried to talk to Neal. He could feel the Secret Service agents watching them. He counted four agents in suits and figured a few more were close by, dressed as spectators.

“So, you're in the snowboard aerials?”

Neal nodded slightly but said nothing.

This is going to be difficult, Frank thought. He decided to be patient and say nothing. Neal would open up soon.

They stood leaning against the side wall of the stadium. They watched Max Games workers with
rakes and shovels make final preparations to the snocross course. They watched spectators come down out of the stands and head under the stadium to the snack bar. Every once in a while someone would pause and stare at Neal as if he recognized him. A couple of teenage girls giggled and pointed in their direction.

Finally Neal said something. “This music is lame.”

Frank listened to the rock coming out of the stadium speakers. “It is pretty tired,” he agreed. “You'd think the Max Games would be more on the edge.”

Neal nodded. “Speed metal or industrial. I asked them to play some Tragic Hayride when I pop my aerials. They looked at me like I was some kind of space alien.”

“That's a good band,” Frank said. “You think country punk goes well with your jumps.”

Neal seemed impressed that Frank had heard of Tragic Hayride. “It gets me in the right mood,” he said.

At that moment the music from the speakers died down and an announcer came on. “Max Games ushers, please clear the track for the snocross.”

Max Games employees working on the snocross course stopped immediately and jumped over the hay bales and onto the running track. Other employees guided stray spectators back to the stands.

Ken Ardis and Michelle DuBelle motioned for
Frank and Neal to get off the track. Neal reluctantly led the way to a couple of prime front-row seats. Frank noticed that the young couple in the ski parkas sitting right next to them wore what looked like tiny hearing aids. He realized they, too, must be Secret Service. He could understand how Neal felt—constantly watched, like an exotic insect caught in a jar.

“Where's your family?” Frank asked. “Are they going to watch you compete?”

Neal shook his head. “Having Dad here would cause too much of an uproar, even for that Vale character.”

The woman in the parka next to Neal shot him a quick glance, then looked away.

Neal leaned close to Frank and whispered, “I'm not supposed to tell anyone where my dad is, but I'll tell you. My family's at our vacation home up in the Catskill Mountains. It's just a short plane ride from here, and I'm going there after the games.”

A motorized cart with a twenty-five-foot boom attached to it trundled by in front of Neal and Frank. A network television camera panned back and forth, scanning the track, then turned back on them. Neal flipped his cap around and pulled it down over his eyes.

The camera darted away as a crescendo of noise rose from under the stands. A few seconds later ten brightly colored, souped-up snowmobiles came rumbling out. The drivers, dressed in riding suits
and helmets, guided their machines through a break in the hay bales and up to the starting line of the snocross. The crowd cheered loudly.

“Which one's Joe?” Neal asked.

“There,” Frank said, pointing to a muscular figure on a dark blue snowmobile. “He's in the blue suit and helmet—number eight.”

With the competitors lined up perfectly, the starter dropped the flag.

Ten engines revved in unison, spraying back huge rooster tails of wet snow. Riders kicked at one another and jostled for position going into the first sharp turn.

“I can't see Joe,” Frank said. “Where is he?”

Neal and Frank watched the row of snowmobiles turn into a single-file line as they tore through the first turn and then ramped up over the first jump. The four-hundred-pound machines crashed back to earth with a tremendous
whump!

“There he is!” Neal shouted. “He's out in front.”

They watched Joe's snowmobile buck over the whoop-de-doos like a bronco. A rider in a fluorescent green race suit was right next to him fighting for the lead.

“That's Jim ‘Justice' Edwards!” Neal shouted over the noise. “If you do something to him, he comes back at you twice as hard. He's a total maniac.”

Joe maintained the lead coming around the far turn. As the racers moved up to complete the first
lap, Edwards tried to scoot by Joe for an inside pass, but Joe cut him off.

“That's it, Joe!” Frank shouted. “Don't let him by.”

Joe rocketed up the big jump with Edwards right on his tail. They both went airborne at the same time. The two seemed to hover in midair together, fifteen feet above the track.

Frank's heart skipped a beat as he suddenly realized what was going to happen.

Jim Edwards flew just a little bit farther than Joe. Joe landed. A split second later Edwards came down right on top of him.

The two snowmobiles came together with a sickening crunch. The crowd gasped.

Edwards bounced off Joe, hit the ground, and veered ahead, staying in control.

Joe wasn't so lucky. He flew off his snowmobile and tumbled into the hay bales. His helmet came off and bounced across the running track. When Joe finally came to a stop, he lay there, legs bent at awkward angles, motionless.

Officials waved their red flags frantically, trying to stop the race before someone ran over Joe.

Frank and Neal leaped from their seats. The agent next to Neal tried to reach out to stop him, but the president's son wrenched himself free. He and Frank rushed to the track.

Fred Vale and an official with a medical kit were already kneeling by Joe's side when Frank got there. The other racers had all stopped, and the stadium was silent as the crowd waited to find out Joe's condition.

Vale had his sunglasses hanging around his neck on a lanyard. “What's your name? Joe Hardy? Okay, Joe, are you hurt?” he asked. “Can you move your legs?”

A cameraman hovered nearby, shifting around for the best angle.