Motocross Madness (6 page)

Hawk topped the next hill before Henderson. She did a barhop over her handlebars as she went, then disappeared behind the hill.

Henderson topped the next rise, gunning his throttle all the way as he went up. He hit the top of the whoopdedoo in a nearly vertical climb and twisted his bike into the first somersault in a combination.

Man and machine hung gracefully in the air for a moment—then Henderson's black and gold motorcycle exploded.

A ball of orange fire burst around the cycle as it flew to pieces. Henderson soared head over heels into the air right in front of Joe's onrushing bike.

Joe ducked as a flaming gas tank flew by, barely missing the top of his helmet. He swerved to avoid a bouncing tire. Several small pieces of burning shrapnel bounced off the younger Hardy's riding armor.

Henderson's limp body flashed by as Joe crested the hill. He braked into a jump, not caring about amplitude or difficulty, just fighting to maintain control.

At the bottom of the hill, Frank stood wide-eyed with shock.

“Look out!” he yelled.

Somehow, Joe heard him above the roar of the engine and the bang of the explosion.

Joe ducked again, and one of Henderson's shock absorbers glanced off his helmet.

The younger Hardy swerved and almost went into a skid. He put his left foot down, and felt a lance of pain shoot up his leg. But his boot steadied the bike, and he kept on going.

Frank ran forward, glancing at Joe to make sure his brother was all right. When Joe kept riding, the elder Hardy sprinted to the scene of the crash. Seeing his brother running to help Henderson, Joe decided to stay in the race.

The roar of motorcycle engines and the whine of sirens filled the air. Frank ignored them and angled for Henderson's body, lying prone amid the flaming wreckage of his black and gold cycle.

Sylvia Short topped the rise and headed directly toward the crash, with Taylor Fohr right beside her. Both riders swerved and nearly went down. They kicked great clouds of dirt into the air; Frank shielded his eyes to keep from being blinded.

As Frank reached the injured cyclist, Joe crested the next berm and disappeared from view, with Fohr and Short hot on his tail.

Frank used his first aid skills to stabilize Henderson until the real paramedics showed up. Some of the cyclist's limbs looked broken, and he probably
had a concussion. Henderson's riding armor had protected him from some of the damage, but cycle fuel had splashed onto it, setting it aflame in a few places. Frank smothered the small fires, then did what he could until the ambulances arrived.

Race officials red-flagged the race, meaning the other contestants had to stop until the course was cleared. Frank helped the paramedics load Henderson into the ambulance. He watched with some annoyance as news crews followed the injured man out of the stadium.

“They're like vultures,” he heard someone beside him say.

It was Marissa Hayday. She and her two sisters, Elena and Karina, had come to try to help. “Why can't they just leave people alone?” Karina, the middle sister, said.

“They're just doing their job,” Elena noted. “Speaking of which, we've got to get Marissa ready for her race.”

Marissa nodded grimly. “The show must go on,” she said.

Frank went back to his bike as well.

The race resumed just as soon as the ambulance left. Joe crossed the finish line second, but placed third when acrobatics were taken into account. Amber Hawk finished first. Taylor Fohr edged out Joe on points. He seemed surprised at his
placement and grinned all the way off the course.

“Are you all right, Joe?” Frank asked as he walked up to his brother.

“Jarred my leg a bit,” the younger Hardy said, “but other than that, I'm fine. How's Henderson?”

“He looked pretty bad,” Frank admitted. “We were lucky none of the other racers hit us while I was trying to help him.”

“He'll pull through,” Joe said. “He's been through some tough scrapes before.”

“His being out of the race sure puts Amber Hawk in a good position,” Frank commented.

“Yeah,” Joe agreed. “He was her main competition in this event. Even with the strange series format, I doubt anyone else will be able to beat her.”

Frank rubbed his chin.

Joe understood the gesture. “You're thinking that Hawk might have had something to do with Henderson's crash?”

“It's possible,” Frank said. “Someone could have sabotaged his bike while he was signing autographs.”

“But she was right there, signing with him,” Joe said.

“Not the whole time,” Frank noted. “And she could have had an accomplice.”

“Or it could just have been an accident.”

“A midair explosion like that, on a bike driven by one of the top motocross racers in the country?” Frank said. “It doesn't seem likely.”

“Maybe the police report can clue us in,” Joe said. “Your race is coming up—are you ready?”

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Frank said, pulling on his riding gloves and helmet.

“Try my tactic,” Joe said. “Go fast and make the jumps as big as you can handle. We're not acrobats, so just try to be fast.”

Frank drew the same heat as Paco Fernandez, who was competing to honor his sister. The elder Hardy fought hard during the race. He hit some soaring jumps and ultimately clocked a good time. It wasn't enough to beat Paco, though, who even finished ahead of Hawk in the standings.

Corrine's brother seemed quite pleased with his placing. “Guess I showed that you don't have to be famous to turn in a good ride,” he said to reporters afterward.

Jamal did even better in his heat than Frank. He pulled off a couple of cool acrobatic moves during his run, including a no-footed can-can and a cowboy split. He posted a good time, too, and both brothers rushed to meet their friend after his run.

“Great ride, Jamal!” Joe enthused.

“Excellent!” Frank agreed.

Jamal pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I almost skidded coming out of that cowboy,” he said. “I was lucky.”

“That was more a sign of practice than luck, I
think,” Frank said. “Now that all of us are finished with the Mixed Freestyle, we can relax a bit while they run the rest of the heats.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jamal said. “Who's in the last run?”

Joe checked the printed schedule they'd been given that morning. “Jules Kendallson, Marissa Hayday, Elizabeth Navarro, and two people I've never heard of,” he said.

Jamal glanced over his shoulder at the paper. “Marissa should have a good chance in that group—assuming her sisters have stopped bickering long enough to prep her bike properly.”

“They seem like a pretty feisty trio,” Joe said. “What's the deal with them?”

“They've done everything as a team practically since they were born,” Jamal replied. “Elena and Karina ride motocross too, and they're pretty good. But I think they decided to maximize their winning potential by backing Marissa, who has the most experience.”

“It's good having family to help you out in the pits,” Frank said.

“Yeah,” Jamal agreed. “Though it has its drawbacks, especially if a squabble breaks out.”

“Hey, want to grab some food?” Joe asked. “We can check the final standings afterward.”

“I'd love to, but I promised Corrine I'd catch up
with her after my heat,” Jamal said. “We'll compare notes for tomorrow's dirt-track run later, though. Okay?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Frank said. “We'll catch up with you at our garage bay after they shoo out the public.”

“Great,” Jamal said. “See you then.” He took his bike back to the makeshift garage, then headed up to the announcing tower to see Corri, who was still covering the race.

The brothers, who had already put their cycles away, headed for the concession stand. They got a good view of the track on the way, and caught a bit of the action. Marissa Hayday seemed to be driving well. Her pink and purple bike whipped around the track, getting good air on the whoopdedoos. Jules Kendallson rode fairly well, but almost wiped out after a big jump. His bike hit the ground hard, and his armored shins brushed against the dirt as he turned.

“Ouch!” Joe said. “I bet he's glad to have on that black and green armor. Otherwise he'd be picking rocks out of his legs for weeks.”

“Elizabeth Navarro's not doing much better,” Frank said. “Look, she's gone down again.”

As they watched, the young rider hit the bottom of a berm and spilled off her bike. Her yellow and black riding armor protected her, though.

She scrambled to her feet and got back in the race.

“And the skull on her helmet keeps on grinning!” Joe said.

Frank chuckled. “You have to admire her determination—and her dad's enthusiasm.” He looked to the pits near the track, where Richard Navarro was jumping up and down, rooting for his girl.

The brothers grabbed some bratwurst and sodas from the concession stand, then decided to take a walk around the grounds as they ate. The track lay on the west side of the fenced-in area, with an extension of the course running off to the north. Thick woods abutted that side of the property. The brothers spotted several trails running from the edges of the dirt track into the trees.

“That must be part of the cross-country course for Sunday's Enduro race,” Frank deduced.

“Right,” Joe said, confirming the information on the map that had come in their registration packet.

From there, they looped back past the edge of the metal-walled garages and prep areas. They checked the office, which seemed both deserted and secure, then circled toward the main gate on the south. As they walked, they had a good view of the industrial property to the east, which seemed to manufacture enormous concrete pipes.

“This is a pretty nice course,” Frank said, gazing around the Fernandez compound. “Too bad they've
been struggling financially. I wonder how they're doing at the box office?”

“It looks like they're closing it' down right now,” Joe said, gazing at the small kiosk near the front gate.

As the last race wound to its conclusion, spectators drifted from the stands and toward their cars in the nearby parking lot. Some cars were already rumbling down the dirt driveway past the gate.

A short, dark-haired woman came out of the brightly painted kiosk near the raceway's main entrance. In her hands she held a big, gray cashbox. A tall man in black riding leathers and wearing a scuffed-up black helmet came out of the building a few steps behind her. The two of them headed toward Pops Fernandez's office, on the east side of the property.

“The size of the crowd should indicate a good take today,” Frank said.

“Tomorrow's crowd will probably be better,” Joe said. “It'll be Saturday, for one thing. And I'm sure the publicity from the Henderson crash will bring more people through the door.”

Frank shook his head. “I hate to think of people—even nice folks like the Fernandezes—profiting from a serious accident.”

Joe nodded his agreement. “It would be ironic if Henderson's injuries helped pay for Corri's rehab.” He cast his eyes back to the woman leaving the box office. “You think that guy with her is
security?” Joe asked. “That's an odd outfit for a guard.”

“Maybe it's part of the show,” Frank said, “to make the guards look like race participants or something.”

The woman and man walked across a deserted space between the front gate and the office. Frank and Joe were the only people with a clear look at the pair. Buildings blocked everyone else's view of people leaving the track.

It was a good thing the Hardys could see—because suddenly, without warning, the helmeted man pulled a blackjack from his pocket and hit the woman carrying the cashbox over the back of the head.

The weighted leather sack came down heavily on the woman's skull. She grunted and fell to the ground. The heavy gray cashbox spilled from her arms and landed in the dirt.

The helmeted man stooped down to pick it up.

“Hey, you! Stop!” Frank shouted. He and Joe, still several hundred yards away from the scene, dashed toward the leather-dressed assailant.

The man noticed the brothers, but focused his efforts on the box. He tried to pry the lid open with his black-gloved hands, but it wouldn't give. As the Hardys sprinted closer, he put away his blackjack and fished a knife out of his pocket.

The bandit jabbed at the cashbox lock with the point of the blade. It did no good. As the brothers
closed in on him, he hefted the box, turned, and ran.

“I'll get him,” Frank said as Joe skidded to a halt beside the injured woman.

The younger Hardy knelt at the woman's side as his brother continued running. “She's knocked out,” Joe shouted to Frank. “I'll stay here and get her some medical attention.”

The older Hardy didn't bother to reply. He knew Joe would do everything he could for the woman.

Frank and the thief ran across the unmowed lawn between the office area and the back row of metal garages. The culprit seemed about as tall as Frank, and nearly as fast. But the awkward weight of the big, metal cashbox slowed him down.

Frank smiled slightly.

Suddenly, the thief turned and threw the cash-box at the elder Hardy.

A gasp of air escaped Frank's lips as the big, metal container hit him in the gut. The box, still not open, landed on the ground between Frank and the bandit. Frank fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. The thief kept running.

Frank got up. He didn't dare leave the cashbox behind, though he knew carrying it would slow him down. He hefted the metal container and took off after the culprit once more.

The helmeted man ducked between two garages and into the pits beside the track. Mechanics and
racers tending to their bikes filled the pit areas. No one even looked up as the helmeted man dashed through the crowd.