Dead on Target (11 page)

Callie and Tony were in position, and Joe climbed onto their shoulders. He carried his trusty knife, a couple of pieces of wire, and the roll of duct tape. "Is that enough to do the job?" Callie asked.

"I hope so," Frank answered. "It's all we've got. "

Frank tried not to look at the numbers flickering away as he examined the timer.

"Come on," came a gasping entreaty from the bottom of the pyramid. "Pull the thing loose."

"It's not that simple," Frank said, frowning as he began to trace wires. "These things are booby-trapped to keep people from tampering with them." "Now he tells us," Chet groaned. "Frank can handle it," Joe answered. "Otherwise, it's just sooner instead of later."

"Sneaky," Frank muttered. "Lots of circuits going to the plastique. Some real, some dummies. Some with the detonators hidden." He removed the timer housing, forcing his fingers to keep steady as he probed the innards of the machine. "Yow! Look at all these connections." He extended his knife blade to pry at some wires when the pyramid shifted beneath his feet. He snatched the knife away. "How's it going?" Joe called up.

"Like brain surgery on a trampoline, except that the medical risk is ours." Frank looked down. "Rest time."

It soon turned into a routine-a few terrifying seconds as Frank disconnected circuit after circuit, followed by ever longer rest periods, while pyramid members flopped on the floor. "Almost there," Frank said during the ninth rest period. "I've taken out all but three circuits. They're connected to detonators in the plastic explosive. If I can dig them out, that plastique can stay up there forever. But they're tricky ... "

"Oh, great," Chet muttered. His face was a mild green, with big droplets of sweat standing out.

"Hey," Frank said. "I haven't blown us up yet. "

"Yet," Chet repeated.

"I've got to get these circuits all in one go," Frank said. "And I need to have everything as steady as possible. Understand?"

They formed the pyramid again, and Frank climbed to the top. He'd gained a new tool, one of Callie's plastic barrettes for digging through the plastique. It wasn't safe to push metal in there. He scraped into the stuff like a kid playing with Silly Putty. Hidden in the explosive clay were three final circuits-buried detonators. If he could find them, they had a fighting chance.

Frank cleared a wire. He traced it through the plastique to a walnut-sized lump-the detonator. Working very carefully, he dug out the second cap, leaving it surrounded by a small wad of explosive. The exposed charge dangled from the timer box at chest level, sure to kill him if it went off. Frank pushed the thought from his mind and scratched away to find the next connection.

"One to go," he breathed. But dig as he would, he couldn't find a wire.

"Come on ... " At last, a wire! But where was the detonator? He traced the wire as far as hedared lean, and it didn't end. "We'll have to set up around the other side of the pillar," he said.

It wasn't easy to reassemble the pyramid without resting first, but Frank was insistent. "We can't wait for this. I'm not sure about all these circuits." Frank climbed into the new position, digging away. There was the detonator, halfway around the pillar. With delicate moves, he worked to isolate it.

Below him, Chet Morton began to moan. "Chet?" Joe turned to his partner in the pyramid.

Chet was gasping, and his shoulders trembled. "I wasn't kidding about aftereffects," he managed to choke out. "I think I'm going to. . ." His hands slid against the surface of the pillar, and the whole pyramid swayed sickeningly.

At the top, Frank lurched, clutched, and pulled the wire free. An insistent beeping started inside the timer.

"Callie! Get a foot onto my shoulder! Tony, shift over!" Joe commanded, grunting as he took the extra weight. Chet, ashen-faced, was able to bear up under the reduced load.

"Frank, what's going on up there?" Joe wheezed, leaning his head into the pillar. "Tamper alarm." Frank Hardy stared in horror. "It's gonna blow." He reached out as far as he could, grabbed the wire, and pulled. The timer ripped free. "Everybody down!" The pyramid disintegrated beneath him.

Frank landed on his feet, sprinting to the door. "Get behind the pillar! Hands over ears!" Was it his imagination, or were the beeps growing louder? He slapped the explosive-coated detonators around the doorknob. Was it enough plastique? Or too much?

"How much time?" Joe asked, peering around the pillar. Frank was already running back. "None." Behind him, the door erupted!

FRANK HARDY STARED fuzzily around him. The blast had sent him flying onto the sprawled bodies of his friends. They lay on the floor, coughing from the dust and smoke, looking like a bunch of coal miners. He pulled himself up to examine the door. Had the plan worked?

His heart almost stopped when he saw the door still standing. Then he saw the smoking holes around the doorknob.

The bolt in the lock still held the section with the doorknob in place. But the door itself had been blown loose by the plastique. All they had to do was pull on it.

"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 ... "