Motocross Madness (12 page)

The biker with the tree limb laughed. “Looks like we may have even
more
bikes to add to our collection!” he said. The other bandit laughed as well. The bright, high tones in the voice told Joe that a woman lurked under that battered helmet.

“Just try it!” Joe cried. The man on Jamal's
borrowed cycle raised the stick and came in on the unarmed teen. Joe braced himself for the impact.

“Joe, duck!” Frank's cry crackled over Joe's helmet radio.

Joe ducked. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Frank's motorcycle running up the back of a nearby boulder.

Frank's bike soared through the air, right at the log-wielding ambusher. The bandit turned, but not in time. Frank soared high over Joe's bike. His back wheel clipped the bandit's helmet on the way past.

The ambusher with the tree limb toppled sideways, off Jamal's borrowed bike. He hit the ground hard, and the bike crashed into a nearby tree.

Joe gunned his throttle and surged toward the startled second intruder. His front wheel hit her machine just in front of the engine, barely missing the woman's leg.

The woman pitched sideways, and her bike landed on top of her, pinning her to a pile of leaves. Neither she nor the man with the stick got up.

Joe and Frank got off their bikes.

“Man, am I glad you showed up,” Joe said to his brother.

“I just happened to look back at the top of the next ridge,” Frank said. “I spotted the trouble and turned back to help.”

“We're lucky you did, or all three of us would have been toast,” Joe said.

The Hardys stripped off their belts and tied the ambushers' hands with them. Then they went to see about their friends.

“I'm okay,” Jamal said woozily. “Did you get the number of the train that hit me?”

“We got
their
numbers, all right,” Joe said. “Whoever they are, they'll have a lot of explaining to do down at the police station. How's Elizabeth, Frank?”

The elder Hardy shook his head. “She's pretty badly hurt,” he said. “She's babbling, not making much sense.”

Joe and Jamal gathered around the injured teen. She looked up at them with her big blue eyes, but didn't seem to see them. “Watch the mud on the upslopes,” she said. “They won't be expecting that . . . make sure . . . whatever you do . . . make it past the bridge first . . . home free, then. All the way to the winners' circle . . . make it past the bridge first.  . . .”

“Is there anything we can do?” Joe asked.

“Let's call for help,” Frank said. He pulled out his race-issued field phone and dialed the authorities. He relayed the information about Elizabeth's injury and their location, then hung up. “That's it,” he said. “There's nothing more we can do but keep her comfortable and wait.”

“Well, I want to see who these bandits are,” Joe said. “They've caused an awful lot of trouble during this race.”

Jamal glared at them. “You can say that again. Look at the bike Mr. Howard loaned me! It's a mess! There's no way I can finish the race now, and it's all because of these goons.”

Frank and Joe knelt beside their unconscious prisoners and removed the bandits' helmets.

“Jules Kendallson and Sylvia Short,” Frank said, not sounding too surprised.

“I thought they seemed a bit out of their league in this competition,” Joe said. “Now we know why.”

“These guys only entered the race to steal?” Jamal asked.

“That's about the size of it,” Frank said. “It looks like they faked their injuries to get out of the final day of the competition. I thought Jules's bloodstained bandage seemed a little . . . convenient. These two could definitely have been behind the robbery attempts at the raceway.”

“Before you showed up, Frank, they said something about having even
more
bikes to add to their collection,” Joe said. “At the time, I thought it might have been Trent Howard under one of those helmets. But I guess these two were just planning to stealing motorcycles for profit.”

“That makes sense,” Frank said. “Jamal's bike was a collectible, and Elizabeth's was practically new.”

“The police will deal with these guys now,” Joe said. “After this stunt, they won't be doing any more stealing for a long time.”

“It looks like I won't be stealing any wins, either,” Jamal said forlornly, “even if the cops find my original bike now. But that doesn't mean you guys have to quit. Someone needs to stay with Elizabeth, and since my bike is messed up, it might as well be me.”

As the friends talked, several racers had zoomed past the clearing on the nearby trail. Until that moment, neither Hardy had even considered getting back into the race. Frank and Joe looked at each other, torn between staying with their friend and finishing the Enduro.

“Look,” Jamal said, “if none of us finishes, then it's like these goons have achieved some kind of victory. Don't give them that satisfaction. I'm sure the rescue copter is on the way. Get back into the race and try to win. Do it for me and for Elizabeth, and for all the others they messed with. Most of all, though, do it for Corri.”

Joe and Frank slowly nodded. “Yeah, okay,” Joe said. “When you put it that way  . . .”

He and Frank got back on their bikes and started the engines. With one last glance at Jamal and Elizabeth, they headed back to the trail and rejoined the race.

They'd lost a lot of time during the ambush. And as they raced through the woods, the idea of catching any of the leaders seemed pretty hopeless. Despite that, both brothers remained determined to finish the race.

As they went, they passed two riders who had passed them during the ambush. Their bikes were mired in mud just above the bottom of steep hills.

The Hardys went around them and kept pressing forward. Marissa Hayday waved to the brothers as they passed her—she'd fallen victim to a mud slick as well. As Frank and Joe reached the top of the next rise, they spotted the leaders once more.

“They must have had some real trouble,” Joe called to Frank.

“Look at the mud on their uniforms,” Frank replied. “I think Paco and Hawk got stuck too.”

Mud covered both the leaders and their bikes.

“Lucky for us that Hayday and the rest got stuck first, otherwise we might have hit that muck as well,” Joe said.

“Luck or not, we have a chance to catch up,” Frank said. He twisted his throttle to full speed and rocketed downhill. Joe did the same.

Below, the trail leveled out as it approached an old wooden bridge spanning a ravine. The gulch was only about forty feet deep, but there didn't seem to be any other way across it besides the bridge. Parts of the railing had fallen off, but the bridge otherwise seemed in fairly good repair. Its stout, wooden legs reached down the side of the adjoining hills, into the stream bed at the bottom of the defile.

The brothers reached the bridge just as Paco and Hawk raced off the other side.

The span was fifty yards wide, and too narrow for more than one bike to cross at a time. Frank went first, with Joe following right on his fender. The slats of the old bridge creaked and clattered as the brothers zoomed over them. They reduced their speed a bit to make sure they didn't fall off the sides.

“It's a long way down,” Joe said as they crossed, eyeing one of the spots where the bridge's railing had rotted away.

Just as he said it, the span suddenly lurched under them.

“Look out!” Frank cried. “The bridge is collapsing!”

“Keep going!” Joe called. “It's our only chance!”

He and Frank barreled ahead full throttle. The bridge's timbers continued to groan. Suddenly, the span broke.

Ancient boards toppled off the trestle near the far side of the gorge. Shards of wood tumbled down the slope and landed in the stream far below.

“Jump for it!” Frank shouted.

He and Joe both angled for a break in the rail.

They soared through it, one after another, just as the bridge broke away beneath them. With a final snap, the aged structure twisted and toppled toward the stream below. The ground shook with a thundering crash as the entire span landed at the bottom of the ravine.

Joe and Frank hit the far side of the gorge just below the top of the muddy slope. The incline ahead of them was steep, but no steeper than parts of the trail had been before.

Their wheels spun and kicked dirt into the air. The brothers pushed with their feet, but it didn't help much. The rim of the gorge, only a few yards above them, seemed miles away.

“Don't give up!” Frank cried.

“Like I intended to fall down this hill?” Joe shot back.

Twisting their throttles full open, they surged up the slope. They barely stayed upright, but they reached the top. Both brothers paused at the edge, caught their breath, and looked at the wreckage below.

“That could have been us,” Joe said.

Frank nodded. “It's lucky no one else was on the bridge when it collapsed. Someone could have been killed here.”

“There have been a lot of places like that on the course,” Joe said. “And much of the time, the folks who could have been killed were us.”

“You're not suggesting that the Fernandezes laid out the course to thin the competition?” Frank said.

“I know, unlikely,” Joe replied. “But this definitely seems out-of-bounds, even for an Enduro race.” He twisted his throttle and shot down the trail once more. Frank followed behind.

They went as fast as they could but only caught a glimpse of the leaders ahead of them. As they came out of the woods, back onto the dirt raceway at the Fernandez Cycle Track, they spotted Paco and Hawk streaking toward the finish line.

The two battled head-to-head around the curves and over the whoopdedoos, then roared toward the final straightaway. At the last second, Paco surged forward, beating Amber Hawk by inches. The crowd in the grandstand went wild. Corrine Fernandez's voice boomed over the PA system: “And it's Fernandez by a nose! Paco wins! Paco wins!”

Each of the brothers smiled beneath his helmet, but they still had most of a lap to complete. The Hardys dueled side by side, going as fast as they could. Their arduous trek had tired them both, but neither was willing to admit defeat.

They glanced briefly at each other as they flashed over the finish line. Exhausted, both brothers skidded to a halt.

“Who came in third?” Joe asked, pulling off his helmet. “You or me?”

Frank shrugged and pulled off his helmet as well.

“A tie!” Corri's voice said over the loudspeakers. “A tie for third between Joe and Frank Hardy!”

Frank slapped his brother on the shoulder.
“Well, that was satisfying,” he said. Joe smiled and laughed. The crowd that had assembled beside the raceway surged around them as they wheeled their bikes off the track.

The race officials ushered the Hardys to the Winners' Circle, an area just below a special grandstand stage set up for the awards ceremony. The stage was six feet tall, with a curtained-off area at the back. The Winners' Circle stood to the left of the platform. There, the brothers joined Paco and a very angry-looking Amber Hawk. “This is favoritism!” she complained. “It's all a plot to avoid giving away the prizes!”

“Do you think she could be right?” Joe whispered to Frank. “Could the Fernandez family have set all this up, just to get more money for themselves?”

“I'm hoping that Jules and Sylvia were the only criminals involved with the race,” he replied. “But let's see how all this plays out.”

Pops Fernandez came down from the announcer's tower to preside over the certification of the race results. “Now, now,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “No need to get upset. This race series is being presided over by official, impartial judges from the Northeastern Motocross Circuit. There will be no favoritism in our results.” He smiled again for the cameras that crowded around the winners.

Amber Hawk didn't look convinced. She scowled in the direction of the judges.

Pops talked to the race review committee while Amber Hawk fumed. Paco smiled broadly and shook hands as people congratulated him for winning the race. The media focused exclusively on the tension between Paco and Hawk, leaving the Hardys by themselves.

People milled around everywhere, trying to snatch up prime spots for viewing the awards ceremony. Many riders who hadn't finished the race had already made their way back to the compound. They joined the audience and sponsors, waiting for the awards to be handed out. Asa Goldberg and Trent Howard both stood in the crowd near the winners, beaming.

“Howard thinks he might have a shot at getting the SD5 from Paco,” Frank surmised. “Goldberg looks pretty pleased too.”

“This result played into their hands, all right,” Joe said. “In fact, most everything in the race seems to have gone their way.”

“Except for the damage to the motorcycle that Howard loaned Jamal,” Frank noted.

“Would you give up a newer bike to gain a classic from the Metzger garage?” Joe asked rhetorically.

Frank sighed with exasperation. “With all the trouble during the race—especially the last leg—I
don't see how there can really be an uncontested winner. No matter how it turns out, no one will be completely satisfied.”

“No one except the Fernandezes,” Joe said. “And maybe the cops. With the capture of Kendallson and Short, they can stamp this one ‘Case Closed.' ”

“Maybe,” Frank said. “A couple of things are still bothering me, though. I was paying attention to the way Short and Kendallson raced.”

“Me too,” Joe said. “You always have to check out the competition.”

“Did it seem to you that either of them had extraordinary riding skills?” Frank asked.

Joe shook his head. “Nope. They were pretty average. Short did okay in a couple of heats, but that seemed more luck than anything else. Even
she
seemed surprised by her success.”