Survival Run (8 page)
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Gray Man seemed unfazed by Joe's charge. "This isn't some harmless kid's game. It's a deadly and dangerous business."
"A business?" Joe spat out the words. "Get out your calculator and tell me how much a person's life is worth."
"I warned you boys to stay out of this affair," the Gray Man said, pulling away from Joe. "I told you to go home and forget about it. Did you really expect me to blow the whole mission to rescue you from a deep hole after you practically jumped into it?"
"I'm not talking about me," Joe shot back. "I'm talking about Gina!"
"What about Gina?" Frank cut in.
Joe jabbed an accusing finger at the Network director. "He, or one of his men, killed her. It doesn't make any difference. Either way, he's responsible."
Frank put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Hold on a second. Did you see this happen?"
"No," Joe admitted. He told his brother about the hasty exit from the Assassins' hideout and repeated Bob's version of what had happened to Gina.
"So you didn't even see Gina's body," Frank noted after Joe finished.
"No," Joe replied. "But she's not here, is she? Do you think she's still wandering around in the woods?"
"I think we have to accept the possibility that at least part of the Assassins' story is true," the Gray Man said somberly. "Somehow, they knew about the raid. So Gina probably did make it back to the mine to warn them, hoping that would save Joe."
"What about the rest of the story?" Joe responded sharply.
"You have to admit that it's a little farfetched," Frank said calmly. "Gina got all the way from here to the mine with a fatal bullet wound?"
"It's more likely that one of the terrorists shot her when she stumbled into the hideout," the Gray Man remarked.
"I didn't hear any shots," Joe argued.
"If you were deep inside the mine," Frank reminded him, "it's possible that you wouldn't have heard a gunshot from near the entrance."
"It's also possible that the Assassins took her outside and shot her after she delivered the warning," the Gray Man added.
Joe stared at him. "Why would they do that?"
"So they could tell you a story about how the Network murdered her," Frank explained, "and recruit you to kill the Gray Man. That's why you're here, isn't it? That's why they let you go?"
Joe's eyes widened with horror at the thought of such a cold, calculated act. But he knew from experience that the Assassins were experts at ruthless cruelty.
He sat down with a sigh that was almost a groan. "You're right," he conceded. "That's just the kind of slimy, ugly thing they would do."
"Let's try to look at the good side," the Gray Man said.
This time Frank and Joe both stared at him in disbelief.
"We have a chance to penetrate the most notorious terrorist group in the world," the Gray Man explained. He looked at Joe. "With you on the inside, we might be able to rescue Dr. Stavrogin and bring the Assassins' whole web of terror crashing down on their heads."
"There's one minor detail," Joe pointed out. "I have to kill you first. Bob called it my initiation rite. Of course, I never planned to carry it out."
The Gray Man shrugged. "If my death is what it takes, we'll just have to make it happen."
***
The sun was rising in the southeast as Frank pushed the last cartridge back into the pistol clip. "All set," he announced, slotting the clip into the housing inside the handgrip. The spring-loaded clip slid home easily in the well-oiled weapon, locking in place with a sharp metallic snick.
"We're almost ready here, too," Joe said, taping a small plastic bag to the Gray Man's back. The bag was filled with a sluggish red liquid. "Watered-down catsup makes pretty good blood," he noted. "It's a good thing we have a well-stocked refrigerator."
After he finished taping the bag in place, he checked the string wrapped around the top that held the bag closed. The string was tied in a bow, and one end of the string went up to the Gray Man's shoulder and down his right arm, all the way to his hand. A few thin strips of tape kept the string from slipping.
The Gray Man put his jacket back on slowly and carefully. Another string was hooked by a safety pin to a small rip in a seam in the back of the jacket. That string went down the left sleeve.
"I hope this works," Joe said, picking up the pistol.
Frank scooped up one of the shiny, steeljacketed lead slugs that were lying on the galley counter. "All you have in that gun are cartridges with detonator caps and enough powder to make a nice loud bang. There's no bullet to hit anything."
Joe turned to the Gray Man. "Remember, when you hear the first shot, pull the left string and then the right."
The Network director smiled. "Don't worry. Even if it doesn't work perfectly, it should be good enough for any prying eyes in the woods. If the Assassins do have a man out there watching, he won't be close enough to see any details. You just have to look like you really want to kill me."
"And you just have to look like you're really dead," Joe replied.
The Gray Man pulled out his radio phone and rattled off a few last-minute orders to the two men outside. "One last thing," he said to the Hardys as he stuffed the compact phone in his jacket pocket. When his hand came out, it wasn't empty. He was holding a small metal disk, about the size of a dime.
"This is a homing device," he explained, handing the disk to Frank. "I always carry it in combat situations in case I get separated from my men and they need to locate me in a hurry.
"You activate it by pressing the point of a sharp object, like a pencil, into a tiny hole on the side. Use it only in an emergency. As long as it's not on, it won't be picked up by any electronic bug detectors the Assassins might have."
Frank took off one of his sneakers, slit open the padded arch support with his Swiss army knife, and wedged the disk inside the padding.
"Good idea," Joe said. "The way your feet smell, that's the last place anybody would want to look."
Frank smiled. "Let's just hope the Assassins are willing to take both of us."
"They already know you're coming with me," Joe replied. "I told them that we were a team."
"Well," Frank said, "I think we've covered everything. Ready?"
The Gray Man moved over to the door and nodded.
Joe took a deep breath. "Let's do it."
"On the count of three," Frank said. "One ... two ... three!"
The Gray Man pushed the door open and jumped out of the motor home. "No! Please!" he screamed. "Don't shoot!"
Joe leapt out after him and swung the pistol into firing position. "You have to pay for Gina!" he shouted at the fleeing man.
Joe squinted down the pistol sight, aiming for the middle of the Gray Man's back. He started to pull the trigger, hesitated, and shifted his aim slightly to the left of his target. He knew Frank had removed all the slugs, but he decided not to take any chances. Finally he squeezed the trigger. The weapon boomed. The spent cartridge flew out. The Gray Man lurched forward and the back of his jacket ripped open. A flow of red seeped out and spread down the jacket.
Joe fired again. His target jerked convincingly, stumbled, and fell facedown.
Frank ran over to the fallen man and knelt beside him. The Gray Man lay still, silent. Frank leaned closer. The dead man opened one eye and gave him a quick wink.
"He's dead!" Frank called out. "You killed him! We'd better get out of here!"
The two Network agents ran around from the far side of the motor home. "Halt!" one of them yelled. "Throw down your weapon!"
Joe bolted for the cover of the trees, with Frank right on his heels. Two submachine guns chattered in unison behind them. None of the bullets flew anywhere near the Hardys, though.
They ran through the woods for over a mile, until they came to a fire road that wasn't much more than an overgrown trail with a pair of parallel ruts outlining it. Joe stopped and pulled a hand-drawn map out of his pocket. He peered up and down the trail.
"This is the spot where Bob said they'd pick us up," Joe said. "I thought they'd be waiting here."
"Maybe they are," Frank responded, pointing up the trail to a solid patch of green that glinted in the early morning sun. "I don't think any metal bushes grow in this climate."
As they walked toward it, the patch of green metal - which was concealed in the tall brush by the side of the road - resolved itself into a stripped-down Jeep with a heavy-duty roll bar and no roof.
"Hello?" Joe called out as they neared the vehicle. "Anybody home?" There was no reply. He waded through the brush to take a closer look.
Frank started to follow, but something about the setup made him nervous. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking into a trap, like the wire strung between the two trees that almost took his head off. He had called it a trip wire at the time, but he knew that really wasn't the right term. A trip wire was a trigger that set off a booby trap, and the name came from the fact that it was usually something you tripped over.
Frank froze in his tracks. "Don't move!" he called urgently.
Joe glanced back over his shoulder. "What did you say?" His ankle snagged on something, and he tugged his foot away.
Frank spotted the doubled-over sapling just before it sprung free from the line that held it down. The top half of the tree would whip up, releasing a yard-long sharp stake to fly out straight at Joe's heart.
Frank moved without thinking. Only his reflexes stood between Joe and a stake whittled down to a needle-sharp point.
The heel of Frank's foot slammed into the back of Joe's knee in a swift side kick. Joe's leg buckled, and he swayed backward. Frank's arms shot out, and he grabbed Joe by the shoulders to jerk him back and down. Joe lost his balance and fell into his brother, sending them both crashing to the ground.
Freed from the bonds that had kept it doubled over, the top of the young sapling whipped up from the ground. The force of the sudden release pushed the small tree almost all the way in the other direction. The top branche whacked Joe's face before the tree snapped back. It whipsawed violently a few times before settling back into its normal upright stance.
When the tree stopped shimmying, Joe got a good look at what he had almost walked into. The stake was long enough to puncture his chest, punch a hole in his back, and leave enough of the point sticking out to do some serious damage to anyone close behind him.
"If every car came with one of those gadgets," Joe remarked as he got up, "auto theft rates would go way down."
"Watch every step you take," Frank cautioned. "There could be more."
"I don't get it," Joe said. "Why would the Assassins set this trap for us?"
"That's not too hard to figure out," Frank replied. "They never really intended to let us join up with them. They were just using you to get at the Gray Man."
"That's possible," Joe admitted. "But why bother going to all this trouble to kill a couple of insignificant teenagers? We don't even know how to find them. We don't know their names. If that pilot's real name is Bob, my real name is Carbunkle."
"This booby trap is real," Frank countered, tapping the sharp stake. "If the Assassins didn't leave this little surprise for us, who did?"
"Somebody who doesn't like us?" Joe ventured.
"Good guess," Frank said. "Could we narrow that down a little?"
Joe thought about it for a minute and nodded. "An Assassin who doesn't like us."
"You think one of the terrorists did this on his own? Who?"
"If I had to bet on it," Joe replied, "I'd put my money on Boris."
No other surprises jumped out to greet them as they worked their way slowly to the Jeep. There was a large manila envelope resting on the driver's seat, and Joe was itching to find out what was inside.
"Don't touch anything!" Frank snapped, slapping Joe's hand away as he started to reach into the Jeep for the envelope.
Frank leaned into the cab and scrutinized the dashboard, seats, and floor. He popped the hood release, moved around to the front of the vehicle, and ran his fingers along the grille on both sides of the safety latch before thumbing the latch to lift the hood. He inched the hood up a crack and peered under it. Then he lifted the hood all the way and went over the engine like a wary used car buyer. After that he got down on his hands and knees and checked underneath the Jeep.
When Frank was finally satisfied that the vehicle wasn't going to blow up the first time he sneezed, he picked up the envelope from the front seat and opened it.
"Boom!" Joe blared in his brother's ear, cupping his hands around his mouth.
Frank dropped the envelope and staggered back. His eyes narrowed to an icy glare when he saw the wide smirk on his brother's face. "That wasn't funny," he said.
Joe scooped up the envelope and shook out the contents. "One map and one set of car keys," he noted. He hopped into the driver's seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and started the engine. "Let's go for a ride."
A great deal less eagerly, Frank climbed into the passenger seat. "We could be driving right into a trap, you know."
Joe shrugged and shifted into first gear. "When has that ever stopped us?"
***
"I'll say one thing for the Assassins," Joe said an hour later, shifting gears to take the Jeep down a steep grade, "they sure know how to map out a scenic route."
The gravel "highway" they were on wound down to a long bridge across a wide river. There were mountains behind them, mountains to the right and left, and more mountains waiting ahead on the other side of the rushing river. The rough road that cut a swath through the evergreens was the only man-made scar on the pristine wilderness.
Under other circumstances Joe might have enjoyed the ride and the scenery, but now he couldn't stop thinking about Gina. It was hard to believe she was dead. He knew it wasn't his fault, but he still felt guilty because she'd died to save him.
Frank glanced over at the odometer and then checked the map. "We've been traveling north on this road a little over forty miles," he noted. "So that must be the Yukon River. Another hour at this rate and we'll be inside the Arctic Circle."
"Make it an hour and a half," Joe responded as the Jeep rumbled across the bridge. "There's a gas station and a restaurant up ahead. I want to stop to fill up the tank and my stomach."
"Sounds good," Frank said, turning into the restaurant's parking lot. "It's a long haul to the next town."
Once inside the restaurant they found a corner table and ordered lunch. Frank glanced around to make sure nobody was close enough to listen in, then leaned across the table and spoke to his brother in a low voice. "Our number-one priority should be to make sure the Assassins don't get the information they need to make the bomb."
"That's up to Dr. Stavrogin." Joe pointed out.
"Exactly," Frank said. "So we have to contact Stavrogin as soon as we hook up with the Assassins and get him out of this mess."
The whispered discussion was interrupted by the arrival of their food, delivered by a jovial, round waitress. "Are you boys up here on vacation?" she asked.
"That's right," Frank responded.
"We always wanted to see the Arctic Ocean," Joe added.
"That's too bad," the waitress said, "because you can't get to the ocean on this road."
Joe frowned. "What do you mean? The Dalton Highway goes all the way to Prudhoe Bay, doesn't it?"
"Sure it does," the waitress said. "But you need a special permit to drive past Disaster Creek. That's about a hundred and fifty miles from here."
Frank pulled the map out of his pocket, pushed the dishes out the way, and unfolded the map on the table. "Could you show us where that is?"
The waitress leaned over and studied the map. "It's not marked, but it's right about here." Her finger rested on a spot about an inch below an X penciled on the map.
"We have a small problem," Frank told Joe after the waitress had drifted off to refill coffee cups. "The place where we're supposed to rendezvous with the Assassins is about fifty miles beyond the point where we can go legally."
"No problem," Joe said with a smile. "I'll get us the first three-quarters of the way there. All you have to do is come up with a plan to get us the last twenty-five percent of the distance."
Frank didn't need to work out the numbers in his head. "You mean you'll drive the hundred and fifty miles to Disaster Creek, and I have to figure out how to get us onto the restricted highway past there."
Joe didn't respond. He just continued to smile through a mouth full of food.