Countdown to Terror (5 page)

Frank pretended not to hear that. "There's still one place we have to check out." He pointed to a pillbox rising on the crest of the slope.

They climbed to the top of the hill and saw a huge stretch of harbor. "This must have been where they aimed the guns," Joe said.

"Great view, but a lousy place to hide," Frank complained.

"Looks like this isn't the fort Dundee meant. And we've run out of places to hide," Joe said.

Frank was about to agree when he saw movement on the other side of the hill, back where the path came out of the woods. Their pursuers had finally caught up. "Down," he snapped at Joe.

Crouched in the tall grass, they counted seven guys, all toting guns. The turbaned leader and one of the others carried mini-Uzis.

"The gang's all here," Joe whispered. "What do we do now?"

Frank watched as the tracking party broke up. "Come on," he whispered. They slithered along until the old pillbox blocked them from sight, then Frank ran down the back of the hillside toward the abandoned blockhouse.

"We want to be lying down and ready when the first guy comes around this curve," Frank said, pointing at the path. "They're all splitting up to search." He looked his brother in the eye. "We didn't do too well finding a hiding place—but how about grabbing a hostage?"

Moments later Joe lay motionless in the brush, the rank stink of weeds in his nose. He pinched his nostrils. This wasn't the time to sneeze.

They'd chosen their spot carefully — it left them hidden, with a clear view of the path. Now it was down to waiting.

They heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Please let him be alone, each boy prayed to himself.

The searcher rounded the curve — he was alone. He wore a striped shirt, had a deep tan, and carried a 9 mm Beretta in his right hand. The gun pointed at the ground. He was ambling as if he were on a picnic.

Frank and Joe both rose. This was their chance.

Joe's feet caught the guy in the back. The gunman flopped to the ground, but twisted around and raised his gun. Frank stomped his wrist, then kicked the gun away. Joe came down with a roundhouse right. The guy was out before he had time to yell.

Frank grabbed the gun while Joe dragged their prisoner out of sight behind the blockhouse. Now it all depended on timing. They had to cut down and across the hill before the rest of the seven made it around to their position at the back of the hill.

Just as the Hardys were starting off they heard a shout from quite near. The words didn't make sense — they were in some foreign language—but the message was clear. Someone had discovered that one of their men had disappeared.

The Hardys pulled their prisoner upright and dragged him around to the front of the hill. Now, if there wasn't a guard at the fort entrance ... Frank and Joe could hear shouting from the back of the hill now — loud, worried voices calling what was probably their captive's name. They were almost in the clear — the forest was only a few feet away and it would give them all the cover they'd need. But, no. One of the searchers must have backtracked, spotted them, and was now letting out a wild yell.

Frank pivoted and snapped off a shot that pinged against a concrete wall on one of the dugouts. The guy hit the dirt, still yelling.

"Let's hustle," Frank muttered. But their prisoner, who was awake now, did his best to hold them back. He dug in his heels as the boys yanked on his arms. "Look, stupid — "

Frank jammed the gun into the prisoner's side.

"No!" The bellow came from behind them. Frank glanced back to see that the pursuers had formed a line, all with weapons up and leveled straight at them. But they weren't shooting — their turbaned leader had shouted to hold their fire. Probably didn't want them hitting their guy.

The Hardys took off down the trail. This time their fear gave them superhuman strength, and their prisoner bounced easily between them.

But speed was impossible on the stones — either the small pebbles turned under their feet, or the mud slowed them. They could hear the crunch of shoes on the pebbles behind them.

"Don't know if we can beat them this way," Joe gasped. "Maybe we'd better take off for the woods."

"If we were alone." Frank glanced at the prisoner. "Couldn't manage him there."

For Joe, the escape was like a nightmare in which he had to run but his feet were stuck in glue. He plowed along, his head down, gripping the captive's right arm. Mosquitoes swarmed in his face. Just ahead, he heard a bird calling.

Then off to his right, in the woods, he heard the crackle of brush.

"They're circling around us," he said as they stumbled down in the marshy part of the trail. "If they catch us where the island narrows ... "

He didn't need to say any more.

The trio staggered a little faster, but Frank and Joe knew it was hopeless. The ambush was just ahead, any time, any place.

They had almost reached the shore of the lake when Frank saw the duck family he'd noticed earlier suddenly lift off from the water. What had scared them? Then, at the edge of the water behind a tree, he saw the telltale edge of a loud sports shirt.

"Joe," he whispered, nodding with his head.

Following Frank's eyes, Joe caught sight of the ambusher. He grinned. "Hold him here a second," he said, bending down to collect a few good-size stones.

He slipped off the path, skirting along the mucky edge of the lake. When he was behind the ambusher, he began hurling rocks at top speed.

The guy stepped back, lost his balance, and toppled into the lake with a splash.

Heads appeared from behind other trees, and Frank sent a couple of bullets whistling over their heads before dropping and taking cover.

The ambush disintegrated into wild shooting and shouting.

"Who's fooling with those blasted fireworks?" an angry voice demanded. From the turnoff leading to the lake stalked two angry tourists from the boat. "It nearly scared us to death."

Guns and ambushers disappeared at the first sign of witnesses. So did Frank, Joe, and the captive—straight for the dock.

Just before they emerged from the forest, Frank suddenly handed Joe the gun and pointed behind them. The prisoner turned to look—and when he did, Frank grabbed his neck, digging into two pressure points. The guy was out.

When the captain saw the Hardys carrying their new friend onto the boat, he asked what had happened to him.

"I don't know," Joe said.

The captain stood at the helm and steered the boat away from the dock. Frank sat beside the "patient" in the cockpit. The captive lolled in his seat, head down, hands dangling between his knees. Joe stood by the door, his eyes on the One stairway that led up to the deck they were on, his hand on the gun in his pocket.

"Captain," Frank said, "you may want to radio the Halifax police. This guy — "

Before he could finish the sentence, the prisoner bolted upright, slammed Frank to one side, and reached for his ankle. Then he was on his feet, four inches of gleaming knife blade in his hand.

"No radio," he said, threatening the captain with his knife. The guy spoke English all along. Then he turned to Joe. "You give me the gun."

Joe had the pistol in his hand, but there was no chance for a clear shot without endangering the captain or his brother. He stepped back out onto the sundeck. The prisoner grabbed the captain, using him for cover as he followed.

"The gun—before I lose patience."

His knife gleamed at the captain's throat now.

Joe had retreated all the way to the ship's rail. The escaped prisoner pursued, pushing the captain ahead of him.

"The gun," the man snarled.

Joe knew that once this guy had the pistol in his hand, it was all over. He had only one choice. . . .

Holding the gun out, he tossed it in a high arc over the rail and into the water below.

The thug's eyes followed the Beretta. And in that moment Joe's fist flashed out. He caught the guy in the side of the head, sending him staggering toward the rail. The captain batted his knife hand away, dodging in the opposite direction.

Before the guy could bring his knife up again, Joe unleashed a sledgehammer right — an uppercut that lifted his opponent high into the air.

Then the guy tumbled back—over the rail and into the waters of Halifax Harbor.

"MAN OVERBOARD!" the captain shouted.

From the lower deck, Frank and Joe could hear running footfalls as crewmen and tourists dashed for life preservers.

They easily spotted the guy in the water by the brightly colored shirt he wore. He was floating facedown, the shirt billowing up and over his back. Frank and Joe watched as someone threw out a rope with a life preserver attached.

But the guy in the water didn't even make an attempt for it.

"Something's very wrong here," the captain said, slipping off his shoes and shirt. He dove into the water from the sundeck and swam over to the escaped prisoner. After hooking one arm around him and the other around the life preserver, he let the crew haul them back to the boat.

Frank and Joe ran down to the lower deck in time to help drag the limp form of the prisoner over the side. Laying him facedown, the crew brought his arms up over his head, trying to force any water from his lungs. Only a little came up.

"Let me," Frank said. "I know mouth-to-mouth."

The captain shouted to the pressing crowd, "Give us some room. We have the situation in hand." The tourists moved off.

Frank bent the guy's head back to open the breathing passage. Then he opened the man's mouth, took a deep breath, and pinching the guy's nose, leaned over to pump air into his lungs.

But before he reached the guy's mouth, he flinched and moved back, his eyes watering.

"What's the matter?" Joe demanded.

"He's dead," Frank said simply.

The captain knelt by the man, first feeling for a heartbeat, then for a pulse. "You're right," he said, abruptly standing. "Look at his lips."

Even as they watched, the man's lips were taking on a bluish tinge.

"Cyanosis — a typical indication of lack of oxygen," the captain said. He gave a half smile at Frank's surprised look. "During the school year I go to medical school."

He frowned down at the still form on the deck. "Get a blanket from inside the cabin to cover him up." Then he headed up the stairs, back to his cockpit. "I'd better get on the horn to the police."

His frowning gaze shifted from the body to Frank and Joe. "Shame about the poor guy," he said. "Drowning on such a small amount of water."

A crewman brought a blanket to cover the dead body. "What made you jump back like that?" Joe asked after he left.

"Something I smelled," Frank replied. "He was right about the cyanosis. But that guy didn't turn blue from lack of oxygen. I smelled cyanide on him."

Joe blinked. "Cyanide? You mean someone poisoned him?"

"Nope. I think he poisoned himself," Frank answered. "The smell seemed to come from around his mouth. He may have crushed a pill between his teeth."

"Come on," Joe said in disbelief. "The next thing you're going to tell me is that he's an Assassin." He shook his head and smiled at his brother.

The Hardys had crossed swords with the Assassins before, fighting desperate battles with these terrorists for hire. They'd thwarted an assassination attempt against a presidential candidate and an attempt to cut the Alaskan pipeline.

But those victories had come at a high cost, Iola Morton, Joe's first love, had disappeared in a fireball from an Assassin bomb, a bomb that had been meant for Frank and Joe.

Silence grew as Frank didn't answer his brother.

"I mean, let's get real," Joe said. "Assassins in Halifax?"

Frank shrugged. "You said the same thing about Assassins in Alaska," he said. "Think a minute. This guy follows their method of operation — he died rather than be captured and questioned."

They stood beside the covered form, silent for the twenty-minute ride back to Halifax.

It was dinnertime when the ferry docked, and since the boys were near, they headed for the Hungry Guardsman. Strange, they thought. There were no diners in the outdoor cafe area, and when Joe pushed against the door, it was locked.

Just as he was turning away, the door popped open, and the pert face of Shauna MacLaren appeared. "Sorry, we're closed — getting ready for a private party."

Then she recognized the Hardys. "Aren't you the guys who gave me a ten and left most of your dinners on the table last night?" she asked. "Are you hoping for a refund?" She grinned at Joe with a flirtatious look in her eye.

"Actually, we were hoping just to come in and finish a meal," Joe said. "But if you're closed — "

"Oh, come on in. I can make you a sandwich at least. I mean, we have a reputation to protect," she said, tossing the words over her shoulder on the way to the kitchen.

With sodas and two thick sandwiches of something called "smoked meat" in hand, Frank and Joe were soon sitting with Shauna in the empty restaurant. Most of the staff were still working in the kitchen, but she'd finished her chores.

They chatted for a few moments before Shauna asked, "So how do you like Halifax?"

The Hardys glanced at each other for a second, then Joe said, "It's not the easiest city we've ever visited." He went on to explain why they'd come there and what misadventures they'd had.

Shauna shook her head. "I heard about that car exploding on the news. And you've been checking out forts ever since? I wonder if you met my friend Charlie Bell — he's a corporal in the Seventy-eighth this year. We go to school together."

Her face grew more and more serious as she heard about the incident on the excursion boat. "So you think he poisoned himself?" She shuddered.

"What I don't understand is how they found us so quickly," Joe said. "We changed hotels and didn't even get our luggage. When we started out today, we took a long walk, just to see if we did have a tail. And I'll swear we didn't."

Frank nodded. "I've been thinking about that, too. They couldn't just have picked up on us at the Citadel. There wouldn't have been time to rig that bomb. They had to have tailed us, or they just happened to see us at Fort Needham Park. And then they overheard our plan to go to the Citadel. It had to be that they just stumbled on us."