Deathgame (7 page)

The green tops of trees rushed by directly under them.

"I talked with your friend Biff for several hours. He took me into his confidence while I was giving him personal instruction in combat." Brand shrugged. "I knew his parents didn't have the faintest idea where he had gone. And he was good at the game, a natural for combat. Perhaps I was a little eager."

The dark eyes turned to Joe, displeased. "Unfortunately, Biff did not tell me he had confided in you. I must admit, I was a little taken aback by first the inquiries and then your sudden visit."

The plane dipped. Joe's stomach lurched. The plane's wheels touched ground, bumping them about in their restraints.

"What's happened to Biff?" Frank asked, dreading the answer.

Brand shook his head sadly. "He hasn't been totally cooperative."

"Good old Biff!" Joe said with a laugh.

Those dark, reptilian eyes turned on Joe. "When you two showed up with the sheriff, well, you can imagine. I radioed the colonel—our people here had to interrogate the boy rather severely." Brand's voice made that sound as if it was a pity. "I'm rather afraid to see what, if anything, is left of him."

With that, Brand strode to the plane's cockpit. Moments later the Hardys were untied and escorted from the cabin at gunpoint.

Frank and Joe halted on the plane steps, stunned. Built into the side of a rust-colored mountain they saw a fantastic, old-fashioned fortress. High bastions stood at each corner of the stone edifice, and uniformed, armed guards patrolled the battlements. "It's authentic," Brand said proudly, "built in the eighteenth century to deal with pirates. With some renovations, it was quite suitable for the colonel's needs."

But Frank and Joe weren't noticing the scenery. Standing before the plane, directly ahead of them, was Colonel Hammerlock himself.

Brand shoved them forward. Both of the Hardys almost fell down the steps.

"Now, move!" Brand commanded.

Frank knew that Joe wanted to attack; his brother had been itching for action from the moment they'd been untied.

"Not now!" he whispered quickly. "Let's find out where Biff is and what kind of shape he's in first."

"Yeah. You're right," Joe muttered as they marched toward the colonel. In person, the colonel looked much as he had in his picture, but even larger and more impressive. He was bare-chested, except for a shoulder holster and a bandolier of ammunition. He stood in the hot sun, his powerful torso gleaming with sweat.

"Where do you think we are?" Joe whispered.

"Some deserted island in the Caribbean," Frank replied with a shrug.

Brand shoved Frank again. "Don't speak until you're spoken to," he ordered.

Colonel Hammerlock did not move until they reached him. He wore a red bandanna knotted about his head. He held a Super Blackhawk pistol trained on the Hardys. As he raised it level with Joe's eyes, a snake tattoo rippled along his arm muscles. The heavy gun seemed puny in his huge fist.

He surveyed Frank and Joe as if he could not believe what he saw. "You mean to tell me, Brand, that it was two no-accounts like this who forced us to close the center?"

Brand looked uneasy. "Sorry, sir. These are the ones."

Frank pointed to the gun. "That's not one of your trainee's target pistols," he observed. "You're right," the colonel said in a guttural voice. "This weapon fires eighteen rounds of MTM forty-four Magnum ammunition." Some of the colonel's words were slurred, and Joe realized that he suffered from partial paralysis on the right side of his face.

Colonel Hammerlock looked at the gun lovingly, then gazed at Frank. "The weapon has been tested on Asiatic water buffalo, as well as wild boar. Goes right through 'em. Imagine what it does to humans." With a laugh, the colonel turned and started toward the entrance to the fortress. Brand nudged the Hardys, and reluctantly they followed.

Inside, the colonel led them to a set of stone steps that descended into a network of subterranean corridors. The stone walls were damp. The air smelled of mud and decay.

"Where are you taking us?" Joe demanded.

"You'll see," Brand replied.

Finally they reached a cobblestone corridor that led past huge metal doors with small barred windows set at their tops. Water dripped somewhere in the deep shadows.

"We keep transgressors down here," the colonel informed them.

"Transgressors?" Frank asked.

"Recruits with capabilities that could have made them invaluable additions to our organization. Some foolishly decline our offer to serve, as if they think they really have an option. Others are simply too rebellious."

The colonel stopped at a door midway along the corridor and took keys from a belt about his waist. "Some are not willing to be, uh, team players."

"My kind of people!" Joe exclaimed defiantly.

The colonel unlocked the door. "Good!" he said, thrusting the door open. "Then you can enjoy dying alongside them!"

Brand shoved them through the doorway, and the steel door slammed shut with an ominous clang.

Frank and Joe stood still for a moment, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. The room they were locked in was a dirt-floored dungeon. Rats scampered near a battered, bloodied figure that lay very still, half-obscured in shadow.

"Oh, no," said Frank, darting forward. "Biff!"

A LARGE RAT was sniffing around Biff's ankles.

Biff's hand feebly swiped at the rodent's well-fed body. Whipping its tail around, the animal let out a squeaky screech of protest, then fled into the shadowy recesses of the damp cell.

Frank felt a surge of adrenaline when he saw that weak gesture. It meant Biff was alive!

The Hardys knelt on either side of their friend. Gently, they propped him up against the stone wall.

Biff's face was swollen and bruised, but he managed a weak smile. "I knew you guys would find me. Knew it all the time."

"Yeah, we've got to get you back to Bayport. Football practice starts soon," Joe said, trying not to let Biff see how concerned he was. He knew he had to bolster Biff's hopes for escape.

Suddenly, Frank and Joe became aware of a shuffling sound behind them. They turned to see two other prisoners who shared the same dungeon quarters.

"Frank?" Biff mumbled.

"Yeah?"

"This is turning out not to be fun." Biff sagged back against the wall.

Frank nodded solemnly. "The real thing seldom is." He stood and faced the two other prisoners. "Where are your manners, Biff? You haven't introduced us to your cellmates."

"Hi. I'm Terrence Scott. Just call me Terry," said a black teenager as he extended his hand in greeting. He was in much better shape than Biff.

Terry's hair was cropped close to his head. His brown eyes were almond shaped, and they glittered with an alert curiosity that even his surroundings couldn't lessen.

Terry was as tall as Joe, with a thin, wiry build. His handshake was firm.

"Hey, Terry," Frank said. "How did you wind up here?"

Terry shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess." He grinned. "Biff's talked a lot about you two. Your reputation precedes you."

He gestured awkwardly toward Biff's battered body. "We've tried to help Biff as much as we could. They worked him over pretty thoroughly a couple of days ago." Terry breathed harshly. "Not much we could do for him. They confiscated all our medical equipment."

"You were one of the game players at Ultimo?" Joe asked.

"Yeah. Seemed like a good idea when I signed up. My father's an intelligence agent." Terry looked down at his muddied fatigues. "I thought I could follow in my dad's footsteps. Figured I'd impress him."

He took a deep breath. "Now I could kick myself for being so clever in covering my own tracks. I made it impossible for him to trace me."

In the silence, they could hear rat claws raking through dirt.

Terry turned to the remaining prisoner, who stood behind him.

"I suppose you'd like to meet the third occupant of our little abode." He held a palm out to indicate the figure, who stepped forward.

A girl! Joe thought, then corrected himself, a woman. She was about his age, seventeen. Did that make her a girl or a woman? Her handshake was as firm as Terry's. "I'm Lauren Madigan," she announced in a confident voice.

Her hair had been lightened by the sun to a golden blond. Her face was tanned, and her eyes were a clear blue. She stood just over five feet.

Lauren rubbed her hands together to keep them warm. "As long as we're telling life stories, I'll give you the condensed version of mine." She looked up at the high, hard ceiling, as if she could see her past up there. "I come from a large family in the Midwest, five brothers and three sisters. The first time I ever played a survival game, it was like a revelation to me."

"What do you mean?" Joe asked.

Lauren kicked out at a rat that was creeping near her booted foot. "Oh, it's hard to explain. I guess it was the first time I felt like I'd achieved something on my own."

She stared after the squealing rat. "When you have so many people around you—brothers, sisters—you just feel like you're part of a group. That you've lost your own personal identity."

She looked directly at Joe. "Every time I played at survival, it gave me a feeling of independence. It was something none of my brothers or sisters could or would do. My parents didn't approve of the games. They thought the games were endorsing violence. I thought they were offering freedom." She surveyed the walls glumly. "And for a time, they were. But not anymore."

It was the weirdest dinner party Joe had ever attended.

In the early evening, Brand had visited their cell, inviting the five of them to dine with the colonel.

Not that there was a choice. Brand and several armed guards led them to a large room on the second floor of the fortress. Two guards supported Biff between them. Frank wondered how his friend would be able to sit through the meal.

Hammerlock's inner sanctum was a combination dining room and armory. The walls and floor were decorated with a vast array of weaponry: guns, crossbows, suits of armor, broadswords — a virtual history of weapons collected in one room.

The center of the room was dominated by a long, elegant table, surrounded by high-backed, hand-carved wooden chairs. A sumptuously woven tablecloth covered the entire length. Joe shook his head in amazement at the embroidered scene it depicted: medieval knights charged on horses; samurai warriors attacked with swords; Civil War soldiers battled with bayonets and cannons; and modern soldiers marched with M-16s. There were ornate candlesticks placed along the center of the table, each with a tapered, flickering candle. Seven filigreed metal plates were set out.

Colonel Hammerlock sat at the head of the table, and at his nod orderlies appeared and served dinner. I should have expected this, Joe thought as they placed army ration packages on top of the metal plates.

"Dig in!" the colonel ordered. He immediately ripped open his package, pulled out a can, and attacked the top with a small can opener.

"This tops everything," Terry muttered to Frank.

Joe found the can opener in his package, and pulled out a green painted can labeled Peaches. He cut open the lid. Flecks of paint shredded into the syrup.

"Who designed these things, anyway?" he complained. "Is that paint supposed to add vitamins to my peaches?"

"Stop bellyaching!" Hammerlock ordered through a mouthful of food. "The paint just gives it a little texture." He chomped steadily, swallowed, and looked up at Joe. "I can see you don't have the kind of stamina necessary to be a part of our team."

Frank opened a can of Spam. "And just what team is that? The one you've created by kidnapping teenagers?"

The side of the colonel's face that was not paralyzed twitched. "What we have done is not kidnapping," he said with exaggerated calm. "It is merely the recruitment of a new fighting unit — my fighting unit!"

Joe noticed that Biff was barely eating. The colonel wiped some food from his lip. "True," he admitted after a long moment. "Some members might come unwillingly. Until they learn how their ability for combat — their individual strength—can be used to change the world."

"Then again," Brand interjected, staring at Lauren and Terry, "some recruits never learn."

Ignoring him, Hammerlock glared across the table at Joe and Frank. "Bureaucratic red tape ruined my military career. The essentials of how that happened are not important. What is important is that I have created an independent fighting unit that does not need to be sanctioned by any government or chain of military command to get a job done!"

Hammerlock continued, becoming more excited by his vision. The more fervent he became, the more he slurred his words.

"We have already begun. Perhaps you read about a strike on an airliner full of hostages taken by terrorists?"

Frank remembered. There had been speculation in the news at the time as to the identity of the rescue force. If his recollection was correct, a number of the hostages had died instead of being saved. And the mysterious rescuers had opened fire on law enforcement officials as well as on the terrorists.

"Oh, yeah, that fiasco," Frank said, knowing he was treading on thin ice.

Terry shot him a grin, but Hammerlock's face was mottled with rage. He pounded a fist on the table. "We'd have saved them all if it hadn't been for those pussy-footed police! They interfered with our plan!"

Since the ice was already cracking around him, Frank decided to ask about the San Marcos deal he had read about in the files he'd discovered at the Ultimo Survival Camp.

"You sound indignant and righteous," Frank said, carefully choosing his words. "But if you're so honorable, how could you provide mercenaries to San Marcos? There aren't any high ideals in that kind of business. It's a matter of making profit from human suffering."

Hammerlock stared past the candle flame that fluttered in the space between him and Frank. He slammed down his hand, snuffing out the flame with his palm.

"I don't know what you are talking about," he said in a very quiet voice.

"But I saw — "