Disaster for Hire (9 page)

Frank caught the banister, swinging his way up two stairs at a time.

Jenny followed close on his heels.

Joe had gotten the .38 away from Leon, sending it skidding along the hardwood floor into the wall.

The two of them were struggling on the floor, pummeling each other.

"Better call it quits, mate," Leon gasped as Joe slammed a knee into his midsection.

Joe broke free, struggling to his feet. Reaching down, he grabbed hold of the black-clad man's jacket and yanked him up. Then he punched Leon twice in the jaw.

The British thug staggered back, bumping into the frame of the smashed window. He spun and caught up a sharp fragment of broken glass. He lunged at Joe, trying to slash him.

Joe sidestepped, chopping at Leon's wrist with the side of his hand.

Howling in pain, Leon let go of the glass. All he succeeded in doing was slicing his own fingers. Blood dripped from the open wounds. With a snarl, he charged at Joe.

Bracing himself, Joe swung and hit the thug in the stomach. Leon gagged, clutched at himself, then dropped to his knees. Joe followed up with three jabs to the toppling man's chin.

That sent Leon all the way over. He hit the floor, and sighed before passing out.

Joe snatched up Leon's gun and tucked it into his waistband.

"You okay?" Frank ran around the bend in the hall.

"I think so," answered Joe, rubbing the back of his hand across his perspiring forehead. "Somebody's coming down from upstairs."

Frank heard the running footsteps too. "Into this room quick! This window lets out onto a porch roof," he said, raising it. "We can climb out, drop onto that, and then swing down to the ground."

"Jenny?" called Frank as he stepped out onto the shingled roof.

"Coming," she called.

Frank, holding his arms out to balance himself, went down to the edge of the slanting roof. Reaching the edge, he turned and caught hold of the heavy gutter.

He let himself down until he was hanging from the roof by his hands. The ground was about eight feet below. "Okay, let's try it," he said, and let go.

Landing on his feet, he stumbled, dropping to one knee. Then he turned and ran for the woods.

A gust of wind came out of the trees, blowing dry leaves into his face.

Reaching the pines, Frank stopped. He leaned against the trunk of one and caught his breath. He heard Joe running up close behind.

Back in the old mansion, a shot sounded.

Joe looked back the way they'd come. "What happened to Jenny?"

"Didn't you see her?"

"Well, no," Joe admitted. "But I thought she was right behind us."

Easing up to the edge of the woods, Frank looked back at the lawn and the old house.

Jenny was gone.

"THERE ARE TWO other guys in there besides the one I decked. Washburn — he must be the big blond guy you saw on the island—and Winter."

Joe drew the .38 from his waistband. "I'd say against those odds we stand a good chance of rescuing Jenny."

He started back for the house, gun in hand. "Let's get — " Then he froze, looking up at the sky. "More trouble!"

Chuffing down out of the night sky was a white helicopter. The craft blew grit and leaves all around as it landed on the lawn beside the mansion.

The front door of the house slammed open, and Dr. Winter came out, carrying a limp bundle — Jenny, tied and gagged.

"We've got to stop him." Joe took a step forward.

"Whoa." Frank took hold of his brother's arm. "Did you notice the guy in the chopper? The one with the automatic carbine?"

Joe struggled until light from the window flashed on the gun's muzzle. "They'll take her away. How can we follow?"

"I think I know where they'll be heading," Frank told him.

Dr. Winter stowed Jenny in the helicopter and, overcoat billowing, climbed aboard himself.

The chopper hesitated a few seconds, then started swaying. It huffed loudly and began to lift up into the darkness. After making a lazy turn, it began flying east.

"I think I'm right about where they're off to," said Frank. "Let's get back to the car."

They set off through the dark forest, with Joe leading the way.

"Slow down," Frank said, gripping his brother's shoulder. "You won't be able to help Jenny if you're too exhausted to fight." They reached the small clearing where Frank had hidden the car. He fished out the keys and got in.

Joe took the seat beside him. "By the way," he said, strapping himself in, "how'd you and Jenny wind up working together?"

Starting the car, Frank replied, "We ran into each other in Reisberson's Crossing—and both of us had reasons to get into Crosscut."

"I wish she'd teamed up with me instead of you."

"Somehow I thought you might."

"She's pretty—and smart. A nice combination."

Frank smiled. "To hear you two talk, I thought you didn't like each other."

"Come on, Frank, she doesn't really think I'm dumb."

"Oh sure. Oh, speaking of dumb, how'd you manage to get captured by Winter's hoods?"

"That wasn't too smart," admitted Joe. "I sort of got overanxious. See, I spotted Leon — he's the thin one I slugged. He came out of the cafe and headed down an alley. I barged right in, and one of them hit me from behind."

They sped along in silence for a moment.

Then Joe said, "We've got to drive through Crosscut to get to this old mill road you were telling me about, don't we?"

"That's right."

"How do we get around the sheriff's roadblock in the car?"

"Not around," said Frank. "We go through."

They came around a turn in the road and there was the pickup and the two sawhorses.

Sheriff Yates, still on duty, was sitting alone on the front fender of his dented truck. When he saw their car heading for the roadblock, he dropped hastily to the ground, waving his arms. "Wait! Stop! Nobody gets through!"

That was as far as he got before the car slammed into the sawhorses, which both went flying. One snapped in half and lost a leg. The other did a loop, landed in the back of the truck and banged into the tailgate.

"I'll shoot!" the sheriff yelled after them.

They didn't stop.

Before they reached Crosscut, Joe took a look out the back window. "There's a pair of headlights behind us, Frank," he announced. "It must be our old pal Sheriff Yates."

"We can outrun him."

"Unless he's got that old wreck souped up."

The road into town passed over a short wooden bridge. As they rolled over the planks, Frank said, "That kid mentioned a road near the mansion. I think I saw it while Jenny and I were sneaking up there to rescue you."

"You didn't rescue me, Frank," corrected his brother. "I escaped. You simply came barging in at the same time I was making my getaway."

Frank grinned. "Okay, I won't take any credit at all."

They were speeding through the night streets of the small, stricken town. The sheriff's old pickup was still about a block behind them, but not gaining.

"Not that I don't appreciate your efforts," continued Joe. "It's nice to know you can spring into action now and then and not just sit around thinking forever."

"Thanks for the kind words." Frank suddenly stiffened, and his eyes went wide. "Joe, look!"

The big Wheelan house was on fire. Its wooden porch was ablaze, and the shingled roof they'd climbed across was burning too. They could see flames growing inside the house as well—eating up furniture, curtains, drapes, even starting to devour the walls.

Now, as they drove closer, the intense heat inside started to explode the glass of the windows. Glittering fragments came cascading out, followed by roaring gusts of crimson flame.

"With this wind tonight," said Joe, "that fire's almost sure to spread to the woods."

"Lots of trees are dry, and some of them off in the woods are dead — the ones Dr. Winter tried his bacteria on." Frank's tone was grim. "This is too convenient to be an accident."

"We'd better find a phone and get the warning out," said Joe.

"All the lines have been cut." Frank drove on past the blazing old house and up the narrow hillside road he'd noticed earlier. He was gambling that this was the right way to get to the abandoned sawmill.

"Somebody's got to stop that fire," Joe insisted.

"The sheriff stopped chasing us," said Frank, checking the rear-view mirror. "He can radio to another town. There should be enough volunteers to stop the fire from spreading."

Frank had to keep all his attention on driving now. The road got even narrower when it started winding through the forest.

Joe looked back. "You know, Leon and Washburn didn't leave on that chopper."

"No," said Frank. "Your buddies must have stayed to set the fire."

"On Dr. Winter's orders."

"Yeah, exactly. Meaning Winter has probably panicked, destroying as much evidence as he can." Frank frowned. "This worries me, Joe."

"I wonder how much time we have." Joe leaned forward, clenching his fists as if he could will their auto to move faster down the logging road.

The car's engine groaned on for the next twelve miles, straining its way up the dark forest road. The headlights jiggled, splashing light on the blackness beyond. Sometimes the beams caught the eyes of an animal, turning them red.

"We don't know for sure what Dr. Winter has in mind," Frank said, breaking a long silence.

"Maybe they're just going to move Jenny to another spot."

"Come on, Frank. These aren't warmhearte considerate types we're dealing with," said Joe. "They just set fire to Crosscut. That's not exactly a kind gesture."

"They set fire to one house in Crosscut."

"By now the whole town may be burning, and the surrounding woodlands."

"Okay," said Frank. "I'm just hoping they're not going to murder Jenny and Dad in cold blood."

"They killed Jenny's father."

"But not before they'd worked out a way to put the blame on someone else."

Joe gave an impatient shake of his head. "That was back when they thought they had lots of time. Now they're on the run."

"We'll be up there soon — Uh - oh." Frank hit the brakes.

Their car jerked to a sudden stop, skidding to the right.

The headlights showed a massive log lying across the road, blocking their way.

Joe started to open the door. "Maybe we can drag it away."

"Hold it." Frank caught his brother's arm with his right hand, killing the lights with his left. "That tree didn't topple there on its own."

"You're right." Joe stared out into the surrounding darkness. "Leon and Washburn may still be out there."

Frank shifted into reverse, guiding the car back down the road. "We'd better put a little distance between us and that barrier before we hop out to investigate."

"Nobody's shot at us yet."

"So I noticed," Frank said, still backing up.

"Maybe they just dropped the tree there and went on to the sawmill."

"We don't want to take a chance on that." Frank braked, turned off the engine, and put the car in Park. He waited five seconds, then opened his door and dove into the night.

Joe dropped out of his side Of the car.

The wind was strong — it moaned through the dark branches overhead.

Frank came around to his brother's side of the car. He tapped him on the arm, pointing into the forest.

Together the Hardys left the road. It took them nearly ten minutes to make their way through the trees to the barrier. Finally, crouched beside the road and hidden by brush, they stopped and listened.

Frank nodded and stepped out into the road. He boosted himself up, climbed over the log and dropped clear on the other side of it.

Nothing happened.

After waiting a moment, Joe climbed over, too. "No ambush," he observed.

"Nope. They were satisfied just to slow us down."

"I don't like that," said Joe. "It sounds like they think they don't need that much time to take care of things at the mill."

"We'll find out when we get there," said Frank. "Right now we've probably got a three-mile jog."

"Ready when you are," said Joe as he started trotting up the treacherous dark road.

The mill was a high, wide, plank building, sitting on the edge of a brush-covered hillside that dropped away to a dark twist of river below. The stars in the clear night sky were reflected in the rushing water.

Joe and Frank were in the forest at the edge of the wide clearing that bordered the sawmill — maybe five hundred feet from the building. Bright lights showed at several of the narrow windows.

"No lights, no guards," Frank muttered.

But Joe nudged his brother. "Look over there."

At the far edge of the old mill a husky figure was crouched in the moonlight.

"That's your pal Washburn, isn't it?" asked Frank.

"Yeah, but what's he — Hey, that's a gasoline can he's got."

Moonlight flashed on the five-gallon can of gas that the thickset Washburn was uncapping.

"He's splashing gas all over the walls and on that pile of old lumber stacked up there."

Joe's voice was tight. "That means they're going to torch the mill right away."

"Unless," Frank said, "we stop them."

The two separated. Joe circled quietly around, gun in hand, to come up on Washburn from behind. Frank would approach from another direction.

Downhill Joe heard the sound of the rushing river. He crouched, trying to remain hidden behind the shrubs that dotted the hillside.

As he darted from one protective clump to the next, his foot dislodged a rock. The stone, about the size of a baseball, took off, rolling and bouncing down toward the water.

Joe hunched down low.

After silently counting off a full two minutes, he risked moving on.

Within another two minutes, he had reached a stand of brush just fifty feet behind the old mill.

There was only one snag, Joe realized as he risked a look.

Washburn was no longer in sight.

Joe took another look, slow and careful. Maybe he just went back inside for another can of gas— or a pack of matches.

Then a loud roaring was born close to his right ear.