Collision Course (12 page)

Frank signaled to Joe, and they both circled around the car from opposite sides, trapping the man between them.

Frank smiled. "Angus McCoy, I presume."

The man standing next to the sports car froze, his back to Frank. "You've made some kind of mistake," he said with a slight British accent. "My name is Drake."

"It is now," Frank agreed, closing the distance between them. "But a couple days ago it was — "

Suddenly the man spun around, swinging a heavy suitcase in his outstretched right hand, and cracked Frank square on the jaw. The blow knocked Frank backward, and he sprawled across the trunk of the car behind him.

"That's the last cheap shot you take at us!" Joe growled, coming at the man from the other side. He got a good look at "Drake." Joe guessed that he was about the same size as McCoy, although the cowboy hat perched on his head made him look a little taller. The wide brim of the hat made it hard to see the man's hair and eyes, but it was McCoy.

"Come on," Joe said sharply, shifting his weight on his feet and gesturing with his right hand. "Just you and me now, one on one. I can take you."

The man looked at Joe, sizing him up. Then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "You probably could," he agreed, and bolted for the garage entrance.

Joe ran over to his brother and helped him to his feet. "Are you okay?"

"I've been better," Frank muttered, rubbing his jaw. "But don't stop on account of me — let's get after him!"

The Hardys ran out of the garage and looked up and down the street. "There he goes!" Joe yelled, pointing off in the distance. "He's headed for the fairgrounds!"

They charged after him, running side by side. "Can't let him get too far ahead," Frank said, huffing, "or we'll lose him in the crowd."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem," Joe replied, watching the cowboy hat bobbing and weaving through the throng of racing personnel and curious spectators. He saw the hat veer off to the right and caught a glimpse of the man as he darted into one of the nearby sheds.

There was some muffled shouting and then the earsplitting roar of a Formula One engine. A race car lurched out of the shed, with a couple of very angry men in pursuit. One of them was obviously the guy who was supposed to be in the car, Joe noted, because he was wearing a one-piece protective driving suit.

The sleek, low-slung racing machine swerved out onto the roadway and took off down the course. "That's him!" Joe shouted. "He just stole that car!" Then he looked at his brother and said, "Well, "we can play that game."

"What do you mean?" Frank asked. But Joe had already surged ahead through the crowd.

Joe ran straight for the McCoy Racing shed. He skidded to a stop out in front and peered inside. Scott Lavin and Reinhart Voss were absorbed in conversation. The mechanic was putting the last of his tools away. Joe took a deep breath and walked calmly up to the race car. He swung his right leg over the side, then his left, and sat down on something hard and uncomfortable. It was Voss's crash helmet. Joe quietly fished it out from under him and slid the rest of the way into the cockpit. Then he pulled on the helmet and strapped himself in.

Joe held his breath and reached for the starter switch. Lucky these babies don't need keys, Joe thought, a brief smile passing over his lips. Otherwise I'd look pretty stupid sitting here.

He flipped the switch and was rewarded with the deafening blast of the 900-horsepower engine behind him bursting into life, the painful sound reverberating off the aluminum walls of the shed.

Frank arrived just in time to see the race car squeal out of the shed and onto the road. The sight of Reinhart Voss and Scott Lavin staring in amazement only confirmed what Frank already knew.

He didn't waste any time. He hurried over to Voss and said, "There's a two-way radio in that thing, isn't there?"

Voss just gave him a glazed look.

"We can talk to him, can't we?" Frank prodded.

"Oh, yes. Sure," Voss said after a moment. "We have a whole control center here, with a radio to communicate with the car anytime."

"Then let me talk to him," Frank urged.

The other driver had about a thirty-second lead on Joe, but he was hampered by scattered pedestrians on the course. The race wasn't scheduled to start for another hour, and people were still milling around, sometimes darting across the roadway, looking for a better vantage point to view the race. The lead car had cleared the way for Joe, and he could see it ahead as he rocketed down a straightaway.

Joe was surprised at how bumpy the ride was. His head was buffeted from side to side, and he could feel every little flaw in the road. Then he remembered that the car was designed that way — the aerodynamic "ground effects" practically sucked the bottom of the car to the pavement for better handling.

No wonder racing drivers wear helmets, he thought as his head slammed into the back of the seat and then rocked forward again. It keeps them from getting punch drunk.

He was closing in on the other car when it dawned on him that he had no idea what he was going to do once he caught up with it. Suddenly he heard a tinny voice squawking in his ear. "Joe, are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Great," he said out loud. "Now I'm hearing voices. Maybe it's my conscience—but why does it sound like Frank?"

"Joe," the voice came again, "if you can hear me, hit the talk-back switch on the console."

Joe realized it was the cockpit radio and flipped the switch. "Hey, brother!" he shouted over the roar of the wind and the engine. "What's shaking?"

"Sounds like you are," Frank quipped over the speaker. "Listen, I've got a plan."

"I hope it's better than mine."

"All you have to do is keep him on the race course. He won't even try to get off until he's well away from the congested downtown area, and even then he'll have to stop the car, get out, and move a barricade out of the way."

"I'm with you so far," Joe replied, switching his right foot from the gas to the brake and cranking the wheel hard to the left for a tight turn. He felt the back tires start to slide, and he pulled the wheel back to the right. The race car fishtailed wildly as it came out of the turn, and Joe thought he was going to lose it.

"Whoa!" he yelled as he fought with the steering wheel.

"Joe!" Frank cried. "Are you all right?"

There was silence on the other end, and then, "Urn — no problem. Everything's under control now. So you were saying?"

"All you have to do is stay close enough to prevent him from driving off the course onto some side road," Frank explained. "No heroics, okay?"

"Hey, you know me," Joe said.

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of," Frank replied. He handed the microphone to Scott Lavin and said, "Try to talk him through it."

"Where are you going?" Scott asked.

"I'm going to take a little drive myself," Frank said.

Frank hopped in the van, which was parked outside the shed, and started heading directly across the fairgrounds. The rough ride on the open terrain jostled Callie Shaw awake. She rubbed her eyes and said, "Where are we going?"

"McCoy stole a Formula One car and took off down the course, trying to escape. I don't have to tell you who's chasing him in Voss's car." Frank was silent for a moment, devoting his attention to a tight turn. Then he added, "I'm going to head them off."

Callie glanced at Frank. "In this thing? How will we even catch them, much less head them off?"

"Simple," Frank began. "The fairgrounds are in the northwest part of Bayport. The race course runs along the eastern border of the fairgrounds and then south through downtown. Then the course swings way out to the west and up the highway before turning back east to the ocean.

"We're taking a little shortcut to the north," he finished.

"But that will take us right out onto the cliff road!" Callie protested.

Frank nodded. "That's the idea."

"How are you holding up?" Scott's voice squawked in Joe's ear.

"I'm okay on the straightaways," Joe grumbled, "but he keeps moving farther ahead of me on every turn."

"What did you expect?" came the reply. "He's a pro. Just remember what I told you. Slow down before you hit the curve, and don't do a lot of downshifting. Keep it in a high enough gear so you won't lose a lot of time shifting back up when you come out of the turn.

"Keep your hands at the ten and two o'clock positions on the wheel," Scott went on. "Cross your arms on the turns if you have to, but don't move your hands."

Joe's hands were gripping the wheel so tightly that they were turning white. "Right," he said. "I think I've got that one down right. But I've got to close the distance somehow."

Joe saw the car ahead of him veer over to the side and slow down near a blocked-off cross street. "We'll have another driving lesson later!" he shouted. "It looks like he's making his move!"

He punched the accelerator to the floor and tore down the road, heading straight for the other race car. McCoy saw him coming, swerved back to the middle of the road and sped up again—but not fast enough. Now Joe was right on his tail, in his slipstream.

Joe eased off the accelerator slightly, letting the air currents in the wake of the lead car pull him along for the ride. "Got you now!" Joe yelled. "I'm hanging onto your tail, and I'm not letting go!"

The car in front careened from one side of the road to the other and back again, trying to shake Joe off. But Joe matched it move for move. They blasted up the long north straightaway, locked in an invisible embrace. Joe knew they must be doing close to 190, but the constant bumping and rocking, with his head just a few feet off the ground, made it feel as if they were about to break the speed of sound.

Still he felt oddly calm as the eastward uphill turn loomed ahead. It was a right turn, and Joe was ready when the lead car moved to the left side of the road to reduce the angle of the curve and take it at the fastest speed possible.

Joe followed the maneuver easily, staying right behind him. Looking at the shadows cast by the late-morning sun, Joe couldn't tell where one car ended and the other began. The flared rear wing of one merged with the tapered nose of the other.

Then suddenly the car in front swerved back into the right lane and the driver downshifted, lurching to a reduced speed. Joe shot past him and realized, too late, that he was going way too fast to make the turn.

Joe slammed on the brakes, making another disastrous mistake. The nose dipped down and scraped the pavement. The rear end bucked up and the back tires lost their grip on the road, sliding sideways and throwing the car into a deadly spin.

Joe fought the wheel, but there was no response. The car was completely out of control.

The race car spun around violently and skidded backward onto the shoulder of the road. Any other vehicle would have flipped over, crushing the driver underneath. But the low center of gravity kept the Grand Prix racer upright.

Joe was rattled but unhurt. He pried his hands off the steering wheel. They were shaking badly. He willed himself to calm down, but he remembered to keep his foot on the gas pedal, keeping the revs high enough to prevent the engine from stalling out. He glanced at the array of gauges. Everything seemed okay. None of the needles were poking into the red zone.

All of this took a matter of seconds, although it seemed like an eternity to Joe. He was now pointing in the wrong direction, and he could see the other Formula One car in the side mirror, dwindling in the distance.

Joe eased off the clutch, the wheels kicking up gravel as the car moved off the side and back onto the pavement. Joe pulled the wheel hard to the left and made a tight U-turn, skirting the outer edge of the shoulder on the opposite side. Then he grimly pressed the accelerator to the floor, his head jerking backward as the car took off in pursuit.

Frank pulled the van out onto the cliff road about a half mile down from the hairpin turn. He glanced at his watch as he raced up the road. It had only been nine minutes since McCoy had fled the fairgrounds in the stolen car.

"What happens if they come zooming right down our throats?" Callie asked nervously.

Frank flashed a tight grin. "The van will end up with a very exotic hood ornament. But don't worry—we've still got at least a minute and a half."

Frank slowed down for the tight curve where McCoy's race car had crashed through the guardrail from the opposite direction just a few days ago. He steered the van onto the narrow shoulder at the edge of the cliff and then backed it up so that it was now blocking the road.

Frank leapt out of the van and Callie chased after him. "How do you know we have that much time?"

"Because of the time codes on the videotape," Frank reminded her. "It took McCoy ten minutes and thirty seconds to get to this end of the tunnel.

"Here, help me with this," he grunted, swinging the barricade with the flashing lights away from the gap in the guardrail, and blocking the outer shoulder of the road with it.

"But why here?" Callie pressed.

"Because this is the best place to stop him," Frank explained. "This hairpin turn is the trickiest part of the course. He'll be slowing down as he comes out of the tunnel, so he'll be able to stop safely when he sees the van blocking the road. There won't be enough room to turn around, and Joe will shut him in from the other end."

Frank looked at his watch again. He went to the back of the van and opened the rear door.

Callie rolled her eyes. "What now?"

"Still thirty seconds left," Frank said. "You get behind the van. I'm going to set out some emergency flares just to make sure he gets the idea."

He took out the flares and set one in the middle of the road, about twenty yards in front of the van. Then he ran back and knelt down next to the barricade on the shoulder, setting another flare in front of it.

Frank was about to stand up when he heard a rumbling noise behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw a Formula One car come roaring out of the tunnel and screech to a halt near the first emergency flare.