Extreme Danger Page 4

  “Hey! You boys!” a deep gravelly voice shouted from behind the counter.

  Frank and I turned to see who was shouting. It was a middle-aged man with a bad sunburn, a walking cane, tattooed arms, and long blond hair tied in a ponytail. He looked kind of like an angry surfer.

  Lucky for us, he was pointing at the other boys in the store. “Don’t put those helmets on your greasy little heads unless you’re serious about buying them,” he barked.

  “Oh, get over yourself, dude,” one of the boys shot back. “I don’t care if you were the national champion. That was years ago. Right now, you’re a knobby-kneed has-been!”

  The ponytailed man fixed his cold blue eyes on the boys—then slowly reached under the counter. “Get out of my store,” he snarled. “Now.”

  Nobody moved for a moment or two. Then the boys put down the helmets and walked out of the store. “Loser,” one of them mumbled as the door closed with a jingle.

  Frank tapped my arm, then nodded at a handwritten sign next to the register. It said, AS AN AMERICAN CITIZEN, I FULLY EXERCISE MY RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS. SHOPLIFTERS: BEWARE.

  I glanced back at Frank. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward a bulletin board.

  I turned and looked. The board was covered with photos of Ollie looking young and fit—and soaring through the air on a skateboard. There were newspaper clippings, too, with headlines like OLLIE PETERSON: NATIONAL SKATEBOARD CHAMP 1986 and OLLIE WINS AGAIN! I had to squint to read the small clipping on the bottom: SKATEBOARD LEGEND TAKES A FALL.

  “What are you boys looking for?” Ollie grunted, slamming his cane down on the counter.

  I tried to think fast. “I need a new skateboard,” I answered. “Something top-of-the-line.”

  Ollie growled and lowered his cane, then limped toward a large skateboard display. “Over here, kid,” he said. “I got all the latest models.”

  Why not buy one? That way I wouldn’t have to share Jenna’s tomorrow.

  It took only about three minutes for Ollie to convince me to buy a brand-new THX-720 with red flame detailing. And it matched my motorcycle!

  Frank, in the meantime, was studying the articles on the bulletin board—gathering information, as usual.

  As Ollie rang up my purchase, one of the girls walked up to the counter and said, “Excuse me? Mister? Do you have any T-shirts for the Big Air Games?”

  Wrong question.

  Ollie almost threw a fit. “Big Air Heads is more like it!” he snapped. “Those big-business money-grubbers won’t allow me to set up a stand outside the stadium. So, fat chance I’ll fill their greedy pockets by selling their ugly shirts.”

  * * *

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Owen Peterson, aka “Ollie”

  Hometown: San Diego, CA

  Physical description: 40 years old, 5′11″, 170 pounds, shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, walks with limp, carries cane, dragon tattoos on forearms

  Occupation: Owner/operator of Ollie’s Skate Shop in downtown Philadelphia

  Background: Former professional skateborder (career ended after accidental injury in 1990)

  Suspicious behavior: Threatened customers, reached for (alleged) gun under store counter, talked about replacing skateboard bearings with nitroglycerin

  Suspected of: Attempted sabotage

  Possible motives: Revenge against Big Air Games (business dispute), personal resentment

  * * *

  The girl blinked her eyes. “So that’s a no?” she asked.

  “YES, IT’S A NO!” he boomed.

  The girl shrugged and left the store with her friend.

  A few seconds later Ollie calmed down enough to take my money and complete my purchase.

  Frank strolled over to the counter. “I guess those Big Air Games are a big deal, huh?” he said to Ollie.

  Ollie rolled his eyes. “A big pain,” he sneered. “The whole city is tied in knots, with all the traffic and the cops everywhere.”

  “Well, an event that big must attract a lot of weirdos,” said Frank. “Maybe even terrorists. Someone told me they heard a rumor that someone was going to sabotage the games.”

  Ollie laughed. “That would be fine with me,” he growled. “I even know how they could do it.”

  “Oh, really?” said Frank, leaning over the counter. “How?”

  Ollie grabbed a skateboard off the display and flipped it over. “See the axis of the wheel here?” he said, giving it a spin. “That’s where the ball bearings usually go. But some of these new models use liquid bearings. No balls, just liquid. Understand?”

  Frank and I nodded.

  “Well, imagine this,” Ollie continued. “What if someone replaced the liquid with an explosive like nitroglycerin? Think about it. The faster the skater goes, the hotter the nitro gets. Faster and hotter, faster and hotter, until … KA-BOOM! I think you get the picture.”

  Yes, we got the picture.

  And it wasn’t very pretty.

  Talk about killer wheels.

  I grabbed my new skateboard and nudged my brother. “Come on, Frank. We better get going. It’s late.”

  My brother agreed. “Bye, Ollie,” he said as we left the store. “It was nice talking to you.”

  Yeah, I thought. It’s always nice to talk to a crazy washed-up skateboarder who wants to blow people up.

  6 Attacked!

  Joe and I didn’t get to eat until ten o’clock at night. (My fault, because it was my idea to go inside Ollie’s Skate Shop.)

  And we didn’t get to sleep until one o’clock in the morning, (Joe’s fault, because it was his idea to call up Jenna Cho when we returned to the hotel.)

  Anyway, Jenna convinced my brother that we should skip the pregame events in the morning. The official opening ceremonies would be held the following day. She suggested we sleep in, grab a late breakfast, then meet her in the park with the other skaters.

  Sounded good to me. I was exhausted.

  After a full day of skydiving, motorcycle-riding, skateboard-shopping, a whole pizza at ten o’clock—and listening to Joe yammer on with his new girlfriend—who could blame me for being tired?

  Ah, sleep.

  “Wake up!” said Joe, hitting me with a pillow. “Are you going to sleep all day? Move your lazy butt!”

  I rubbed my eyes and looked at the clock radio.

  Nine forty-five?

  I think it was the first time in history that Joe woke up before I did. “Breakfast,” I mumbled sleepily.

  “No time for that,” said Joe, tossing me a pair of shorts and a shirt. “We promised to meet Jenna. Move it.”

  I crawled out of bed, hopped in the shower, and got dressed as quickly as I could. Joe insisted that we ride our cycles to the park.

  “We don’t want to be late,” he said, adding, “and girls dig the bikes.”

  About twenty minutes later, we arrived at FDR Park. Jenna Cho was waiting with her pink skateboard at the entrance.

  “Yo, dudes!” She greeted us with a big smile and a thumbs-up. “Awesome set of wheels! I’m impressed.”

  “Told you so,” Joe whispered to me. Then he flashed a smile at his new friend. “How’s it going, Jenna?”

  Jenna swung her skateboard like a baseball bat. “It’s going, it’s going, it’s gone!” she said, laughing. “Come on, park your bikes so we can grab some cheese steaks.”

  “Philly cheese steaks?” I asked. “For breakfast?”

  Joe swatted my arm. “This is my brother,” he explained to Jenna. “Frank is the logical Hardy.”

  “Yeah, and Joe is hardly logical,” I added.

  After the introduction we found a spot to park our bikes and ordered three cheese steaks at a nearby stand.

  “Wow,” I said, taking a bite. “This is incredible.”

  Jenna nodded. “Now you know why they’re world famous.”

  We strolled through the park, chomping on our cheese steaks, while Jenna showed us the sights. “I’m taking you guys to a skatepa
rk underneath the overpass,” she said. “It was built by the city. All the cool Philly kids skate there.”

  “Can’t wait,” Joe said, waving the new skateboard he’d bought at Ollie’s.

  “Where’s your board, Frank?” asked Jenna.

  I shrugged. “With pros like you around, I didn’t want to risk looking like a dork.”

  “Too late for that,” my brother teased.

  I decided to change the subject. Now was my chance to ask about the rumors of a possible attack. “Speaking of risks,” I started off, “someone told me they saw some threats posted on one of the extreme Web sites. Some people even think someone plans to sabotage the games. You heard anything, Jenna?”

  Jenna thought about it, then said, “I don’t know, just the usual rivalries. Competition can get pretty fierce. There’s a lot of money at stake.”

  “There is?” I asked.

  “Well, the top prizes are ten thousand dollars,” she said. “And if you win the nationals, you could land a million-dollar endorsement deal from the sports gear companies.”

  Definitely a motive for sabotaging your opponent, I thought.

  We were almost in the middle of the park. A few kids on skateboards and motocross bikes whizzed past us. “The skatepark is over there,” Jenna said, pointing past some trees.

  Suddenly a loud siren blasted right behind us.

  “Look out!” Joe yelled.

  We jumped out of the way as a white EMT ambulance barreled past us with its lights flashing.

  “It’s heading for the skatepark!” Jenna shouted. “Maybe there’s been an accident!”

  “Let’s go,” I said, slapping my brother’s shoulder.

  The three of us dashed after the ambulance, pushing past dozens of gawking skaters and bikers. The siren stopped blaring. The vehicle pulled to a halt in front of a graffiti-covered ramp under the highway overpass. We rushed over to the center of the action.

  A muscular dark-haired boy lay on the concrete next to his skateboard. “It hurts! It hurts!” he howled in pain.

  “I know that boy,” Jenna whispered to Frank and me. “That’s Gongado Lopez. He’s from New York City, and everyone says he’s a sure thing for a gold medal this year.”

  Not anymore.

  A tall skinny paramedic applied bandages to the boy’s knees and shouted over his shoulder, “Jack! I need some help here!”

  A short stocky technician jumped out of the ambulance with a small case of supplies. I watched the two men do their job and I checked out the ID badges on their chests.

  The short guy was named Jack Horowitz, and the tall skinny guy was Carter Bean. Carter seemed to be the more experienced of the two. He filled a hypodermic needle and gave Gongado a shot of painkiller in about fifteen seconds flat.

  “Gongado!” a high-pitched voice cried out. “Gongado! What did that dirtbag do to you?”

  A short frizzy-haired young woman pushed past us and rushed toward the stricken boy. Carter blocked her with his arm. “Stay back, miss,” he said firmly. “Let us do our jobs.”

  The girl backed off but kept talking. “Gongado! Sweetie! What happened? Tell me!”

  Gongado blinked his eyes. Obviously the painkillers were kicking in, but he was able to talk. “Baby, I was attacked! Somebody jumped me and knocked me over and whacked me in the knees with my own skateboard.”

  The girl burst into tears. “Was it him?” she asked. “Was it Eddie?”

  Gongado shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see his face.” Then he closed his eyes and passed out.

  A man with a camera stepped forward. “Did anyone see anything?” he shouted into the crowd.

  Nobody said anything.

  “Are you a police officer?” Carter asked the man.

  “No, I’m a reporter for the Philadelphia Freedom Press,” he told the paramedic. “I was just walking through the park when I heard your siren. Do you mind posing for a picture? Just crouch over the victim and try to look concerned.”

  “I am concerned,” Carter said calmly. He turned to help his coworker lift the boy onto a stretcher and into the ambulance.

  The reporter snapped away with his camera. Even after the ambulance drove off, he kept pursuing the story. But instead of taking pictures, he interviewed half the kids in the crowd.

  After a while, the reporter went away—and the scene returned to normal. The skateboarders practiced their kickies and heelies while the bikers hurtled over ramps. Jenna, Joe, and I found a spot under a nearby tree.

  “Do you know that girl? Gongado’s girlfriend?” I asked Jenna.

  “I don’t know her personally,” she said, “but I know about her. Her name’s Annette, and she only dates the hottest skateboarders in town. She used to go out with Eddie Mundy … until Gongado beat him in the last regional contest. Now she goes out with Gongado.”

  “Eddie Mundy,” I said. “Annette mentioned Eddie’s name. So she thinks Eddie attacked Gongado?”

  “Of course she does,” said Jenna. “Gongado stole Eddie’s title. Then he stole Eddie’s girl. You do the math.”

  “What’s this Eddie guy like?” I asked.

  Jenna pointed across the park. “That’s him over there. In the red bandanna.” She poked my brother’s arm. “Come on, Joe. Want to try out the vert ramp?”

  Joe and Jenna ran off with their skateboards.

  And me? I decided to have a little talk with Eddie Mundy.

  “Hey, man,” I said, approaching him during a break. “I hear you’re the best skateboarder in town.”

  Eddie sat down on his board and looked up at me suspiciously. “Who told you that?” he asked. He was lean, lanky—and a little scary-looking, I had to admit.

  “Some of the other athletes said you were the best,” I said, nodding at the other skateboarders.

  Eddie shrugged. “I used to be the best,” he grunted. “Until Gongado Lopez snatched my title away.”

  “Well, they just took Lopez away in an ambulance,” I said. “His knees are all busted up. So I guess he’s out of the contest now.”

  “Yeah,” said Eddie, squinting his eyes. “So I guess that makes me the best.” He let out a little laugh.

  “Did you and Gongado get along?” I asked.

  Eddie didn’t answer. He just stared at me. “Why do you ask so many questions, man?”

  “I’m writing an article on the Big Air Games for my school paper,” I lied.

  “Well, watch your back,” said Eddie. “It’s dangerous to ask too many questions. Extremely dangerous.”

  He gave me a hard look. I figured I was pushing my luck, so I simply said thanks and good-bye. I walked around the skateboard park looking for Joe. I wanted to get him up to speed.

  * * *

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Edward Mundy, aka “Eddie”

  Physical description: 18 years old, 6′1″, 180 pounds, brown hair, green eyes, wears red bandanna

  Hometown: Philadelphia, PA

  Occupation: Hardware store clerk, amateur skateboarder

  Background: Former title holder in regional skateboard contests, currently competing in Big Air Games

  Suspicious behavior: Laughed about Gongado Lopez’s attack and leg injuries, referred to Frank’s questioning as “extremely dangerous”

  Suspected of: Assault and battery

  Possible motives: Professional revenge (Lopez stole his title), romantic triangle (Lopez stole his girl)

  * * *

  We had another suspect.

  A few minutes later I managed to drag Joe away from the concrete ramps—and away from Jenna. She said she needed to practice for her upcoming event, so my brother and I headed off on our own.

  I waited until we were about a hundred yards away from the skatepark—safely out of everyone’s earshot—before I told Joe about my talk with Eddie Mundy.

  “Man!” Joe said, after hearing my story. “That dude is so guilty.”

  “We don’t know that for a fact,” I pointed out. “Sure,
Eddie has the motives—and the attitude—to commit a crime like that. But there’s no real evidence.”

  “But come on,” Joe argued. “How else do you explain his comment about your ‘dangerous’ questions?”

  I scratched my head. “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s definitely suspicious. And we definitely should keep an eye on Eddie Mundy.”

  “So that’s it?” Joe said, throwing his hands up. “We just keep an eye on the guy? We don’t turn him in to the cops?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  Joe stopped walking. “But Frank,” he persisted. “What if Eddie Mundy hurts someone else?”

  I thought long and hard about my brother’s question. But I never got the chance to answer him.

  Because somebody started screaming.

  7 Blood on the Half-Pipe

  Man! What a scream!

  Frank and I stood still and listened.

  There it was again!

  I don’t know what freaked me out more: the fact that the scream came from the skateboard park, or that it sounded like Jenna doing the screaming. I took off like a bolt of lightning, sprinting as fast as I could toward the concrete overpass. Frank’s footsteps echoed behind me. Other skaters and bikers were dashing toward the half-pipes—but I outran them all.

  A group of people were crowded around one of the pipes. I spotted a dark-haired girl hunched down in the middle of the circle.

  “Jenna!” I yelled, pushing past the onlookers.

  Jenna sat on the curve of the ramp, leaning over the lifeless body of a curly-haired boy.

  I dropped to my knees beside her. “What happened? Is he okay?”

  Jenna looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know,” she said. “We were practicing our air jumps, and Jeb just collapsed in front of me. Then my skateboard slammed into his head. I tried to stop, but …”

  I carefully examined the boy’s scalp, parting the locks of his curly hair. “I don’t see any head wounds,” I said. “And he’s still breathing. Somebody call 911!”