.

.

CHAPTER 24

Fenton jumped, startled by a soft thump against his shoulder. He blinked the water out of his eyes, requiring several seconds to process that unless Laura had done some radical redecorating, he wasn't at home. Mud squished under his feet and rump, the ground he was sitting on more of a quagmire than anything else, and rough bark dug into his back. Large drops of water plopped in unpredictable intervals onto his head, gravity liberating them from the fronds of the trees above, while the mournful calls of birds wove through the mist in a directionless muted symphony. The rain itself had dwindled to a steady sprinkle. He almost concluded the thump that woke him must have simply been a larger splat of water when he realized a slight weight was still there. Worse yet, it moved.

Stilling his breath if not his imagination, he debated between trying to transform himself into one of the motionless statues that dotted the jungle here or flinging himself as far away from whatever had taken up residence over his clavicle as he could. He wished he could see what was there, but no amount of shifting his eyes provided the merest glimpse. Reluctantly deciding to split the difference, he slapped his hand across his shoulder and rolled sideways at the same time, halting a few feet away to spin and face his foe.

The fearsome monster blinked back at him, all three inches of its red speckled salamander self frozen where it landed for a long second before it scuttled under a large leaf and disappeared from view. Great, Hardy, now you're staging counter attacks on something you can buy at the pet store... probably be battling fuzzy little bunnies next...

Deciding he was safe from miniscule amphibians for the present, the detective gazed up at the sky, locating the scarce patches visible between the tree canopy and a myriad of vines. The ebony present when he he'd opted to rest against the tree had dissolved into swaths of deep violet and periwinkle, with gray clouds that trailed all the way to the earth as wisps of fog. True daylight couldn't be more than half an hour away, although the fog promised limited ground visibility even then.

Fenton had stopped a few hours before when the swollen stream he was following rushed closer to the shore before ducking below a stubby block wall. He'd observed the area for quite some time, confident he'd located the militia base. The raging of the storm prevented any sort of patrols and he'd thought he could pause briefly before trying to find a way in. Clearly, he'd fallen asleep instead.

Another sound joined the watery morning music of the rainforest, a patterned whirring approaching from over the water. Helicopters - and more than one to Fenton's trained ear. The American hesitated, relatively certain these were his long awaited back up. Relatively being the key word. If these were militia aircraft, then waiting on them to land could be as detrimental to him as to Joe. Deciding not to risk it, he folded himself within the shadow of a craggy tree trunk and listened until the noise faded in the opposite direction before resuming his inspection of the stone blocks ahead.

Several hundred yards later, a break in the wall met his trailing fingers, the size of the opening appropriate for an iron gate that fortunately was lying on the sand beside it rather than bolted in place. Fenton crouched in the shadows, certain any men within would have heard the helicopters as well.

Several groups of fatigue clad soldiers briefly appeared and then melted back into the mist on their various assignments, their voices carrying through the rain. The majority of their words he couldn't understand, but snippets of English came through as well. Enough of the barked commands were discernable to convince Fenton that he needed to search the perimeter before chancing an entry into the compound. The militia personnel were heavily armed and splitting into groups to defend against incoming troops, with a smaller number of men assigned to securing the partially completed fortress from any significant storm damage and assessing the number of prisoners missing or dead. As far as Fenton was concerned there were three relevant points in all of that. One, Joe might not be in there if they were worried about escapees. Two, the soldiers were preparing to fight and his odds of getting shot before he could help his son just skyrocketed. And three, if Joe was still captive in those walls, everyone was far too busy to stage a public execution. From what little interaction he'd had with Clipboard, Rao, and company in the past, he was sure they would want anything they inflicted on Joe to be as public as possible.

Fenton slipped back into the tree line, the tall ferns protectively swallowing him as the first stutters of gunfire sounded. The semiautomatic pistol he'd, ah, borrowed from the soldier in Ranei rested heavy in his hand, but he had no delusions about its ability to protect him from a small army. There were a number of small trails leading into the vegetation, all used frequently enough to have a clear track, but none bearing footprints compliments of the violent storm that raged the afternoon and night before. Determined to remain unseen at least until a time of his own choosing, he picked a path at random, smiling at the first sign of twisted twigs and crushed leaves. Someone else had been this way, and not long ago. Please let it be Joe... I know it's too much to ask, too big of a coincidence when I don't even believe those exist, but surely my sons are due a little good fortune from this God-forsaken place... please...

#####

#####

"I heard something." Joe pushed himself up to one elbow, clamping down on a groan as his ribs protested the motion.

"Yeah, Joe, a lot of somethings - the rain, birds, the stream, a racket I think might be monkeys - but at least the lightning stopped."

"I meant I hear something else, Morton. Listen."

Chet shifted slightly closer to the opening of the dugout, straining to pick up anything else in the early morning light. The rat-a-tat of machine guns inspired a rapid retreat into their shelter. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to be wrong once in a while."

"I am wrong once in a while, just don't tell Frank. Unfortunately, this is not one of those extraordinarily rare occurrences. Stay down."

Long minutes passed, both boys limiting unnecessary activities... conversation... movement... breathing...

"Someone's coming." Chet fumbled through his scant belongs, picking up the gun he'd taken from his guard. "Can you run if we have to?"

"Shh. I know - and no, don't think so." Joe mouthed the words, tugging Chet toward him.

The footsteps had to be very close to be heard on the soft jungle floor, and if not for the snap of a twig, Chet and Joe would likely have never heard anything. Now, however, they held their breath, hoping some tiny sound would prove that whoever was in the forest had passed them by. Instead a rustle of leaves came closer.

"I can't get caught again, Joe... and I don't think you can survive it either." Chet's words were so quiet that Joe didn't think they were intended for him, but the figure in the darkness must have heard something. The cocking of a gun sounded unnaturally loud.

Chet raised his own firearm, pushed into action by a need to defend Joe and his own panic at the idea of returning to the camp. Sitting in Bayport, he would have told you nothing was worse than dying. Now, he knew better. Before he'd made any clear decision to shoot, the pistol in his hand cracked off a round, the noise almost deafening in close confines of the soggy dugout. He wasn't going back.

The second shot went wild, clipping the dirt roof of their enclosure. Joe snatched the gun, any consideration as to whether to confront their opponent or not now moot, and aimed at where the scurrying noise ahead and left of them in the fog had last sounded. He paused, hoping that Chet had either hit his target with the first round, scared the unseen man away, or both.

Another rustle broke the tableau and Joe squeezed the trigger, dragging himself forward in the hopes of spotting something. He didn't want to shoot anyone he couldn't see, and aimed slightly left of his presumed mark. Maybe another shot would convince the figure in the fog that two injured, hungry, mud covered boys just weren't worth the trouble.

The day was dismally gloomy, but not so much so that Joe's pale hair didn't present a stark contrast to the fertile tropical soil and rich green of the dripping plants, and he scooted an inch too far beyond the roots forming the rim of their shelter. The blonde waves may as well have been a beacon.

"JOE?!"

The younger Hardy had his firearm aimed again when the yell soaked into his brain. He pulled his hand sharply upward. "Dad?"

Fenton scrambled into the natural hollow beneath the tree roots, shoving Joe in ahead of him. "Which one of you nearly killed me? That first shot missed my head by an inch!" No matter what the words were, he wrapped his arms around his son, pulling him close. "Are you ok, Joey? I didn't think I was going to get here fast enough... Connor said Clipboard planned to kill you... I thought I was too late... I... ...Are you hurt?"

"I'm ok, Dad. It's ok." Joe stayed still as his father pulled back, his shaking hands quickly skimming over his son to assess injuries. It was a routine that was far too familiar to the youngest member of their family and any attempt to thwart it was pointless. "And Chet's the one playing Wyatt Earp."

"Hey!" Chet heard the faint mischief in Joe's voice, but still wasn't certain how Mr. Hardy would take this bit of news. Frank and Joe both tended to forget that their father could be more than a little intimidating.

Fenton hissed sharply when he found the wound in Joe's thigh, wondering just what the last few days entailed for his son that allowed even a minor bullet wound to fall into the general category of 'ok.' "Joe? You're shot?"

Joe knew the question in his dad's voice was a request for more information, not any doubt about the source of the hole in his leg. "Yeah - Rao." Somehow he couldn't bring himself to say more than that.

His dad stared at the deep blue eyes, searching out the details there and deciding that while there was clearly much more to this story, it could wait until they were in a more secure position. He swept over the bruises layered on his child's torso and face, accepting Joe's silent plea not to demand a recounting. The urge to envelop his son in his arms and promise him none of this horror was real pounded inside his head, but Joe wasn't the nightmare prone toddler he'd rocked to sleep anymore. This time they were all already awake and Fenton couldn't banish the evil dragon from the kingdom alternately known as Joe's disaster of a bedroom. Reluctantly he released Joe's hands and took his first real look at the other occupant of the overly cramped shelter.

Chet Morton barely resembled the teenager he'd brought on a surfing trip at the start of spring break. New muscles stretched across a bruised back, but hollows dipped between his ribs and below his cheekbones. A tattered pair of blue shorts left very little to the imagination and the dirt ground into his skin and snagged nails couldn't possibly be explained by a single night out in the rain. The unkempt beard was a shock, both in its presence and the reddish glints so much brighter than the sun bleached sandy hair streaming around the base of his neck. He could only assume Joe's initial reaction had been much the same.

Nothing Fenton could say would have been appropriate to what he felt at finding both his son and his friend in this state, the evidence of the harm done to them so clearly written on their faces and hides. The black and purple blotches wouldn't be what came back to Fenton in the weeks to come, though; he knew that. It was the look in their eyes. He'd seen the same look before and it always was the one part of a case that woke him up in the middle of the night. He thought he'd made his peace with it, and maybe he had - until he'd seen it reflected in deep brown eyes so much like his own. Now it wasn't just Frank. Now hints of that same... something... looked back at him from Joe and Chet. How he didn't see the snare so neatly placed by Connor to get him to Ranei in the first place he would likely never know, but he suspected he'd be spending a lot of sleepless nights grappling with regret.

"You're a long way from home, Chet. Let's see if we can't do something about that." Fenton draped an arm around the shorter teen, ignoring Chet's surprised expression at the quick hug.

"Yes sir, I'd like that."

A pause stretched a minute, conveying much more than the words spoken. "I bet you would. It's going to be fine, but we are going to have to be cautious getting out of here. Those choppers should be for us, but I'd rather not get caught in any crossfire."

"I think we'd all agree on that, Dad."

"Yes, I suspect so." Joe smiled as his father tousled his hair, the gesture from his childhood more reassuring than annoying at the moment. "Chet has the best idea of the terrain; Clipboard is setting up a new headquarters here like we thought and all the prisoners have been working construction all over the island."

"Ok." Fenton started drawing in the dirt, adding details of the militia buildings as Chet supplied information. Half an hour later he was satisfied that they knew as much as they were going to and it was time to leave the burrow. "Time to find a way home, boys; let's go. Oh, and Chet?"

"Yes?"

"Remind me as soon as we get back to Bayport to ban you from any firing range trips with Frank and Joe - I can't survive your aim getting any better. Heck of a shot in the dark aiming for a noise, but I'd be just as happy if you missed by a little more next time, ok?"

Chet flushed, grateful the poor light of the rainy morning hid most of the redness in his cheeks. "Ah, yes sir, I'll bear that in mind."

"There!" Joe pointed between two palms, spotting the pair of aircraft in a clearing on the next ridge. The trio had spent the morning dodging a dozen armed skirmishes, angling for the two areas Chet thought you could land a helicopter that were outside the camp courtyard itself. The first one had been a bust, but it looked like this time they were in luck. The only trouble was that reaching the glade required a hike down the mountain and back up the other side, and Joe was already stumbling more than he walked. With a promise to his dad that he was fine that neither of them believed, they started down the steep bank.

The sodden earth was a blessing, permitting the three of them to press small ledges into the soil for balance, and cushioning their landings when that failed to work. Everything seemed to be going as well as it could until half an hour after they started up the opposite slope.

Fenton tripped over a root, realizing a second to late that the straight, regular wood couldn't be natural. About the same time as that thought registered, strong hands yanked him up, a knee from his assailant sharply plowing into his stomach.

Chet stopped dead fifteen yards back, not brave enough in his new found status as marksman to consider shooting at the soldier as long as Mr. Hardy was held tight to his chest. He looked frantically for Joe, aware the younger Hardy had been falling behind, but there wasn't any sign of him. He didn't think the soldier had seen him and squelching a flare of guilt he stepped backward. He wasn't abandoning Fenton, but he was going to need some help.

Help was nowhere to be found. Desperate not to make noise, he retraced his steps more slowly than he liked, but he couldn't find Joe and he wasn't about to call out to him. He finally heard the snap of a branch, but a glance that direction revealed only a small form hunched in the brush. Definitely too petite to be the younger Hardy. Afraid he was in the middle of rebel troops, he eased back up the hill, trying to at least relocate Fenton.

The petite form spotted Fenton first, quickly aligning the scope on her weapon and waiting for a clear shot. Before she could fire, a loud whoop bellowed from behind the militia soldier and his struggling captive.

Joe Hardy had circled around the camouflage clad man fighting with his father, well aware he had one chance to free him. He wasn't strong enough for more than that. He sprang from the trees making enough noise to wake several generations of the dead, simultaneously landing on the man's back and grabbing the barrel of his gun.

The ensuing scuffle was brief, Fenton taking advantage of the distraction to drive his elbows back into the rebel's gut and Joe darting backwards just far enough to launch a kick as the man spun, deftly catching him under the chin. The soldier's head audibly snapped back as he dropped into a heap, unconscious.

Joe fell beside him, hands clamped around the once again bleeding bullet wound. "Dad? You alright?"

Fenton hovered over his child, mouth opening and closing multiple times before he figured out how to respond to that. "Am I?... I... you... and... ... yes, I'm fine, Joe... you could have gotten yourself killed..."

"I didn't."

"Yeah... I see that." Fenton pressed his hands hard over the red trailing down Joe's leg, the tension easing in his shoulders when the flow finally slowed. "Joe?"

"Yeah?" There was tight pain lancing through the question.

"Thank you."

The slim figure in the tree cover sifted her aim, the cross hairs now squarely in the middle of the mud caked blonde waves. She waited, listening to the other youth crashing through the vegetation, confident she could pick off all three as soon as they were together. It was a shame blondie had to go first, he was almost as cute filthy as he had been clean in the cafe. Oh well, that last cup of off coffee would have to last in her memory.

Suddenly a dozen men raced from the forest, guns drawn, swarming over the Americans on the ground. She dropped her gun to her side with a sigh and blended back into the vines. There'd be another time.

"Fenton Hardy? Is that you?"

Fenton snapped his head up at the familiar voice. "Arthur Gray? You wouldn't ask if you weren't already certain who was here."

"True. Interesting choice for a family outing, Hardy. I heard you could use a lift home." The Network agent held out his hand, assisting the detective to his feet while the other members of his team began to check over Joe and Chet with a clearly medical perspective.

Joe answered for his father. "Yeah, we'd have left already, but I couldn't come up with cab fare. Nice of you to show up."

Gray ignored him, again addressing Fenton. "The encampment is almost under control, but there's still a few resistance pockets to clear out. You interested or are you leaving with the kiddies?"

Fenton couldn't deny part of him craved the opportunity to grab the biggest firearm any of the American agents possessed and make the maximum number of holes in Rao, Shuman, and their cronies, extracting revenge for the pain these men had caused his family. A single glance at his son, however, and that disappeared, soaking into mud at his feet. Elias Dahl and his assistant, Ellen, were loading Joe and Chet into the chopper, signaling the pilot to wait until Fenton made his decision.

"No, this isn't my fight, Arthur. Besides, I got what I came for."

#####

#####

#####

to be continued...