The Race Is On!

  As the rest of the journalists filed in and took their places, Frank heard dozens of languages being spoken.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the top contenders in the Indy Formula One race, ranked first, second, and third: Manion Cristal, Hugh ‘The Rabbit’ Conney, and Kellam Marlin.”

  “Manion,” Noah called out, firing off the first question. “The rivalry between you and The Rabbit has already hit the headlines. Only one point separates you two right now. Will the winner of this race get the championship?”

  “I will be the winner of this race, and I will win the championship,” Manion answered in a thick French accent. “So the answer to your question is yes.”

  Contents

  * * *

  Chapter 1: Grand Prix Greeting

  Chapter 2: Shakedown to Sabotage

  Chapter 3: Driven to Danger

  Chapter 4: Chasing the Truth

  Chapter 5: Unsportsmanlike Behavior

  Chapter 6: Tracking Trouble

  Chapter 7: Lights! Camera! Action!

  Chapter 8: Flipped Out

  Chapter 9: Where There’s Smoke . . .

  Chapter 10: Playing with All the Marbles

  Chapter 11: A Sinister Sip

  Chapter 12: Rats and Roaches

  Chapter 13: Decked by a Neck

  Chapter 14: Victory Lap

  Chapter 15: The Final Stretch

  1 Grand Prix Greeting

  * * *

  Joe Hardy took a seat on the pit wall and unloaded the black portfolio that he’d received during the press orientation. When he heard the distant vrooooooom of the first Formula One car on the track, he stood up. He shielded his blue eyes against the bright autumn sun and watched the red Ferrari bank around the far corner.

  As it came closer, the sound of the eight-hundred-horsepower engine rose in pitch until it became a high unearthly scream. As the car passed in front of him, Joe clapped his hands over his ears.

  “Yikes!” Frank Hardy yelled to his brother, throwing him a can of soda. “That sound is unbelievable.” Frank was eighteen, a year older than Joe, with dark brown eyes and hair.

  Joe took his hands away from his ears and caught the soda. “I’ve never heard a sound like that before,” he agreed. “It’s totally different from other race cars. Now I know why they call an F-1 car a techno-tornado.”

  “It’s sort of like a dentist’s drill burrowing straight into your brain,” a man said, walking up to join them. “Check your press kit. I think you’ll find these will help a lot.” He pointed to the earplug in his ear. He wore a badge that identified him as Noah Carter, a reporter for a local television station.

  After introducing himself, Noah hoisted himself up to sit on the wall next to Joe. He looked like he was about thirty. He had short, light brown hair and a big smile.

  Frank and Joe started flipping through dozens of brochures, pamphlets, tourbooks, and guides to find out where they could eat, shop, and have fun. Several schedules in their kits outlined all the activities planned around the official Formula One Week.

  All the Grand Prix teams had contributed press kits about their driver, car, and team personnel. The Formula One organization and the Indy track provided booklets that outlined their histories. Dozens of companies had given promotional items, including complimentary sunglasses and sunscreen, Grand Prix hats, ballpoint pens and notebooks, rolls of film, power bars, water bottles, and loads of coupons and passes for restaurants, theaters, clubs, museums, and other sports venues around town.

  “Hey, look at this,” Joe said, pulling out a clear plastic bag. “My own set of official Formula One earplugs!”

  “Is this your first race?” Noah asked.

  “No way,” Joe answered. “We were here for an Indy 500 a few years ago. It was awesome. And we’ve been to some Nascar races.”

  “This is our first Grand Prix race, though,” Frank added.

  “You’ll have to wear the plugs if you’re going to survive the whole week down here in the pits,” Noah warned them as another car squealed by.

  “I hear you—sort of,” Joe said with a grin. He popped the small plugs in his ears.

  “So are you print or broadcast?” Noah asked the Hardys.

  “Print,” Frank answered. “We’re student journalists covering the race for the young-adult section of the Bayport Herald. I’m the reporter, and my brother is the photographer. We have a special interest in the race because Kellam Marlin, the American driver, is from a town not far from Bayport.”

  “In fact we set up an exclusive interview with him before we got here,” Joe said. “The hometown connection is going to be great for our story.”

  “Kellam’s going to be a real contender,” Frank said. “And the owner of his team, Bill Katt, gives a great press party. This year I think the festivities are tomorrow evening. Anyway, the subjects of the real story for this race are Manion Cristal and Hugh ‘The Rabbit’ Conney. Man, their rivalry is intense.”

  “I’ve been reading about it,” Joe said. “The Formula One champion each year is the one who accumulates the most points over the whole circuit during the year—and Manion is in first place at this point. If he wins this race, he ties up the championship for this year.”

  “But Hugh’s not far behind,” Noah pointed out. “If he wins this race, Manion’s got a real fight on his hands.”

  “So they’re pretty fierce contenders, huh?” Frank asked.

  “They’re total gladiators,” Noah said. “You’ll see what I mean this afternoon at the press conference. Just putting them in the same room together guarantees a show.”

  “I can’t wait,” Joe said. “I’ve been looking forward to this for six months.”

  “This is the only Grand Prix in America—the only venue for Formula One racing,” Noah reminded them, “so there are over five hundred members of the international press here. It’s pretty exciting, even for a local guy like me who grew up with the Indy 500.”

  As Noah spoke, Joe watched a couple more cars slam around a hairpin curve. It was like watching two-million-dollar slingshots.

  “There are up to twenty-five cars at this race,” Noah told them. “Each team arrives with one hundred and fifty employees and budgets of two hundred and fifty million dollars. You’ll find out a lot more at the press conference this afternoon. All the drivers and owners will be there.”

  “I’m really looking forward to asking Manion Cristal and Hugh Conney some questions,” Frank said. “I’d like to get a handle on the nature of their famous rivalry.”

  “It should be fun. See you later!” Noah hopped off the pit wall and strolled off.

  The Hardys spent part of the afternoon in orientation and other meetings, and the other part exploring on their own. At a few minutes before four o’clock they arrived at the briefing room in the media center.

  Noah had saved them a couple of chairs in the front row. As people filed in and out, he identified the important ones. “There are the owners of the top three teams,” he said. “The guy in the suit is Kristièn Savanne, owner of Manion Cristal’s team, from Monte Carlo. The one in the turtleneck and cashmere pants is Brian Michaels from Great Britain. He owns Hugh Conney’s team.”

  “We recognize the one in the jumpsuit,” Frank said. “That’s Bill Katt, Kellam’s owner.”

  As the rest of the journalists filed in and took their places, Frank heard dozens of languages being spoken.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the top contenders in the Indy Formula One race, ranked first, second, and third: Manion Cristal, Hugh ‘The Rabbit’ Conney, and Kellam Marlin.”

  The three racers strode in like thoroughbred horses, confident and proud. They walked onto a raised platform and took seats behind clusters of microphones on a long table. Each man was accompanied by a small group of people who stood nearby.

  The moderator made sure that Kellam sat in the middle, separating the other two. Manion and Hugh stared straight ahead, avoiding each other’s gaze.

  Joe elbowed his way through the crowd of photographers, into a prime spot for shooting some photos. Perpetual camera flashes added to the bright light already created by television spotlights.

  “Manion,” Noah called out, firing off the first question. “The rivalry between you and The Rabbit has already hit the headlines. Only one point separates you two right now. Will the winner of this race get the championship?”

  “I will be the winner of this race, and I will win the championship,” Manion answered in a thick French accent. “So the answer to your question is yes.” He was about Joe’s height and build, but had dark brown wavy hair that hung down the back of his neck. He flashed a broad smile and nodded at the crowd.

  Reporters fired more questions from all corners of the room. Frank had to shout to be heard. “A question for Mr. Conney,” Frank called out, checking his notes.

  “Mmhm?” Hugh mumbled, looking in Frank’s direction. “What is it?” He had large dark eyes and a cap of short dark red hair.

  “You had a terrible accident in Monte Carlo,” Frank said. “Have you fully recovered?”

  “I did not have a ‘terrible accident’ in Monte,” Hugh responded in a clipped British accent. “I was rammed off the track by the thug at the end of this table.” He stared straight ahead, not even blinking.

  Manion leaned back in his chair, balancing on the two back legs. He looked toward Hugh and chuckled. “You crashed because you are incompetent,” Manion said, “and everyone here k
nows it.”

  Hugh stomped to his feet with such fury that he knocked his chair over. His eyes seemed to darken as he spoke. “I was winning that race,” he said gruffly, “and you took me out.”

  When Hugh stood, another man stood as well—one who had been crouching next to Manion’s chair and eating a candy bar.

  “Who’s the guy eating chocolate?” Joe whispered to Noah.

  “That’s J. J. Quinn, Manion’s timekeeper. “He’s kind of a hothead, and very protective of Manion.”

  “He looks pretty tame right now,” Joe said. J. J. calmly chewed the chocolate, keeping his eyes on Hugh.

  “That accident was your fault,” Hugh said to Manion, “and you know it.”

  “Still the same whining,” Manion said to Hugh. “Give it up, Bunny Boy.”

  Hugh stood up in a fury and stormed around the back of the table toward Manion. J. J.’s face puffed up with rage, and he stepped into Hugh’s path. He threw the chocolate bar down and planted himself with a wide stance.

  “Afraid to take me on yourself?” Hugh said, arching his head around J. J. to address Manion. “Sending someone else to do the dirty work? You’re not so tough without a car shielding you, are you?”

  Reporters chattered into their mics in a babble of languages, describing the action on the platform. Photographers snapped what seemed like a thousand shots. Some of the other people on the platform began to move carefully away from the men.

  Hugh dove to get at Manion, but J. J. held him off. A few punches met their mark, though, and before anyone could stop it, the platform turned into a frenzy of flying fists. Within moments, J. J. was knocked off the platform by one of Hugh’s mechanics. He landed right in front of the Hardys and Noah.

  Noah helped him up. “Hey, J. J., how’s it going?” Noah asked with a crooked smile.

  The spiderweb of tiny red veins on the side of J. J.’s nose darkened to purple. He pulled back his arm, clenched his fingers into a huge hairy fist, and rammed it straight ahead. Noah ducked just in time, and Frank felt a rush of air coming toward him. He ducked away and raised his hands to deflect J. J.’s punch, but he was too late. J. J.’s fist slammed into the side of his head.

  Every one of Frank’s senses responded. The blow blasted through his ears with echoing waves of pain. His eyes slammed shut, and neon lights in weird shapes played on the inside of his eyelids. His skin first tingled where J. J.’s fist had landed, then quickly started to pound with pain. A faint smell of chocolate tickled his nose, and he could taste the blood that leaked from the cut on his tongue where his teeth had clamped down.

  2 Shakedown to Sabotage

  * * *

  For a few seconds after J. J.’s powerful punch, Frank thought he was going to black out. He forced his balance back, though, took a breath, and straightened up to his full height.

  J. J.’s fist pulled back again, but this time Frank was ready. As J. J. punched, Frank raised his arm and caught J. J.’s forearm in midair. They stood there for a second, their arms crossed like swords. Frank could feel J. J. give a little. With one quick blow, Frank knocked J. J. to the floor.

  “Nice shot, bro,” Joe said, joining him.

  “Agreed,” J. J. said, grinning up at them. He pulled himself up. Frank and Joe both prepared to defend themselves, but J. J. just nodded and strode off to rejoin Manion’s group.

  All attempts at bringing the crowd under control seemed only to increase the chaos. Members of the drivers’ teams continued slugging away at one another. A steady whir of video cameras mixed with the thuds of punches. The few people who tried to break up the fights soon became targets themselves. Reporters frantically scribbled notes, and the room blazed with photographers’ lights.

  “Hey, you guys okay?” Noah asked, joining the Hardys. “Frank, you took quite a punch.”

  Frank rubbed the large knot on his temple. “Yeah,” he answered. “I—”

  Frank was interrupted by the door slamming open. A mob of track security officers and police flooded the room.

  “Come on,” Noah said to the Hardys, beckoning them toward a door in the back corner. Frank and Joe followed Noah across the room and slipped through the back exit door.

  “Great!” Joe said, looking around the small parking lot. “We got out of there just in time.”

  “You guys hungry?” Noah asked. “I’ve got time before I report to the studio. How about some pizza?”

  “Sounds good,” Frank said, wiggling his jaw to make sure it could still chew pizza crust. His head was throbbing, but his stomach was growling. As the three headed toward the Hardys’ van, they heard someone call them from behind. “Hey, hold up a minute.”

  Frank, Joe, and Noah turned to see J. J. running toward them. He held out his hand as he approached Frank. “Hey, man, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m J. J. Quinn, timekeeper for Manion Cristal. I was out of line in there. No hard feelings?”

  Frank nodded and shook J. J.’s hand.

  “Cool,” J. J. said. He looked relieved. “You know,” he added, smiling at Frank, “you pack quite a punch. Where are you all headed?”

  “We’re going to Maria’s.”

  “Great!” J. J. said. “I’m buying.”

  They all climbed into his SUV and rode downtown to Maria’s. After they’d ordered pizzas and sodas, they sat in silence. Joe figured they all felt awkward because of what had gone down between Frank and J. J. He decided to break the ice. “So it looks like everything we heard about the rivalry between Manion and The Rabbit is true,” he said, grinning.

  “The point is that it’s more than a harmless rivalry,” J. J. said. “Competition’s great—it spurs us all on. You’re not going to have a Grand Prix without drivers pushing their limits and challenging other drivers. But this thing between Manion and Hugh goes way beyond that.”

  “Okay,” Noah said, “So what’s your side of the story, J. J.? I’ve heard a million versions, but I haven’t gotten yours yet.”

  “Hugh Conney is out to bury Manion,” J. J. said. He leaned back to allow the waiter to place the huge pizzas on the table. “Hugh’s been sending warning notes and making threatening phone calls for weeks now,” J. J. continued. “I’m talking serious threats here—not minor jokes or pranks.”

  “The Rabbit’s really been doing this?” Frank wondered. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, we don’t have any actual evidence linking him to all this,” J. J. admitted. “The notes are printed in block letters, and the phone voice is obviously disguised.”

  “What do the messages say?” Joe asked.

  “They’re bad,” J. J. answered. “They say that Manion is going to crash here at Indy, that he’ll be killed. They say he’d better pull out of the race or he’ll be sorry. Stuff like that.”

  “Is there any concrete reason why you think it’s Hugh Conney doing this?” Noah asked.

  “Who else would it be?” J. J. yelled, flinging his arm wide in a gesture of frustration. “Who’ll benefit if something happens to Manion? Who’s just nuts enough to do something like this?”

  “But isn’t it kind of risky for The Rabbit to be involved in threats of this nature?” Frank asked. “I mean, he’s a rich man, a champion—an international star. Seems dumb to throw it all away by taking such a chance.”

  “Taking chances is in his blood,” J. J. pointed out. “Drivers like these guys live to take chances. Plus, the bad blood between Hugh and Manion goes way back. They’ve had a long history of fierce competition. It’s built over the years.”

  “I remember reading about some rough run-ins a while back,” Joe said.

  “Hugh caused a bad accident for Manion in the Grand Prix at Monza, Italy, four years ago,” J. J. explained. “Then Manion forced Hugh out of the Monte Carlo Grand Prix last year. It was pretty obvious he was to blame. Formula One just isn’t big enough for both of them.”

  “Now they’re numbers one and two in the rankings,” Joe said. “This race has a lot riding on it.”

  “Have you told the police about the threats?” Frank asked J. J.

  “Sure,” J. J. said. “But as you pointed out, there’s no real evidence that links Hugh or anyone on his team to them. The police basically say we’ve got nothing. I guess we have to wait until something else happens—maybe another accident—before we can press charges.”