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But he did not pause to admire it. He had to move fast--as fast as he could on
his hands and knees in the sand-before his pursuer realized he had gotten out.
Frank didn't plan to run away, though. His ankle hurt too much. He wouldn't
get far enough. Besides, what he really wanted to do was attack. He slipped
silently around the side of the pill box and found himself looking at Pierre's
back.
Pierre was peering into the pillbox with his gun drawn.
"Come out, American," Pierre's taunting voice called into the darkness. "You
do not have a chance. We have already caught your friends. Would you not like
to see them one last time before you-"
That was as far as Pierre got. Frank delivered a
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powerful karate chop that scored a dead hit on a key nerve in the back of
Pierre's neck.
Pierre went down without a fight.
Frank didn't waste time bothering to check him out. He grabbed Pierre's gun
and headed back up the beach. Maybe Pierre had been lying when he claimed that
Joe and
Denise had been captured. Or if it was true, maybe Frank could come to their
rescue.
At any rate, with a gun in his hand and Pierre out of the way, the odds for
survival had become a whole lot better.
The odds for survival didn't look good for Joe as he ran down the beach away
from
Frank and Denise. He was moving as if he were in a broken field run during a
football game. But this time there was no goal line where he could stop and be
safe. And bullets were harder to dodge than any tackler who had ever come
after him.
The sand began to grow into a ridge ahead of him, sloping up more and more
steeply into a respectable sand dune. Joe slogged uphill, losing speed, while
his pursuer, still on level ground, drew nearer.
Joe pushed himself harder as the dune grew steeper, pulling with his hands as
well as pushing with his legs. The top of the dune was almost in reach. He
grabbed a clump of coarse dune grass. He'd be over it in another second,
momentarily
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safe. And beyond. . . As his head cleared the crest, he saw a shape farther
along the beach. A boat?
Behind him a shot rang out, and the clump of grass under his hand
disintegrated as the bullet tore through it. A near miss-but it had killed him
as surely as if it had hit him in the heart. Without a handhold, he couldn't
climb over the dune. And his handhold had just been blasted apart. Joe
scrabbled desperately for another clump of grass, but his hands only caught
sand as he slipped a foot, then two feet down the slope.
Joe glanced back, and his heart sank. He was trapped on the empty dune, like a
fly on a tablecloth. Below him, at the foot of the dune, his pursuer went down
on one knee, bracing himself for the final shot.
If only I had a weapon, Joe thought, even something to throw at him, a stone.
But there was nothing to throw, except his own body.
Sliding farther down the slope, Joe got his legs under him, then sprang into
the air.
Caught by surprise, the gunman below rose to his feet, trying to bring his
pistol up. By then Joe's feet were connecting with the man's shoulder, sending
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the gun flying and both of them rolling to the ground.
Fiercely they wrestled in the sand, grunting, sweating, hunting for a winning
hold. The powerful arms of his opponent closed around him in a
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crushing bear hug. Joe went limp. Then with sudden, violent motion of both
arms, he broke free, throwing his opponent to the sand.
Joe rose up on his knees, drawing back his fist. Before the stunned Frenchman
could move, Joe delivered the knockout punch-right on the guy's chin. It might
have bruised
Joe's knuckles, but as he got to his feet, he could be sure his opponent
wouldn't be getting up for a good long time.
Joe squinted in the moonlight, trying to see whom he had attacked. It was Yves
Reynard. Then Joe turned to hunt for Yves's gun, but before he could find it,
he saw another figure running toward him. He turned, charging back to the top
of the sand dune, then dashing for the only cover in sight-a large rowboat
beached upside down a hundred yards away. Joe stayed low as he ran, expecting
shots as soon as his pursuer cleared the dune.
.
Not a shot was fired, though. Maybe he hadn't been spotted after all. Joe
crouched behind the boat, his ears picking up the faint crunching sound of
approaching footsteps in the sand.
The footsteps drew closer and closer-and Joe leaped up, his fist already
swinging in a haymaker.
But even as he threw the punch, Joe's target ducked and grabbed his arm.
Suddenly Joe was flying through the air, to land face forward in the sand.
Instantly he was on his feet, ready to swing
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again, when Frank said, "Hey, it's me! I came to help you, but I see you've
done a pretty good job by yourself, even with your primitive fighting
techniques. "
"Did you overpower that other guy?" asked Joe.
"Yup," said Frank. "But we don't have time to stand around congratulating
ourselves."
"Yeah, we have to save Denise," said Joe.
But they were stopped before they could take a step.
Facing them, five feet away, was Maurice Reynard, his gun leveled.
Drop your gun," Maurice ordered Frank, and Frank had to obey.
"You two were clever, but not clever enough. Now back off from the boat, in
case you have any idea of diving for cover."
Frank and Joe exchanged helpless glances.
They had no choice but to obey.
Smiling, Maurice stood between them and the boat. "That is the end of your bag
of tricks. Uncle Paul said that he preferred that we bring you back to be
tortured so that you would reveal your secrets. But he said we could kill you
if necessary. I have decided-"
At that moment, Maurice's gun fell from his hand as the blade of an oar
smashed across the back of his head. Then his body collapsed in the sand,
covering the gun.
Denise dropped the oar she had swung and was
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on her hands and knees instantly, rolling Maurice over to get her hands on the
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gun.
Before the Hardys' startled eyes, she had emerged from under the boat with the
oar in her hands. It had been all they could do to keep their faces straight.
"Good job," Frank congratulated her.
"As you Americans say, no sweat." Denise got to her feet with the gun.
"No sweat?" said Joe, looking at her soaked clothing.
"Oh, that,"
replied Denise. "I merely took a little swim. I jumped into the sea, swam
underwater, and while the Reynards were looking in the area where they'd seen
me go under, I rode the breakers in farther down the beach. I saw this boat
lying here and crawled under it."
"Undercover work is definitely your specialty," said Joe, grinning.
"I do my best." Denise smiled. "And you two don't do so badly either."
"Three down, one to go," said Frank. "Let's take the helicopter back to the
chateau before Paul Reynard starts worrying that something has gone wrong."
"And his nephews?" asked Joe.
"Denise can alert the police to pick them up anytime," replied Frank. "But
Paul
Reynard will be harder to handle if he makes a rim for it."
Frank picked up the gun he had dropped. Joe went back to the dune and found
Yves's gun.
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Then they headed toward the helicopter, which was parked on the beach.
"I can't wait to see the expression on old Uncle Paul's face when he sees us,"
said Joe as they reached the helicopter and Joe's hand reached out to open the
door.
But the door flew open before he touched it. Paul Reynard stood there with a
gun in his hand, an evil look of triumph on his face.
"You have had your fun," he said, waving Joe back with his gun. Then he
climbed out of the helicopter. "But now your fun is over. Now it is my turn.
As you Americans say, he who laughs last, laughs best.
"You actually thought you could outsmart me," he went on. "You should have
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