Free Hostages of Hate by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

his other hand with a dry, rasping sound. "But you must think I am a terrible host. Please wash up, and I will get you something to drink. Then we will discuss business, yes?"
    Frank left the bathroom feeling one hundred percent better. His clothes were still damp from the trip across the creek, but at least he was clean. He had managed to remove all the dirt from his face.
    He followed the scent of brewed coffee into the kitchen. It was a large room, with a huge, round oak table in the middle. Frank's stomach rumbled when he saw a silver tray piled high with thick sandwiches. Beside it were cans of soda and cups for coffee.
    But the wooden chairs around the table were empty. Frank stood by one of them, hesitating.
    Should he try to find the others? He sat down. Joe could take care of himself. And he wanted a look at the papers piled beside the tray.
    He spread out a wide, rolled-up piece of paper and gasped. It was a plan of the airport. Marked in red was the area around Gate 61. The outline of an airliner had been inked in there. The International Airways jet!
    Also on the map were arrows and notes in blue. They seemed to lead back to one of the hangars.
    "Look at him!" A voice cut through Frank's puzzled thoughts. "He takes so long, I have to give a tour of the house to entertain you. Then he sneaks into the kitchen. But does he look at the food? No! He looks at the papers!"
    Karl laughed heartily as he led Pia and Joe into the kitchen. "So? Do you like my plans? I worked very hard on them, I assure you."
    Frank stared up in astonishment. Karl's last three words rang in his head. The same words — the same voice — as the faceless figure on the videotape. Frank couldn't believe it. This was the mysterious Dutchman? This pudgy little accountant type? Somehow, Frank had expected someone more polished, more sinister — more young. He dropped the papers and stared.
    But the Dutchman stared in equal surprise when he saw Frank cleaned up.
    "You aren't a Franz," the Dutchman rasped. "You're a Frank! Frank Hardy. I saw the tape that Gustave shot on television! You have a girl on the plane."
    He straight-armed Joe, sending him staggering against the table. Then he whipped out a Walther pistol from his sweater pocket. "You may have found your way here, but you'll never leave. Not alive!"

Chapter 13
    THE SHOCK OF having his cover blown might have stunned even a professional into a fatal paralysis. But Frank Hardy was moving even as Karl brought his gun up. He kicked his chair away and dropped under the table as flame flashed from the muzzle of the Walther. A bullet whistled through the space where he'd been sitting an instant before. Frank hit the floor. "Missed me — Dutchman." Hearing his professional name shocked Karl into a second's hesitation. But he could afford it. He was holding a gun with twenty shots against a boy with no weapon at all.
    Yet it was the unarmed boy who used that hesitation to launch an attack. Bracing his feet under the edge of the big kitchen table, Frank heaved, making the whole table tilt. Then it fell over with a crash, bouncing on the floor, scattering food and drink all over the kitchen.
    The Dutchman jumped back in alarm, squeezing off a shot into the falling table. A nine-millimeter bullet tore through the oak of the tabletop. It passed over Frank's head. Close, but not close enough. Karl couldn't see where to aim.
    He never got a chance for another try.
    Frank pivoted around, using the table itself as his weapon. He shoved his shoulder into the tabletop and wrapped his arm around its pedestal. Joe had also dropped to the floor and behind the tabletop. He realized what Frank was up to and reached over to give him a hand. Together, they launched the table like a giant battering ram.
    The Dutchman had lost the advantage. He was waving his gun, trying to decide where to shoot, when the table seemed to attack him. It caught him head-on, smashed into him, and sent him sprawling backward.
    Karl hit the