Street Spies

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "Freeze, kid," the male cop snapped. "One move and you're history."

  Chapter 10

  Joe looked blankly at the cops and guns. "Freeze?" he repeated, dazed. "What for?"

  "Don't get cute with us," the officer growled. He pulled Joe's headset off and took him by the arm, dragging him to his feet and pushing him toward the wall of the building on the corner. "Lean into the building, hands up, legs spread."

  Joe did as he was ordered while the officer deftly searched him. "What's this all about?" he asked, hoping he could stop the cop before he came to the microphone. "Look, officer, whatever you're thinking, you're wrong. I was just making a run when all of a sudden the bike — "

  "Save it," the officer ordered. His fingers closed on the mike taped to Joe's chest. He pulled Joe's shirt open and yanked the mike free. "See this?" he said, turning to the woman. "This guy's got to be one of the nuts we're after."

  The woman officer snapped a pair of cuffs on Joe's wrists and turned him around.

  "But I don't understand," Joe said loudly, wondering if Frank was picking up any of the conversation. "What do you think I've done?"

  "Save it," the woman said sharply. "We know you were after the mayor with that bomb on your bike."

  "After the mayor?" Joe repeated. He wasn't sure he'd heard right.

  "Come on," the male officer snapped, "you think we're stupid? The mayor's just down the block, talking to a group of small business owners who are bent out of shape because you messengers keep running down people in front of their shops."

  "And you think," Joe mumbled, "that I was going to ride a bike with a bomb on it into the mayor's meeting?" He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  "You said it," the woman officer said calmly. "We got word that you guys were going to make trouble today. The mike is proof that you're in contact with somebody else." She took Joe's arm and began to walk him toward the squad car. "Unless you've got a better story, kid, you're going to the precinct to tell us who masterminded this stunt."

  Joe planted his feet on the pavement. What story could he give them? That he, a seventeen-year-old high school kid, was actually working as a private detective? That he just happened to be disguised as a bicycle messenger? What lousy.

  If they took him in, he could forget about the next couple of hours— maybe the rest of the day. He couldn't afford the time away from the case. He had to help Tiffany!

  "Listen," he said urgently, "I've got to talk to the chief of police."

  The woman's mouth dropped open. "To Chief Peterson?" she asked.

  The burly cop barked a short, hard laugh. "This one's really a wacko," he said. He gave Joe a push. "Come on, stop stalling."

  Joe took a deep breath. It was now or never, he knew. "My name is Joe Hardy," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately. "I'm working as a detective undercover. My brother and I helped Chief Peterson solve that epidemic extortion case last year." If he could talk directly to Samuel Peterson, his father's ex-partner, the chief would get him out of this jam in a hurry.

  The burly cop took the woman by the sleeve. "How'd he find out about that extortion scheme?" he asked in a low voice. "They hushed that up tight, didn't they?"

  The woman shrugged. "The kid sounds looney-tunes to me, but maybe we'd better check it out, just in case."

  The officer pushed Joe toward the car. "Into the backseat," he said roughly.

  As Joe got into the car, the woman officer slid into the front seat and picked up the microphone. "This is car seven twenty-one," she said. "We have apprehended a suspect. He says his name is Joe Hardy. Claims to be an undercover agent. Wants to talk to Chief Peterson."

  There was a long pause as she listened to the static voice of headquarters.

  "No, I'm not crazy," the woman said. There was another burst of static. "Yes, I know. But this kid does have some confidential information about a big case last year. We thought we'd better check it out. I'll stand by."

  Joe sat back in the seat, watching through the wire screen that separated the front of the squad car from the rear. The two officers sat in front, talking. Several minutes later the radio crackled into life again.

  "Samuel Peterson," a commanding voice said.

  The burly officer reached for the mike. "Right, Chief. I mean, sir." He swallowed and his Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Sorry to bother you, but we've got a kid in custody who claims to know you. His name's Joe Hardy. His bike blew up about a block from the mayor's anti-bike messenger meeting, and he's carrying some kind of transmitter. We think he may have been trying to nail the mayor himself."

  There was a pause. "What does this kid look like?" the chief asked.

  "Late teens. Six feet, blond hair, football-player type."

  "Let me talk to him."

  "He can hear you," the officer said, turning to Joe. "We've got him in the back."

  "What's your father's name?"

  The officer stuck the mike against the screen in front of Joe and pressed the transmit button.

  "Fenton Hardy," Joe said loudly. "He was your partner years ago. You worked with us on the epidemic plot last year."

  The officers looked at each other.

  "Okay, that's good enough for me," the chief said. "He's who he claims to be. And he's clean. Let him go. If he needs any assistance, let him have it."

  "But, sir ... " the officer began, then hesitated.

  "Yes, what is it?"

  "What do we tell the press? It was a big explosion."

  "Don't worry about them. I'll clear it. Oh, and, Joe, when this is over, I want a full report."

  Joe leaned forward as the cop held the mike up. "Yes, sir," he said emphatically.

  "Peterson out," the chief said.

  The officers exchanged glances again. Then the woman shrugged, got out, opened the back door, and unlocked Joe's handcuffs.

  "Sorry," she said gruffly, "but you know how it is. We've had threats on the mayor's life." She reached into the front seat and handed Joe his headset and microphone. "Can we give you a hand?"

  "How about a lift up to Lincoln Center?" Joe asked, glancing at the remains of the bike, still in the middle of the intersection. An officer was there now, directing traffic.

  "You've got it," the driver said and turned on the flashing light. Carefully, he backed the car around. The traffic officer stopped the cross-street traffic and waved them through. As Joe looked back, he saw an armored truck pull up, and members of the city's bomb disposal squad began to collect the pieces of what had once been his bicycle.

  ***

  "Hey, that was high drama," Frank said when Joe slid into his seat at one of the outdoor tables in front of Rollo's. "You had us on the edge of our seats for a while. The whole thing sounded like one of those TV cop movies."

  "You picked it up?" Joe asked.

  "Until the cop pulled off your mike." His father grinned, relieved. "Sounds like you're twice lucky. First, to be alive, and second, not to be in jail. How'd you talk your way out of there?"

  The waiter brought cheeseburgers and fries as Joe filled them in on what had happened that afternoon, beginning with the phone call Tiffany had received.

  "This is a whole different ball game," Mr. Hardy said, when Joe was finished. "And I'm afraid you're out of it, Joe."

  "No way!" Joe shot back. "Tiffany needs my help! I'm not letting her down."

  "Look, Joe," Frank said, "your cover's obviously been blown — no pun intended." He reached for the mustard. "While you were talking to Tiffany, somebody was stuffing your bike with plastic explosive."

  "Right," Mr. Hardy said. "All of a sudden we're in the big league, and the other team's playing for keeps."

  "Well, I'm sure that Tiffany isn't on their team," Joe said flatly. "Nobody's that good an actress. Besides, she didn't know I was coming over, so the blackmail bit wasn't staged." He paused, thinking. "Remember that cream-colored van?"

  Frank sighed. "Of course."

  "I saw one that matched your description racing throu
gh the intersection right after the blast. I'll bet the driver spotted me going into World-Wide, rigged the bomb, and then hung around to watch the fireworks."

  There was a long pause at the table. Finally Fenton Hardy frowned. "If what you say about Tiffany is true," he said, "then she's in as much danger as you."

  Joe took a deep breath. His father was right. "I've got to warn her!" he said, pushing away his cheeseburger.

  "Is that a good idea?" Frank asked.

  "Good idea or not, I'm doing it, anyway," Joe said. He got up, went to a pay phone and, referring to the piece of paper Tiffany had given him, punched the number. The phone at the other end was picked up on the second ring.

  "Hello!" Tiffany's voice was shrill, almost out of control.

  "Listen, Tiffany, it's Joe." Joe hoped his voice sounded reassuring. "I think we can help."

  "Oh, Joe." Tiffany drew in a shuddery breath. "Where are you? I need you—now!"

  "What's wrong?"

  "That person — the one who phoned earlier— called again. He ordered me to go upstairs to a vacant office and pick up a package. Lightfoot's supposed to come for it."

  Joe took a deep breath. Things were happening fast. "Did you get the package?"

  "I got it." Tiffany sniffed. It sounded as if she was trying not to cry. "But it wasn't sealed, and I... I opened it. It's on my desk right now."

  "Good girl!" Joe exclaimed. "What's in it?"

  "It looks like a radio, with a lot of knobs and dials and things." She paused. "What'll I do?"

  "Wrap it back up," Joe said calmly. "When Lightfoot shows up, give it to him. He'll never get wherever he's going. We'll cut him off."

  "We?" Tiffany asked. "We, who?"

  "My brother, my father, and I," Joe said. "I don't have time to explain the whole thing right now, but we're working for your father."

  "You're working for my father? You lousy — "

  "It's okay, Tiffany." Joe tried to calm her. "Trust me." He grimaced and held the receiver away from his ear for ten seconds. When her anger died down he spoke again, more seriously. "Listen, as soon as Lightfoot leaves, give me a call." He gave her the number of the van's mobile phone, said goodbye, and rushed back to the table.

  "Come on you guys," he said excitedly. "The spy just passed Tiffany a radio unit of some kind. She's supposed to give it to Lightfoot. We've got to intercept him. If we catch him red-handed, maybe we can get him to spill what he knows!"

  "Hold on a minute, son," Mr. Hardy said. "You're not leaving here without a better plan. You know how tough it is to tail a bike with a van in traffic."

  "Dad's right," Frank said. "Why don't I take my bike and go after him?"

  "Okay," Joe said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the two transmitters he had left. "Take this," he said, tossing it to Frank. "I'll track the two of you in the van."

  Mr. Hardy stood up. "Mr. Chilton has to be briefed. It's not going to be easy. I'll be at the hotel — keep in touch."

  Minutes later Joe was in the van. He switched on the radio, then the computer screen. At that second the mobile phone buzzed.

  Joe picked it up. "Tiffany?"

  "Yes, Joe. Lightfoot just left with the package."

  Joe eyed the green monitor. There was Lightfoot's blip, in front of World-Wide. It started to move, heading north. He checked Frank's blip. He was heading south.

  "Good girl, Tiff," Joe said. "We'll get him!" He hung up and pulled out onto the street.

  "Joe, do you have anything yet?" It was Frank's voice on the radio "Yeah. Tiffany just called. Lightfoot's got the package. His blip's headed north. He's up to Fifty-third now. Maybe you can head him off." He pulled over to the side of the street into a vacant parking place. "I'll hold position here until we see which side of Central Park he takes."

  As Joe stared at the screen, he saw Lightfoot's marker moving steadily north. Two blocks later, Lightfoot's marker turned west.

  Joe picked up the mike. "Frank, turn north."

  "Roger. North it is."

  Joe started the van, made a quick left, checked the screen again, and grinned.

  Lightfoot was caught right between the two brothers.

  Frank scanned the traffic moving west. Sure enough, there was Lightfoot, a half-block ahead. He was pedaling fast, his bulging messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Frank saw the flash of spokes as Lightfoot banked steeply to the right, just in front of him.

  "Joe, he's turning into the park—going the wrong way on a one-way drive," Frank said. He strained to see as he followed Lightfoot into the park.

  "I'll cut up Central Park West and parallel you," Joe said promptly. "Better save your breath for your footwork."

  "Roger," Frank said as he strained to close the gap between Lightfoot and him. There were other bikes now, as well as the usual fast-moving traffic, and once Frank thought he'd lost him. But then he spotted him again, crossing the bridge over Transverse Road. Lightfoot stepped off his bike and disappeared down the embankment on the far side.

  Frank slammed on his brakes in the middle of the bridge. "Joe!" he barked. "The bridge over Transverse Drive!" Without waiting to hear Joe's response, he pulled off his headset, leapt off the bike, and ran to the rail. Directly below, he could see Lightfoot scrambling down to the road.

  This is it, Frank thought. Without his bike we can't tail him. If I try running down the bank, I'll probably lose him. He backed up a step or two, gauged the angle of Lightfoot's descent, and vaulted far out over the rail.

  But the instant he jumped, he saw it.

  Nearly hidden beneath the arch of the bridge was the cream-colored van!

  Chapter 11

  Lightfoot was halfway down the brushy slope when Frank crashed heavily onto his back. Lightfoot exploded with a loud hunh as the wind was knocked out of him. Frank's arm locked in a stranglehold around his neck. His heavy messenger bag dragging from his shoulders, Lightfoot began to thrash wildly as the pair slid down the steep slope.

  At the foot of the slope, almost on the road, Lightfoot landed on his hands and knees. "Get away, man!" he yelled. He gave a mighty heave and threw Frank off.

  Frank fell with a thud, and his head whacked against the curb at the edge of the roadway. For a second a starburst of pain hammered at him, and he slumped over, almost blacking out. Head swimming, he rolled over and pushed himself up. He stood, swaying, fighting the blackness that threatened to swallow him.

  A couple of yards away Lightfoot was reeling to his feet. He appeared dazed and confused, and an ugly scrape on his forehead was welling blood. He turned, fumbling in his messenger bag as he staggered toward the cream-colored van, still parked under the bridge, two wheels on the curb, its hazard lights flashing, the passengers inside making no move to help.

  "I've got it," he shouted frantically. "Open up and let me in! I've got what you want!"

  Suddenly the van's rear door opened a crack. Through the door Frank could see a face covered with a navy-blue ski mask—and the wicked-looking muzzle of a silencer. The gun was aimed at Lightfoot!

  Lightfoot saw the gun, too. For a split second, he stared at it, body frozen. Then, just as the finger tightened on the trigger, Frank summoned all his strength and launched himself forward.

  Frank hit Lightfoot with a flying tackle just above the knees, knocking him out of the line of fire. The two of them landed beside the bridge footing, Frank astride Lightfoot's chest.

  Frank heard a pop! and flattened himself on top of Lightfoot. An arm's length away a three-inch hole appeared in the ground, the shot kicking damp dirt in their faces.

  "Don't shoot, man!" Lightfoot shouted toward the van. He pushed against Frank, trying to shove him off, trying to get up.

  Then Frank heard the roar of the van's engine and the gritty spin of tires on gravel. A black cloud of rubber and exhaust fumes billowed out from under the arch as the cream-colored van pulled away, heading west.

  Lightfoot collapsed, sobbing with fear and rage. "What're they shooting at me f
or?" he moaned. "I brought 'em what they wanted."

  Before Frank could answer, the Hardys' black van, which had appeared under the bridge and frightened off the gunmen, pulled over across the road. Joe jumped out. Lightfoot, struggling to get up, saw Joe and recognition spread across his face. He stumbled backward, holding up both hands as if to ward off a blow.

  "What's going on?" Lightfoot said. Then the realization settled on his face. "The investigation. It was you!" he said as though trying to convince himself it was true.

  "You got to listen, Hot Dog," Lightfoot cried pleadingly. "Gus made me do it! I only did what he said so I wouldn't lose my job!"

  "Give us the bag," Frank said, advancing menacingly on Lightfoot.

  With a grunt, Lightfoot threw the bag on the ground. "Take it, man," he said. "It's yours."

  He hesitated, then turned and scrambled up the bank.

  "You okay?" Joe asked Frank. "You look a little banged up."

  "I'm fine," Frank assured him, handing Joe the bag. "I'll go get the bike."

  "What about Lightfoot?" Joe called as Frank ran up the hill to retrieve his bike and the headset he'd pulled off when he jumped.

  "Let him go," Frank called over his shoulder. "He's small potatoes. We've got what we want."

  When Frank returned, Joe helped him load the bike into the back of the van. "Where to?" he asked, as he slid into the driver's seat.

  "South, back to SpeedWay," Frank said, slamming the door. "On the double." As Joe turned on the ignition, he opened Lightfoot's bag and lifted out a wrapped package the size of a loaf of bread. He began tearing at the paper.

  Joe slammed the van into gear and whipped it onto the drive directly in front of a yellow taxi. The taxi driver leaned on his horn and shook his fist furiously at Joe. Muttering under his breath, Joe pushed the accelerator to the floor and the van surged ahead, leaving the taxi far behind.

  "Did you get a look at the driver of the cream-colored van?" Frank asked, still pulling at the paper.