Countdown to Terror

"I TELL YOU, Frank, we're being suckered." Joe Hardy scowled at his older brother, slightly raising his voice over the drone of the jet engines. "I think Dad's sending us on a wild-goose chase to get us out of the way. He hasn't trusted us since his last case."

Detective cases were something both the Hardys and their father knew a lot about. Fenton Hardy was an internationally known private investigator, and his sons had often tangled with criminals. But their last case, Nowhere to Run, had pitted father against sons. Fenton had had the job of capturing a friend of Frank's and Joe's, while the younger Hardys had tried to clear him. It put a serious strain on the family for a while — Joe was still feeling it.

Frank Hardy's dark eyes went from the news magazine he was reading to his brother's troubled face. "Chill out, Joe. Dad just asked us to do him a favor — fly up to Halifax, Nova Scotia, and pick up some depositions. I don't think he's sending us into exile."

"No, just all the way to Canada," Joe said sarcastically.

He got a shrug from Frank in reply. "Okay, this insurance scam may not be the biggest case ever to come our way. But we take what we can get." Frank tapped the magazine in his hand. "Maybe you'd rather be tackling this terrorist thing — twenty people killed in Europe and the Middle East, and no one knows who's doing it, much less why."

"Crazies don't need a reason," Joe said, his blue eyes suddenly icy. He'd lost a girlfriend, Iola Morton, in a terrorist bomb blast that had been meant for him. "Anyway, we'd be doing the world a favor if we went after scum like that. Who really cares about a bunch of penny-ante crooks fooling around with shipping cargoes to rook insurance companies?"

Frank grinned. "Well, the insurance companies do. And so does Dad, since he was hired to find these guys. And it's not so penny-ante. The accounts may be small, but these guys are operating up and down the whole Atlantic seaboard."

The pitch of the ever-present hum of the engines changed, and the plane banked. "We must be coming in for a landing," Joe said, looking out the window at a perfect late-summer day. "Maybe a crash landing. I don't see anything out there but trees."

Frank leaned across his brother to glance out the window. Thick pine forests, broken only here and there by lakes, rushed by under them. "If you'd bothered to do a little homework instead of grousing about this trip, you'd know the airport is about six miles outside the city."

"The control tower is probably made of logs," Joe muttered, still staring out the window.

But as the plane went into its landing glide, it approached an airport as modern as most. "Looks like they use radar instead of smoke signals," Frank quipped to his brother.

The plane bounced once on the tarmac, then rolled to a stop beside the terminal. As soon as the moving walkway had been attached to the plane, the Hardys were ready to go. Both had carry-on bags — they hated waiting for luggage to be unloaded. Frank had a special padded flight bag for his lap-top computer. It hung from his shoulder as they walked off the plane.

"Let's grab a cab and get into town," Joe said. "The sooner we finish this job, the happier I'll be."

Frank grinned at him. "You mean you don't want to hang around and enjoy all the tourist sights?"

Joe whipped around in the middle of the terminal, pulling something out of his pocket. "Well, if I'm here to play tourist, I brought the perfect prop."

With a flick, he opened a folding instant camera and hit the shutter switch. The built-in flash went off, and a moment later Joe handed Frank a picture of himself scowling against the glare of the flash.

"Perfect!" Now Joe was grinning.

Frank gave him a sour look. "I think you could use a little practice with this thing. Who are all these people behind me?"

"Local color," Joe loftily informed him.

They headed outside to the rank of taxicabs. Frank happened to glance back and saw one of the "local-color" people rushing over to a phone booth. He was a tall, dark guy with a bushy mustache and a white turban. "I hope he's not calling his lawyer about being blinded by a camera flash," he muttered. Then he slid in next to his brother in the cab.

It was an old luxury car, a "gas guzzler" with a surprisingly plush interior. Frank had noticed that the taxi sign on the roof was held on by tension cords. He suspected the car also served as the driver's personal transportation.

"The Harbour Hotel, please," Joe told the driver, and the car pulled smoothly away from the curb.

As soon as they were on the road, Joe rolled down the window, breathing deeply to take in the piney smell of the trees around them. "It's not exactly the way I expected to be introduced to a city," he said.

"Oh, Halifax is big," the driver said. "But it's green too." Passing through rolling hills heavily studded with stands of trees, the Hardys agreed that it did look pretty terrific.

"Not much traffic this afternoon," the driver continued. "You boys must have been the first off the plane."

"That's the best part of carrying your own bags," Joe said, staring out at the nearly empty road. "You mean you get traffic jams out here?"

"We get a lot of people on these roads," the driver said. "It's the worst on the bridges into town." He smiled. "Halifax has about everything you'd expect from a modern city, including traffic jams and crowds."

"And crazy drivers," Frank put in, looking out the front windshield. A red sports car had appeared at the top of the hill ahead, barreling down the gentle slope at full speed.

Joe laughed. "Maybe he's afraid he's going to miss his plane," he suggested.

The driver shook his head. "I don't think any flights are leaving right now," he said. "My bet is that he was supposed to pick someone up."

Soon after the red sports car flashed past them, they heard the shriek of its brakes. Frank looked out the rear window and saw the car go into a wild, fishtailing U-turn. Now it was moving up behind them.

Frank's eyes narrowed. There was something weird about this.

Joe's danger antennae were working just as well. "Driver, speed up a little," he said. "This guy is getting a little too close to our tail."

"You said it," the driver agreed. He hit the gas, and the big old car lengthened the distance between them.

But the red car sped up even more, as if it were trying to catch them.

"First he's in a hurry to go one way, then the other," the driver said. "I'm going to pull over and let this maniac pass."

"That's not — " Frank began.

"Don't!" Joe said.

But as they were speaking, the driver was tapping his brakes and pulling off to the side of the road.

Now the red car was slowing, too. As it came up broadside, Frank watched as the passenger window steadily slid down. "Somehow, I don't think this guy needs directions," he said. "Let's get moving."

The driver turned back to stare at Frank blankly.

"Forget it," Joe yelled. "Duck!"

A hand had appeared in the sports car's window. It held a gleaming 9 mm automatic.

And it was pointed straight at them.

THE HARDYS AND their driver hit the floor as the gunman cut loose with five wild shots. The windshield shattered, as well as both windows on the driver's side.

Although they couldn't see the red sports car from their positions on the floor, they heard the engine rev, the tires spin out.

"They're pulling out in front of us," Joe said. "We've got to get out of here."

He reached for the door handle, but missed as the taxi suddenly jerked forward. The engine roared as it picked up speed and passed the sports car.

Frank peered between the front seats to see the driver still on the floor, one hand holding the bottom of the steering wheel, the other on the gas pedal.

"How do you expect to steer—by touch?" Frank asked.

"Son," the driver said, "in the wintertime, when white-outs hit the road, that's just how we do drive. It beats getting shot at."

He jockeyed the wheel and chanced a darting glance into the rear-view mirror. As his head rose above the seat, bullets smashed what was left of the rear window.

The driver tromped on the gas pedal, and the cab shot forward.

Frank and Joe looked back through the glass shards to see the red sports car starting up.

Both cars raced along the empty road in a weird dance. The agile red sports car darted back and forth behind the huge blue cab, trying to catch up. But the Hardys' driver sent his cab weaving across the road to block the attackers.

The gunman was leaning out the window, trying for a clear shot, when the cab slowed suddenly. The red car bounced off its rear fender. The impact nearly threw the gunman out of the car.

He shouted angrily, pumping bullets into the cab's trunk.

The driving battle continued, speed versus size. But finally the little car managed to maneuver around the larger one again. It swung wide, so that the gunman was even with the rear seats of the cab.

He grinned, raising his automatic.

Joe stared across the three-foot distance and into the eyes of his would-be murderer. He ducked and looked desperately around the backseat of the car, looking for something, anything to use in his defense.

Frank's computer lay on the seat beside him. Joe snatched up the flight bag by the shoulder strap and swung it out the shattered window.

It caught the gunman in the arm, deflecting his aim up. Still holding on to the bag, Joe leaned out of the car and swung his shoulder. This time the computer hit the gunman with stunning force, knocking him back against the sports car's driver.

The car veered closer to the cab as Joe leaned out farther, swinging the bag over his head. Frank reached out to his brother, trying to steady him.

Then Joe released the whirling bag, sending it straight into the oncoming car's windshield. It smashed against the glass, shattering it into a spider's web of cracks.

The driver flinched, losing control of the car, which careened wildly across the road into a stand of white birches.

Frank pulled his eyes away from the scene.

"Nice aim. But did you have to use my computer?"

The wrecked car quickly receded behind them. Joe leaned forward to tap their driver on the shoulder. "Hey, aren't we going to stop?"

"Not as long as those guys have guns," the driver told him. "We'll call the cops at the first gas station we come to."

The Hardys shrugged. They weren't eager to face the gunman again either. "Maybe we should call Dad's contact on the Halifax force," Joe said.

Frank nodded. "It'd be easier than trying to explain this to a desk sergeant."

They were pulling up at a gas station then. "We'll call the police," Frank said.

"And you'd better call a cab," the driver said. "This one is a little too open to the wind."

Frank got the number for the Halifax police, dialed, and asked for Sergeant Gerald Dundee. The desk officer transferred his call.

"Dundee," a voice snapped on the other end of the line.

"Sergeant Dundee, this is Frank Hardy — my brother and I are supposed to meet you this afternoon. But something very strange has happened on the way in from the airport." He gave the story of the attack.

Frank ended the story, "Either they wanted us, or they wanted the car we were in. Who knew we were coming?"

"Myself and the insurance people," Dundee replied. "It was hardly top secret. But why would a bunch of insurance cheats attack you?" Dundee had grown much less annoyed as he listened to Frank's story. "Tell the driver to stay at the gas station until I get there. You go on to your hotel — the Harbour, isn't it? I'll come and question you after I'm finished out there."

Even as Frank was hanging up, a new taxi arrived. The Hardys transferred their bags, then gave their first driver Dundee's message and paid him. They felt it was the least they could do.

The rest of the ride into the city of Halifax was quiet. They came to a wide expanse of water — Halifax Harbor—which they had to cross to enter the city. "This is the old bridge," the driver said as he started across a two-lane span. "Up north is the newer bridge."

The Hardys looked out at the bustling seaport. The cranes were moving boxcar-size crates into the holds of waiting container ships. Other ships were moored at the docks—including a navy corvette.

When they were across the bridge and driving through the city, they were impressed with the mix of state-of-the-art office towers with buildings from one or two centuries before. The driver pulled past what looked like two-hundred-year-old warehouses to stop in front of an ultramodern hotel complex. "The Harbour Hotel," he said. "Right next to the old and restored part of town."

"Very impressive," Frank said. He and Joe paid their fare, got their bags, registered, and settled into their hotel room to wait for Sergeant Dundee.

He arrived about an hour later, a big, craggy-faced man with ginger red hair turning to white. Heavy, grizzled eyebrows topped his piercing blue eyes. He was vigorous, but he was old. Frank realized Dundee must be near retirement age. That was why he'd been given the job of dealing with insurance companies and their investigators. Judging from the heavy frown lines cut into the man's face, he didn't enjoy his job.