Nowhere to Run Read online

  "Enough of this playing around," he decided out loud, opening the throttle all the way and shifting into fourth. The bike whined and shot forward.

  Joe was shocked to see the Chevy lurch forward and keep pace. Underneath that rusty, dented old body, he realized, was a fireball engine that exploded with power and speed.

  Joe tapped the foot shifter into fifth, and the bike bolted forward. The car pounded along after the Harley. Joe crouched down to cut wind resistance. Even so, the Chevy caught up, bumping the bike's rear wheel. The cycle swerved, but Joe was able to maintain control.

  How was he going to shake this tail? Joe realized he was near the railroad tracks. If he could keep the Chevy at bay for a few more minutes, he could zip down the embankment, hop onto the tracks, and follow them out of town. The car wouldn't be able to follow.

  Joe heard a whine from the Chevy's engine. He turned to see the car leap forward and then felt it slam into the back of his cycle again. The bike pitched forward violently. Joe held on to the handlebars and kept himself from flipping off.

  Now the cycle was weaving wildly down the street. Joe rode it out, steering into the erratic moves, going at high speed. He had almost regained control when the front tire struck a curb.

  Moving at eighty miles an hour, the bike bucked like a wild bronco, unseating Joe and hurling him straight for a brick wall!

  Chapter 5

  FRANK DECIDED TO HEAD in the opposite direction from Joe. With luck, the security men would be too busy chasing Joe to get a good look at the van and its license number.

  A hollow feeling settled in Frank's stomach— and it wasn't from hunger. It wasn't enough that the police were after Biker. Now they were probably after Frank and Joe as well. Then there was the way he and Joe had deliberately disobeyed their father. The law was one thing to have to answer to — Fenton Hardy was quite another.

  "Joe once told me that whenever anybody needed help, Frank Hardy would be there." Biker's words cut through Frank's uneasy thoughts.

  Frank glared at Biker in silence.

  "He also said that when the odds were all against him, he wouldn't want anyone but you in his corner."

  "Fine," Frank mumbled. "But he didn't have to be so eager to test it out."

  "I am innocent, Frank."

  "I know, but your attack on Brandon back there doesn't do much for your case."

  "Oh, that." Biker laughed.

  "Just like Joe," Frank said, "always too cool underpressure."

  "I was trying to scare Brandon, not kill him," Biker went on. "He's a nice enough guy, but he has this habit of moving in on other people's girlfriends. Maybe things come too easy for him, since he's rich and handsome. If he doesn't watch himself, he can become the biggest jerk in the world.

  "If his daddy didn't own the company, he would've been fired a long time ago, and I'd be vice-president in charge of sales."

  "Why? He seems competent enough to me."

  Biker laughed. "He tries too hard to be the boss. Once he came up with the brilliant idea of having all the field representatives call in at nine A. M., to make sure they were 'on the job.' Of course, as an executive, he wouldn't come in until ten, so his secretary handled the mess. Every morning at nine o'clock sharp, the company switchboard lit up like the Fourth of July—then at one second past, the board would blow a fuse."

  "Why didn't Mr. Dalton stop it?"

  "I tried to warn him, but he couldn't believe that anybody would have given such a stupid order. Then one day Mr. Dalton tried to call out at one second past nine and zzzaaappp!" He laughed. "That day, Mr. Dalton was the one who blew a fuse."

  "What happened?" Frank asked as they turned down another street.

  "Mr. Dalton got furious at Brandon. After that, Brandon made it tougher for me to route my shipments. I could handle that. But then he started getting personal by hitting on Sue. Just now, when I saw his cycle next to hers in the mall parking lot, I lost it."

  "Your temper just digs your hole deeper," Frank said.

  "I've calmed down a lot since I met Sue."

  Frank frowned at Biker. He hadn't noticed any sign of a change.

  "I can't believe you were convicted on such slim evidence," Frank said, his brow furrowed. "What could that truck driver have said to convince ajury?"

  "If I get my hands on that liar, I'll choke the truth out of him!" Biker slammed his fist against the dash. He looked out the window into the dark night. "Nick Frost testified that the hijacker was wearing black leather riding clothes exactly like mine, down to the emblems and logos I had sewn on from my junior motocross days. The only thing he couldn't see was my face — because of the racing mask."

  "Racing mask?" Frank asked.

  "Yeah. It looks like a ski mask, but it has one large oval for the eyes instead of two small holes."

  "It still sounds like circumstantial evidence," Frank said.

  "Frost claimed that he recognized the hijacker's voice as mine. I suppose he ought to know— I've chewed him out plenty of times for messing up my orders."

  "Did you know Frost is missing now?"

  "No."

  Frank slowed the van to a halt.

  "What's wrong, Frank?" Biker asked. He looked around, afraid that they had been stopped by the police.

  "Nick Frost..." Frank said thoughtfully.

  "What about him?"

  "Each time I hear that name, a little bell rings." Frank hopped in the back of the van and unlocked the panel that held his laptop computer.

  "Wow, High-tech Hardy," Biker said. "What are you trying to find in that little magic box?"

  "A rat," Frank replied. A red light blinked on the computer and the screen jumped with amber letters. Moments later, Frank smiled for the first time in an hour. "And here he is, right in my dad's files. It seems Mr. Frost was once a petty crook here in Bayport, but hasn't been around for some time. How did you meet him?"

  "Nick started working for DalTime about six months after I did. We drove together until I got promoted. He never said anything about being from Bayport."

  "You wouldn't either if you had his record," Frank replied with a nod at the screen.

  The data continued to scroll upward, listing Frost's past crimes. Biker whistled.

  "Did he have anything against you?" Frank sat behind the steering wheel and started the van.

  "The only time — Nah, that's silly."

  "What?"

  "About a year ago I got this great idea for promoting the watches and getting paid to ride cycles. Mr. Dalton let me form a company cycle club called Riding on Time. All of us—me, Sue, Brandon, Frost—would visit shopping centers and malls to put on safety and riding demonstrations. We had matching jumpsuits and — "

  "What about Frost?" Frank said, interrupting the reminiscences.

  "Brandon may be a jerk sometimes, but Frost makes stupidity an art form. The guy was careless, wouldn't follow instructions or stick to the routine. He nearly ran over some kids at one mall. Worse than that, he treated his bike like garbage. I finally told him to take a hike."

  Frank's eyes narrowed as he thought. "So, Frost rides a bike?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  Frank described the attack at the pits. "Joe said the guy's bike was a wreck."

  "Sounds like Frost. We used to joke that he never had to change his oil because it always leaked out first. He made a big fuss about being kicked out of our club but quieted down when Fat Harold's men started looking for him."

  "Fat Harold?"

  "A loan shark with very long and very sharp teeth. From what I understand, Frost was deep in debt to Fat Harold and sinking fast." The van lurched from side to side as it hit several potholes. "Hey, where are we going?"

  "The computer gave Frost's last address. It's a garage owned by the Sinbads. If he's in town, he may be there."

  "The Sinbads?"

  "They're a local cycle club known more for their fighting than their riding. I guess they were formed after you left Bayport." Frank turned down a dark stre
et. "Why would Frost be after you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Sue said that Frost disappeared shortly after you escaped. Did you threaten him at the trial?"

  "I just looked at him," Biker said. "But you know what they say — if looks could kill..."

  "Did you ever tell Frost about the pits?"

  "I might have. Drivers talk about a million things on long hauls." Biker sat up. "Come to think of it, I did most of the talking."

  Frank wasn't surprised.

  He turned into a dark driveway. The van's headlights lit up the stained walls of a cinder-block garage. Rusted engine parts and skeletons of cycle frames cluttered the area. A large, poorly drawn picture of a skull with a blood-drenched knife between its teeth warned unwelcome visitors to stay away.

  "Friendly folks, aren't they?" Biker mused.

  Frank stopped the van several yards from the large wooden door of the seedy garage.

  "Let me do the talking," Frank cautioned Biker, his hand on the door handle. "The last thing I need is for you to start a riot."

  "Yes, sir," Biker said with a laugh and a salute.

  Frank began to push open the door when it was suddenly jerked away from him. A large, hairy hand grabbed his shirt collar and yanked him out of the van. Then he was blinking in the glare of the headlights as a massive brass-knuckled fist flew toward his face. He had just enough time to move his head slightly. The brass knuckles only scraped along his jaw, but the force of the blow sent him stumbling backward.

  A bearlike shadow was silhouetted against the headlights. The man swung his arm out and twisted his wrist. Frank heard the distinctive snick of a switchblade. A six-inch, razor-sharp blade glittered in the lights.

  "My friends call me Switch." The huge man chuckled. "I usually keep this around in case of trouble. But when I heard you guys might be coming—I knew I'd be giving you trouble."

  Chapter 6

  JOE FLEW OFF the cycle, his fall cushioned by a pile of garbage. He rolled to one side as the bike slammed into the wall—hard. It fell to the ground, a hunk of twisted, screaming metal. The engine whined, then coughed, then died.

  Joe lay quiet, the breath knocked out of him. He stayed still and took in small gulps of air. Revived, he tried to push himself up, but a burning line of pain shot down his left arm. Broken, he figured.

  The Chevy screeched to a stop less than a yard from Joe, the headlight beams blinding him. He stood on wobbly legs. Although injured and dazed, Joe was ready to confront the two men getting out of the car. He wiped the grit and crud of the garbage from his visor and looked around, trying to find anything to use as a weapon.

  The two men were still a blur. The driver leaned across the hood of the Chevy, pointing something at Joe. Joe instantly recognized the glint of steel from a large pistol.

  "Okay, Conway," came a gravelly voice. "Back up to the wall." Joe had no choice as he heard the hammer lock into firing position. He backed up.

  "Take the helmet off," the man ordered.

  Joe tugged on the chin strap with his right hand. He loosened it and slowly pulled the helmet off his head.

  "Joe!" Fenton Hardy yelled from the passenger side of the car.

  Joe was momentarily confused. "Dad?" He caught himself as he began to fall forward.

  Fenton ran to the front of the car and helped his son out of the garbage.

  "What's going on here?" asked a puzzled Mort Sims. He still held his 9 mm on Joe, unsure what to do next.

  "You've got the wrong guy, Sims," Joe said with a weak smile.

  Sims lowered the hammer and replaced his gun in its holster.

  "You've done it now, Fenton." He glared at Joe's father. "You told me that your sons were levelheaded, that they'd cooperate with the law. I ought to arrest Joe here and now for aiding an escaped felon."

  "What you'll do," Fenton replied harshly, eyes narrowed, "is drive Joe to the hospital."

  Sims hesitated, then threw his hands up in the air and climbed into the driver's seat of the Chevy.

  Joe cradled his left arm as Fenton helped him into the backseat.

  "I think it's broken," he groaned.

  "You're lucky you didn't break your neck," Sims retorted.

  "Just drive, Sims," Fenton ordered as he hopped into the front passenger seat.

  Reluctantly, Sims shifted the car and gunned the accelerator.

  "What were you trying to prove by luring us away from Conway?" Fenton turned and asked after he gave Sims directions to the hospital.

  "I wasn't luring you away from him." Joe tried to avoid his father's steel blue stare. "We didn't even know you were there. Biker got into some trouble at the mall, and I wanted to shake the security guards."

  "Conway's a loser," Sims said matter-of-factly.

  "Get off his back," Joe shot back.

  "What kind of trouble?" Fenton Hardy wanted to know.

  "Did you tell Brandon Dalton that Frank and I were at the mall?" Joe inquired instead of answering his father's question.

  "He called the house about an hour after you left," Fenton answered. "He wanted to talk Biker into turning himself in."

  "How'd he know to call our house?"

  "I told him yesterday I was going to ask your father to help me," Sims replied. "Now, why don't you answer your father's questions?" Sims shot Joe a suspicious look.

  "After we met Brandon and we talked a bit, he went to make a phone call. Next thing I knew, Biker was there and ready to punch him out."

  "Was Murphy with Dalton?" asked Sims.

  Joe hesitated. "Yes."

  "So, Conway thought he'd do a little tap dancing on the guy who stole his girl." Sims laughed and turned to Fenton. "Word is that she dumped Conway for the rich kid after the trial."

  "That's a lie," Joe said bluntly.

  "Why didn't you call in, tell us where Conway was?" Fenton asked.

  "Biker had just shown up when he got into the fight with Brandon."

  "Where is he now?"

  "With Frank."

  "Where's Frank?" Sims asked impatiently.

  "Driving around until Biker cools off."

  "You were told to restrain him," Fenton said coldly.

  "We had to get him away from the security guards," Joe replied. He knew what was coming the moment he said that.

  "Why?" Fenton's voice was steady, like a flow of angry lava. "They would only have held him until the police arrived, and then Conway would have been put in jail—where he belongs."

  "He's innocent," Joe protested. "If you'd really look at the evidence — "

  "Judge Joe Hardy," Sims scoffed. "When's your appointment to the Supreme Court, Judge Joe?" Sims turned the car toward the hospital's emergency entrance. "You've got no reason to believe that Conway's innocent."

  "My reason is based on something you wouldn't know much about," Joe said calmly.

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "Friendship."

  Joe watched in the rear-view mirror as Sims's eyes narrowed into angry slits.

  "You're lucky you didn't break that arm," the emergency room doctor said as he studied the X rays of Joe's left arm. "It's only a torn ligament— and a world-class bruise." He shut off the X-ray lamp and began writing on a chart. To a nurse he said, "Wrap it and put it in a sling." He turned to Joe. "You'll have to wear the sling for a few weeks. No baseball or tennis or anything that might agitate that arm."

  "Like helping escaped convicts," Sims added with a wry smile.

  The doctor raised his eyebrows at Sims. "Just take it easy," he said, leaving the curtained room.

  "I've known you for a long time, Fenton," Sims began as the nurse was adjusting the Velcro straps on Joe's sling. "You're one of the best investigators around. I never thought I'd be telling you this." Sims took a deep breath. "But if your boys get in my way again, I'll be forced to bring the law down on them. Hard."

  Fenton's eyes bored into Sims. "My sons may have their faults. But breaking the law intentionally isn't one of them." Fenton approac
hed the examining table where Joe was sitting. Joe was chilled by his father's icy stare. "Tell Sims everything you remember about Biker's old hangouts," Fenton ordered when the nurse left the cubicle.

  Joe felt a great weight pull down on his shoulders. Fenton rarely used that tone of voice with either of his sons. Joe slid down from the table.

  "You heard him," Sims said triumphantly. "Everything. I want that convict by morning."

  Joe's mind was clear and calm. "No."

  "I can't help you, Joe, if you insist on hampering Sims's investigation." Fenton Hardy's voice was no longer angry—just resigned to the fact that his son was sticking to his convictions.

  "I won't betray an innocent friend to a trigger-happy bounty hunter like Sims." Joe paused. He felt the weight press down even more heavily. "Or to a bounty hunter like you."

  Chapter 7

  FRANK HARDY HEARD the sounds of a struggle from the other side of the van. But Biker would have to take care of himself — Frank had time only for the switchblade slicing toward him. He caught his attacker's arm as it swung down with the knife. Then Frank rolled, and Switch stumbled off balance. Whipping around, Frank snapped a kick behind the guy's left knee.

  Switch grunted and fell to the ground.

  Frank was on his feet in a flash. Switch rose slowly, the switchblade missing from his hand. Frank took a defensive karate stance. His teacher had taught him to let the bigger, more powerful guy make the first move, the first mistake.

  A head taller and a foot thicker than Frank, the bearlike man was slow. He swung a beefy fist at Frank. Frank slapped it away and moved back. Anger flashed in the man's eyes. He tried faking with his right and then jabbed with his left. Frank blocked the left jab and punched Switch in the nose. The man staggered back, shock and pain registering on his face. He snorted like a bull and charged Frank, his arms swinging in wide, wild arcs. Frank ducked and swiftly jammed his knee into the man's stomach. Switch doubled over but did not fall.

  Frank decided to finish off the big man and help Biker. He moved toward the man for the knockout punch. But Switch darted forward, catching Frank off guard. Two pile-driver gut punches had Frank wobbling on his feet. Then Switch threw a roundhouse right that connected right where the crowbar had hit Frank before.