Street Spies (8 page)

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 for?" 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.

"Yeah. He was definitely Asian," Joe said. "He looked a lot like the guy who signed for the package in the phony MUX office."

The light in front of them turned yellow. "Run," Frank commanded brusquely.

Joe floored the accelerator and dodged through an intersection ahead of a bus that was coming from the right. He glanced at Frank. "What's the big hurry to get down to SpeedWay?"

Frank frowned. "There was a character in a ski mask with a silencer in that van," he said, "trying to gun Lightfoot down. Now that their scheme's beginning to unravel, they're probably trying to cover their tracks by eliminating the people who've worked for them." He looked at Joe sideways. "They tried to blow you away this afternoon."

"That's right," Joe said, catching on. "And Gus is probably the only one who can identify the spy at World-Wide! So it stands to reason that they'd go after him next!"

At the next stoplight, he picked up the mobile phone, dialed his father, and briefly filled him in, trying to play down the part with the gun so they wouldn't get jerked off the case. "We're headed to SpeedWay now," Joe said. He listened a minute, then nodded. "Yeah, we'll be careful," he said, and hung up.

Frank had the wrapping off now and was staring at an instrument on his lap.

"What is it?" Joe asked.

"Some type of receiver," Frank said, studying the instrument carefully. "The reception range appears to be for the bands used in satellite transmission. It may also have an unscrambler."

"You think it could have military applications?" asked Joe.

"That's possible," Frank replied. "Anyway, it's a serious piece of equipment."

They were stalled behind a delivery truck unloading vegetables at a corner grocery. Joe leaned forward and switched on the van's AM radio. An announcer was reading a newscast.

"A New York City neighborhood was rocked this afternoon by a violent explosion," the announcer said. "According to an eyewitness, the bomb planted on a bicycle was set off by a blond young man in his teens, wearing a fatigue jacket. The young man, believed to be a bicycle messenger, was taken into custody by police. An official police spokesperson refused to comment. However, there was speculation that there may be a connection between this incident and the mayor's get-tough stand on bicycle messengers. The mayor is considering a plan for strictly curtailing the use of bicycles by messengers in Midtown Manhattan. In other news ..."

Joe turned the radio off. "That's all we need," he said disgustedly. "Talk about a cover being blown. Now the whole world knows."

"At least they didn't give your real name or say they'd turned you loose," Frank said. "That's something." He put the confiscated radio carefully behind the seat. "Let's just hope we can get to Gus before it's too late."

Half a block from SpeedWay, on Front Street, Joe spotted a parking spot. "Let's leg it from here," he said, pulling the van against the curb.

Frank was on Joe's heels as they dashed down the block and through the front door of the dispatch office. Everybody was clustered at the far end of the room, listening to the radio.

Apollo looked up and brightened as he saw Joe. "Hey, here's Hot Dog!" he exclaimed. "So it wasn't you who got blown up, after all!"

"Yeah, it was," Joe said. Bruce was sitting at the dispatcher's desk. "Where's Gus?"

"He's not here," Bruce said.

"Where can we find Gus?" Frank snapped.

Bruce's mouth dropped open as he heard the tone in Frank's voice. "He got a phone call and left. If you hurry, you might be able to catch him in the parking garage down the block." Puzzled, he looked from Frank to Joe. "What's going on here, anyway?"

He received no reply. The brothers turned and dashed out the door and down the street.

"There he goes," Frank cried as they rounded the corner by the parking garage. He pointed at a hobbling figure who was just entering the garage.

Seconds later Frank and Joe were inside the garage, too. But there was no sign of Gus.

"The elevator!" Joe shouted, pointing to a pair of elevator doors in the wall. The numbers above the door were lighting up in succession — 1, 2, 3. At the third floor, the elevator stopped.

"Upstairs," Frank yelled, racing to the stairway beside the elevator. "Let's hit it!"

They were almost to the second floor when they heard a heavy door slam and the sounds of a violent struggle. Gus's panicked voice echoed in the concrete stairwell.

"Get away from me! Get your hands off!"

There was a resounding whack that Joe recognized immediately. It was the sound of Gus's cane hitting flesh. Then a thud, and a short, gurgling scream. And then a loud clatter, as Gus's cane slid down the stairs and came to rest on the second-floor landing.

"Come on!" Frank yelled as the door slammed' again, the echo reverberating through the stairwell. "We've got to help!"

But they were too late. A limp body tumbled down the stairs, arms and legs windmilling.

It was Gus. He lay at their feet, a bloody gash ripped across his face, one leg twisted gro-tesquely under him.

He wasn't moving.

Without a second's hesitation, Joe dashed for the third floor landing. As he bolted through the door, he watched as the elevator door slid shut. He ran over and slammed his hand against it in frustration. Over his head, the light flashed on.

Joe lunged back through the stairwell door and took the stairs down three or four at a time. On the second-floor landing, Frank was kneeling beside Gus, feeling for a pulse. "Get help!" Frank ordered. Without a word, Joe ran down the stairs.

At the far end of the ground floor opposite the exit, Joe saw a dark figure run through the shadows toward the cream-colored van. The van's door was slammed and its engine roared to life. Joe started to dash toward it but realized he'd never reach it before it pulled away. He'd be an easy target, silhouetted against the exit. He ducked down behind the cars. Let them come to me, he thought. There's only one way out of this place. He felt in his pocket. Yes, it was there — · the last transmitter.

The van charged down the center lane. Just beyond Joe was the exit. The van would have to slow down for the right turn that would take it out onto the street.

As the vehicle surged past him, Joe saw the brake lights come on. Hit 'em low, he thought. That's what his football coach always said. He lunged for the back bumper, catching it with both hands.

As the van skidded around the turn, Joe slammed the transmitter onto the bumper. It clamped fast. Joe released his grip. The van's springs crashed against their stops as the vehicle cleared the exit and disappeared into the street.

Bugging the van was enough for now. With Gus injured, they'd have to let the gunmen go for the time being. They could pick up the trail later after Gus was in the hospital.

Painfully, Joe picked himself up. His jeans were dusty and badly scuffed where he'd been dragged. The left arm of his field jacket was ripped and he'd lost a considerable patch of skin on his elbow. Other than that, he didn't feel much worse than he felt after a tough scrimmage.

There was a pay phone near the garage entrance. Joe ran for it and dialed the emergency number.

By the time Joe returned to the second floor, Frank had pulled off his turtleneck sweater and was covering Gus with it. "Is he going to make it?" Joe asked worriedly.

"I don't know," Frank said. "He's unconscious. He's in shock and probably has head injuries." He motioned quickly. "Give me your field jacket. About all I can do here is keep him warm."

Joe pulled off his jacket and tossed it to Frank. He covered Gus with Joe's jacket and checked the pulse in his neck again. It was weak and rapid, and his breathing was shallow and fluttery.

The minutes dragged by while Frank and Joe crouched there, watching the injured man. If Gus died without revealing his contact at World-Wide, they might never get to the bottom of this case.

The Hardys heard the wail of a siren on the street below, then footsteps racing up the stairs.

Two white-jacketed paramedics rounded the landing. They were lugging a first-aid case and a metal gurney.

The paramedics worked on Gus briefly. One of them turned to Frank and Joe, stethoscope in hand.

"This is going to be touch and go," he said. "There may be spinal damage. We slid a backboard under him, but we need your help in loading him. He's got to be perfectly level."

Frank nodded. The four of them knelt beside Gus.

"Ready? On three," the medic said. "One, two, three."

Smoothly, they lifted Gus's motionless body onto the gurney's soft white pad. Quickly, the medics strapped him in. They each grabbed a corner of the metal stretcher and carried Gus down the stairs. On the ground floor, the medics unfolded the undercarriage and wheels and pushed Gus to the waiting ambulance.

"You're welcome to come along," the medic said as they hoisted the gurney through the open back doors and slid it inside.

"Thanks," Frank said. There was a chance — a slim one, but a chance—that Gus might come to and reveal the name of his attacker. Besides, if the assailant found out Gus was still alive, he might try to finish the job. He and Joe climbed in and swung the doors shut behind them. The siren wailed and they were off.

"Ooh." Gus gave a soft moan. Frank was instantly attentive.

"Who did this?" Frank asked urgently. "Who was it, Gus?"

Gus's eyelids fluttered. "Oh, it's you, Doc." He coughed painfully, and his chest heaved. Then his eyes flew wide open. Frank nodded in answer to his unspoken question. "That's right," he said. "I've been on the case from the start. If I were you, I'd talk. We're on the same side now."

"It was a setup," Gus wheezed. "Chung was ... waiting for me." His eyes fluttered closed again.