Nowhere to Run

"SURE YOU CAN have this back—if you're man enough to take it from me." Swinging from the saddle of his 1000 cc Harley-Davidson motorcycle, the stranger held out the bright green Frisbee to Joe Hardy. The biker was dressed in black from helmet to boots, his face masked by a black reflective visor.

"What's your problem? Did the Darth Vader School for Rejects let out early today?" Joe Hardy's blue eyes hardened as he walked over to face off against the black-clad stranger.

An eerie laugh echoed from beneath the Darth Vader helmet and visor, as the biker teased Joe. He tossed the Frisbee into the air and caught it several times.

"Little Joe Hardy thinks he's all grown up now," the guy scoffed.

Joe's face turned an angry red. Six feet tall and well muscled, Joe Hardy was anything but little.

"Just toss him the Frisbee and move on," Frank Hardy spoke up, standing beside his brother. He was an inch taller but leaner than Joe.

"You think the two of you can take this from me?" The stranger swung his leg over the Harley, pushed down the kickstand, and stepped away from the bike to confront Frank and Joe.

The guy stood as tall as Joe and appeared every bit as strong. Something about his swagger seemed familiar to Joe, who took a careful look at the cycle. The biker took advantage of Joe's shift of attention to fire the Frisbee at him.

Joe batted the plastic disk aside and started to jump for the stranger. He was stunned when Frank stiff-armed him to a halt.

"Let's make this a little more even," Frank suggested. "Take off your helmet."

The stranger laughed again and unsnapped his chin strap. Slowly he lifted the helmet from his head. ...

Minutes earlier, Frank, Joe, and Frank's girlfriend, Callie Shaw, had been enjoying a lazy afternoon at Bayport Park, tossing the Frisbee around. It was the first real rest for Frank and Joe since getting back from Alaska after their last case, Trouble in the Pipeline. They'd gone up looking for a missing person and found themselves tangling with terrorists. Now they were home, and things were getting back to normal.

"I hope Mom and Aunt Gertrude get home from vacation soon," Joe had said as he tossed the Frisbee to Frank. "I'm getting a little tired of Dad's frozen fish sticks every night."

"Dad" was the famous private detective Fenton Hardy. Although his sons admired him as a top investigator, they were not impressed with his talent as a cook.

"I know what you mean." Frank jumped to catch Joe's toss. "I looked in the mirror this morning and thought I saw gills." He whipped the Frisbee around his back and fired it at Callie.

"Don't worry." Callie grinned as she caught Frank's pass with the tip of her finger and let it spin for a few seconds. "I'll fix you dinner tonight. How does Caesar salad and lasagna sound?"

"Oh, Callie," Joe teased. "I knew you were good for something."

That got him a dirty look from Callie—as well as a rocketing Frisbee aimed straight at his throat.

"Hey!" Joe backpedaled and cushioned the blow of the Frisbee against his chest. He leapt into the air, whirled around, and tossed the Frisbee between his legs. It sailed wildly over Callie's head and landed on the park's motorcycle trail.

"Nice throw, Joe," Callie said, fuming.

Joe brushed back his blond hair. "Sorry, Callie." He didn't sound too sorry, though.

Callie jogged over to pick up the Frisbee, but she never reached it. The black-clad biker had screamed to a stop and snatched up the plastic disk. He refused to give it to Callie. Sensing trouble, Frank and Joe had run to Callie's aid.

Now Joe stood poised, ready to jump this hood the moment he made his move. The stranger pulled the helmet from his head.

Frank gasped.

But Joe yelled in joyful surprise. "Biker, you maniac!" He did jump on the guy now, but only to slap him on the back. "What are you doing back in Bayport?"

"Biker?" asked a confused Callie.

"Bob Conway, senorita bonita," the cyclist said. " 'Biker' to my friends." He gave her a disarming smile. Callie looked confused.

"Biker's an old friend of Joe's," Frank said. "He graduated from Bayport High three years ago."

"This guy was my hero when I was a kid," Joe explained. "He's the one who taught me about hot-rodding engines and racing motorcycles." His grin stretched from ear to ear. "Biker was a champion motocross racer on the junior circuit when I was a freshman."

"It was the only way I could get you out of my hair." Biker laughed and said to Callie, "He'd hang around the garage where I worked and bug me until I showed him a few tricks. He was a good student."

"My dad said Joe got his temper from you, too," Frank added with a laugh.

"Yeah, well, you've got a great dad, but I'll never understand why he was always angry at me," Biker said.

"Probably because of stunts like this," Callie said as she picked up the Frisbee.

"Oh, that," Biker said. He looked a little embarrassed. "I couldn't help myself. Besides, I know the Hardys are always up for a little adventure. And you have to admit, Joe looked pretty silly standing there ready to fight over a Frisbee."

Callie stared at him, squinting as she tried to dredge something out of her memory. "Wait a second," she said. "Didn't you go to jail or something?"

"He was innocent." Joe's voice rose. "And we helped prove it."

"Be cool, Joe," Biker said.

"It was something about stealing motorcycle parts," Callie went on.

Joe's face reddened with anger. "I told you — "

"Hey, wait a minute — you're Callie Shaw."

Biker smiled, his soft brown eyes staring into Callie's. "I used to tell Joe that you were the cutest freshman at Bayport High."

Callie blushed.

"Three years ago, right before graduating, I was arrested for buying stolen cycle parts," Biker explained. "The dirt-cheap prices should have warned me, but I was a little thickheaded back then. About a week before I went on trial, Frank and Joe caught the real thieves and cleared me. I graduated from BHS and went off to make my fortune."

"You're going to stick around for a few days, aren't you?" Joe asked.

"Time is about all I have left," Biker replied with a slight smile.

Frank sensed Biker was holding something back.

"You can stay with us," Joe added. He knew Biker's folks had moved out of Bayport.

Biker glanced around. "You're sure you want an escaped convict sleeping in your house?"

"What?" Joe stared — so did Frank and Callie.

"Is this another dumb prank?" Callie demanded.

" 'Fraid not." Biker threw a leg back over his bike and sank down on the saddle.

"If you're telling the truth," Frank said, "we shouldn't even be talking with you."

"What are you saying?" Joe turned on his brother.

Biker nodded. "He's saying that aiding an escaped felon could get you into trouble — serious trouble."

"Never mind that." Joe brushed the idea aside. "How can we help?"

Frank looked unhappily at his brother, not liking Joe's eagerness. "First tell us what happened," he said.

"After I left Bayport," Biker began, "I cycled up and down the East Coast. Finally I settled in New York City. I got a job as a mechanic at a small watch company out in Queens called DalTime. One day a sales representative got sick and I took his place."

He shrugged. "The next thing I knew, I was selling designer watches. Last year DalTime's Watch Ya Wearing? was the top sports watch in the country—and I was the top salesperson."

"Sounds as if you made your fortune," Frank said.

"Yeah, but the fame that came with it wasn't exactly what I had in mind." Biker sighed. "Three months ago I returned from a crosscountry bike trip, right into the arms of a welcoming committee. Two of New York's finest." Callie didn't understand and looked confused. "Two cops," Biker explained. "I was arrested, tried, and convicted of hijacking a shipment of DalTime watches valued at half a million bucks."

Joe whistled.

"Based on what evidence?" Frank asked.

"Oh, little things." Biker was trying hard to look calm, but there was fire in his eyes. "They found a sudden increase of twenty-five thousand dollars in my bank account and several boxes of Watch Ya Wearing? watches in my garage. The serial numbers just happened to match the ones on the invoice for the stolen watches." "That's all?" Frank asked. "Yes, if you don't count the eyewitness." "Eyewitness?" Callie couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Yeah. The truck driver managed to convince everybody that I was the hijacker." Biker paused. "Even though the hijacker was wearing a mask."

"This begins to sound like a frame to me," Joe said.

"How did you escape?" Frank asked.

"I was on the way to the state prison at Attica, and—remember that little lock-picking trick you taught me, Frank?"

Joe grinned, remembering how Frank had challenged Biker to get out of a pair of handcuffs.

"The cops' cuffs were actually easier to pick than the ones you had me practice on." Biker broke up at the expression on Frank's face.

"So now you're here." Callie obviously didn't like the idea.

"I sneaked back into the company and got a charge card to buy a bike and riding gear. I also got some cash. I plan to pay them back. At first I thought of heading to Canada then I thought of Frank and Joe."

"What can they do for you ?" Callie demanded.

"Look, I'm innocent—and I need help to prove it."

"Count on us," Joe said, ignoring the troubled look on Frank's face. "The first thing we have to do is crack the driver's story."

Frank glanced from Joe to Biker. "I don't know," he said.

Joe turned to Frank. "You believe him, don't you?

"That's not what's bothering me." Frank looked Biker in the eye. "If we take you in, we're harboring an escaped felon."

Biker shrugged again and got back on his Har-ley. "Gotcha. I owe you guys too much to get you into trouble with the law." He kicked his hog to life.

"Wait a minute!" Joe yelled. "We can talk this over."

"We could use Dad's advice on this," Frank said and paused. "Well, we could talk, I guess— on one condition."

"Name it," Biker said.

"Tell our dad your story, then turn yourself in. You're not doing yourself any good by running." Frank braced himself for a fight — not with Biker but with Joe. Once Joe got an idea in his head, he could be deadly stubborn.

"Wait a minute — " Joe began.

Biker cut in, "Your father's fair. If he'll listen to me, I can't go wrong — not with three Hardys helping me."

After dropping Callie off at her house, Frank and Joe drove home in their van, followed by Biker on his Harley.

"What's that old wreck doing across the street?" Frank asked as he pulled into the Hardy driveway.

"Huh?" Joe had been deep in thought.

"I've never seen that beat-up old Chevy around here before," Frank said.

"I'm more interested in what we're going to tell Dad," Joe said. "He never really liked Biker."

Biker pulled up beside the van and slipped off his cycle.

They were almost to the front door when it burst open and a short, plump man stepped out on the porch. Frank and Joe had never seen him before.

"Freeze, turkeys," the man snarled, his voice like gravel on concrete.

Frank nearly broke up. The guy sounded like a bad imitation of a TV detective.

One thing was for real, though — the hair-trigger 9 mm automatic pistol the man had aimed right at Biker's head.

"No!" BIKER YELLED, shoving Frank and Joe aside and dashing back to his bike.

The short, heavy man shouldered past the Hardys. Joe watched in horror as the man braced himself in a firing position, taking aim as Biker swung onto the Harley.

Hurling himself at the stranger, Joe tackled him just as the gun went off. The shot buried itself in the lawn. Biker's cycle screamed with power, and he tore off down the street.

Joe jumped to his feet only to find himself looking down the barrel of the pistol.

"All right, punk," the short man wheezed. "You want it the hard way?"

"Hey!" Frank shouted.

The man looked like a joke, but he moved like a pro. He pivoted, covering both Frank and Joe. "Down on the ground," he ordered. "Facedown. Move!"

"Sims! Put that gun down!" shouted Fenton Hardy, running through the doorway. "These are my sons."

"Your sons?" Sims asked in confusion, still flicking his gun between Frank and Joe.

"Yes, and getting shot might be bad for their health."

Sims lowered his gun, sliding the deadly automatic into its shoulder holster.

"Your sons walked up with Biker Conway. They helped him escape," Sims said. "You didn't tell me they were so buddy-buddy with crooks."

Joe went for Sims, but Frank grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "Who is this guy?" he asked.

"First let's get inside," Fenton said.

Once in the living room, the elder Hardy began the introductions and explanations. "This is Mort Sims. Sims, these are my sons, Frank and Joe."