"Good morning," Fenton Hardy greeted his tow-headed younger son. He couldn’t suppress a smile as Joe staggered into the kitchen.

Joe returned his father’s greeting and poured a cup of coffee, adding a generous portion of sugar and milk. He sat down across the table from Fenton.

"Where’s Frank?" Joe asked, stifling a yawn.

"I haven’t seen him," Mr. Hardy replied. "I suppose he’s in his room."

"Huh-uh," Joe said, shaking his head. "He’s not there. I checked ‘cause his door was open." Almost instinctively, both Fenton and Joe looked toward the back door.

"It’s not locked," the elder man commented, rising from his seat.

"The alarm is off," Joe added, moving to follow his father.

On the porch, both detectives began searching.

"Dad!" Joe cried, "Look here, on the driveway." Fenton jumped down off the porch and ran up next to Joe. The boy was kneeling to pick up something from the blacktop.

"It’s the sash from Frank’s bathrobe," Joe stated, rubbing the soft terrycloth between his fingers. "I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Dad."

* * *

Frank Hardy’s head was aching as he slowly opened his eyes. At first, he was shocked to see that he was back at the old Turner mill. ‘Did I dream about finding Joe and Mike Walsh?’ he wondered.

He tried to sit up, but realized his wrists were tightly bound behind his back and his ankles were tied, too. He also realized that he was clad in his pajama bottoms and an open bathrobe. Just when he was beginning to figure out what happened, he looked up at a tall stranger with piercing blue eyes and a shining bald head walking towards him.

"Hello, Frank," the man grinned at the perplexed youth. "I’m Poole. I believe you and I have a mutual friend. You are going to be my assurance of finding him."

Frank swallowed hard and looked into the eyes of the killer. What he saw gave him chills. ‘They’re lifeless,’ Frank thought. ‘Human life has no value to him because he doesn’t have a soul.’

* * *

Just as Fenton and Joe returned to the house, the phone on the kitchen wall rang. Joe quickly picked up the receiver, hoping the caller was his missing brother.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Joe. It’s Phil," the caller said.

"Oh. Hi Phil. What can I do for you?" Joe replied, hiding his disappointment.

"Well," Phil began, "Something weird is going on and I’m not sure if it ties into what happened yesterday or not."

Biting his tongue impatiently, Joe waited for Phil to continue. Phil told Joe about his missing car registration and the strange call his mother received.

"I wouldn’t have put the two together, except that Mom was sure the call was around 5:30 ‘cause she was cooking dinner, and that’s right before I left to come home from the mill," Phil finished.

Joe’s mind was suddenly racing. "Hey Phil? Can you hold on the line for a minute? I want to check something out." Joe laid the phone down and ran out to the garage.

Unlocking the van, Joe reached into a hidden pocket beside the driver’s seat. Always cautious about revealing their identity, the boys kept their van registration in the secret compartment.

Finding the pocket empty, Joe returned to the house and picked up the phone. He glanced at his father who was watching curiously.

"Ours is missing too, Phil," Joe said into the mouthpiece. "I’m betting they were taken at the same time."

"At the mill!" Phil cried. "While we were in the cave with Mike!"

"That’d be my guess," Joe agreed. "I’m going to fill my dad in on this development. I’ll talk to you later." Joe hung up and shared the new information with his father.

Fenton was deeply disturbed. "This is very serious, Joe. It looks like Walsh’s hired killer may be in town. I’m not sure how he figured Walsh was near the mill, but how is not important."

"Dad," Joe said quietly, "Our registration has our address on it. He has Frank, doesn’t he?"

Fenton looked into the concerned face of his 17-year-old son. "It looks like he’s going to use your brother as a pawn. He’ll trade Frank for Walsh."

"No," Joe said, fighting the tears that threatened his eyes, "he won’t leave any loose ends. Even if we lead him to Walsh, Frank is dead."

Fenton sighed. Not for the first time, he wondered why he’d ever encouraged his boys to follow in his footsteps. They knew far too much for their ages. Joe was right. A hired hit man stays on top of his game because he never leaves witnesses behind.

"You’re right," Fenton conceded, but then put a reassuring hand on his son’s arm. "So, we’ve got to come up with a plan that will save Frank and Walsh."

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.