The soft click of the pistol brought a sigh of relief from Fenton’s lips. The gun was empty.

Joe felt his heart resume beating, and he gasped slightly, trying to catch his breath. In all the excitement, he had lost count of the shots fired. He had forgotten the bullet that Dom had accidentally fired when Bella rushed him earlier. Apparently, Dom had forgotten it as well. He heard a soft whimper from Bella, still cradled in Tony’s arms on the floor.

"Give it up, Dom." Mr. Hardy said softly.

"No!" Desperate as a cornered animal, Scarpetti did the unexpected once again. With a swift, sidearm motion, he flung the empty pistol at Fenton, who instinctively ducked. Taking advantage of the investigator’s momentary inattention, Dominic hurtled forward, shoved Mr. Hardy sideways, and darted out the study door and into the hallway, running with every ounce of speed he could muster.

"Boys! After him!" Fenton bellowed, catching himself with one hand on the wall and preparing to take off in pursuit. Frank, in the hallway, was already in motion; Joe was scrambling up from the floor.

"No, wait, please! Grandfather! Please! Someone help him!" Bella’s cry rang through the room, halting the men in their tracks. "Grandfather! Grandpa Antonio!"

Antonio Scarpetti was lying back in his desk chair, his eyes closed and his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He was clutching at his chest and left shoulder with his right hand, and his skin was turning gray.

"Ohmigod, heart attack!" Tony was the nearest, and was already leaning over the suffering man. Even as he did so, Antonio’s breathing shortened and stopped. Bella gave a wordless wail.

With four quick strides, Mr. Hardy was beside them.

"Joe, Tony, Bella, start CPR and call 911! Frank, come with me – we’re going after Dominic. He’s not going to get away this time!" Fenton turned and ran from the room, with Frank scuttling after him.

"Let’s get him on the floor…" Joe gently moved his cousin aside, and he and Tony lifted Antonio from his chair. "Tinkerbelle, call 911, fast." Joe tilted Scarpetti’s head back, making sure there was an airway. "Tony, you okay with mouth-to-mouth? I can’t do it…." He indicated his injured lips and jaw. "I’ll do chest compressions."

"Right." Tony positioned himself and blew two quick breaths to inflate Antonio’s lungs, then a longer, deeper breath. "Give me a count," he requested, pausing.

"One…two…three…four…five…breathe….One…two…three…four…five…breathe….One…two…" Joe rocked forward with each count, pushing down with the heel of his hand and considerable force. Above and behind them, Bella was talking rapidly into the telephone. In a few more seconds, she hung up.

"Ambulance is on the way," she reported. Joe glanced up; his cousin’s voice had been steady enough, but tears were streaming down her face as she watched them working over her grandfather. Suddenly, she clapped a hand across her mouth. "I’ve got to tell my grandmother what’s happened!" she gasped, and ran from the room as if pursued by demons.

Alone in the study, Tony and Joe kept on with the CPR procedure. Seconds ticked by and turned into minutes. Joe’s voice was growing raspy from the constant chanting, and Tony was starting to feel lightheaded from hyperventilation. A subdued Bella returned, still crying.

"She’s very upset," she reported. "Upset and frightened. I didn’t tell her what happened with Dom, but she heard the shots…."

"…three…four…five…breathe….One…two…don’t worry, Tinkerbelle! …Five…breathe….One…two…it’ll be okay…four…five…br—" Joe’s words were interrupted by a ragged cough, followed by a gasp, from Antonio. Joe hastily stopped the chest compressions and felt for a pulse. A relieved smile spread across his tired face. "He’s back with us." He watched the old man struggle for each breath. "Come on, Mr. Scarpetti, you can do it!" he murmured encouragingly.

"I hear a siren." Tony sat back, trying to catch his breath. "Bella, cara mia, don’t cry! Your grandfather is going to be all right."

As the paramedics swarmed into the room and took charge of Antonio, Joe and Tony drew Bella aside, and the they stood watching as he was readied for transport to the hospital.

"You kids saved his life, with the CPR." The head medic stopped beside them to say. "Is he a relative?"

"My grandfather," Bella whispered. "But I just met him today! Is he…I mean, will he be…?" She broke off and gazed at the med-tech beseechingly.

"His vitals look pretty good, considering." the man informed her. "He’s hanging on."

"Good." Bella sagged against Tony, who put a supporting arm about her.

"He’s ready to go to the hospital now." The second paramedic informed them. "We’re taking him to St. Vincent’s."

"Thank you," Joe nodded his appreciation. "Someone will be along shortly. Oh – by the way….His name is…Antonio Scarpetti."

When the ambulance attendants had departed, the three teens stood staring blankly at each other in Antonio’s study. What now? was the unspoken thought. How were things going with Fenton and Frank…and Dominic?

Frank Hardy clung tightly to the armrest on the Volvo’s door as his father swung the car around yet another sharp corner. They had been extremely lucky, for although Dominic had had a large head start on them, he had been caught in traffic almost as soon as he had left the circular drive in front of the house. They had spotted his champagne-hued Lincoln swerving through the streets and settled into tailing him, attempting to get closer as rapidly as possible.

"Frank, call Sam Peterson at this number." Fenton recited the numbers, and Frank dialed as rapidly as he could. "When he answers, hold the phone so that I can talk to him….whoa, hang on!" Another corner was taken on what felt like two wheels.

Frank blinked and shook his head, listening to the cell phone ringing. He had never seen Fenton in "pursuit mode" before. He wished he could have seen his father as a police officer. If Fenton was this reckless now, what had he been like then?

"Chief Peterson? It’s Frank Hardy…hold on, my dad wants to talk to you." Frank leaned across the console and held the little phone close to his father’s face.

"Sam? Yeah, we’re after Dominic Scarpetti." In a few phrases, Fenton explained what had happened at Antonio’s house. "It looks like he’s heading toward New Jersey. Can you get me some backup? – some patrol cars to close in on him?"

Whatever Chief Peterson’s answer was, it appeared to please Mr. Hardy, for he smiled grimly. "I’ll stay on the line and give you info on where he is…yes, he’s going toward New Jersey, all right!" Fenton stepped down on the accelerator, and managed to close within another car length of the speeding Lincoln.

On and on they went. Frank’s left arm ached from holding the cell phone where Fenton could talk to the police; his eyes were straining in the midday July sunshine to keep Scarpetti’s car in view; his sore ribs made him ache all over.

"Dad, he’s getting on the expressway!" Frank loosened his grip to point, and Fenton glanced quickly in the rearview mirror before switching lanes with an abruptness that caused squealing brakes and honking horns from several other vehicles.

"Sam? We’re on the expressway now….Yeah, I see them. Thanks for the backup." Mr. Hardy stepped hard on the gas pedal and Frank felt the Volvo’s powerful engine respond to the challenge.

"Dad, where do you suppose he’s going?" Frank involuntarily squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as Fenton swerved sharply to pass a slower-moving car.

"Someplace in New Jersey," his father grunted. "Other than that, who knows? But we’ll catch him; Sam’s notifying the State Patrols in two states—"

Frank squinted through the tinted glass of the windshield, trying to keep their quarry in constant view. He noticed first one, then another patrol car, then a third. They were joining the fast-moving traffic from highway entrances, pulling up from behind to pace the brown Volvo, causing the other cars to slow down, subtly clearing a pathway. Fenton pressed the accelerator further toward the floor, and Frank gulped, seeing the scenery fly past on either side.

"Dad, he’s moving over!" Nervous tension tightened Frank’s usually soft baritone to a near-tenor range. "I think he’s going to take that exit!"

Another quick glance in the mirror, a swing of the steering wheel, and Mr. Hardy was in the exit lane too. He snapped the information into the cell phone, and Sam Peterson relayed it through the police band. There were only two or three cars between them and the Lincoln now, and there were several police cars flanking the Volvo. The State Police weren’t running their lights or sirens, but their presence was unmistakable. If Dominic Scarpetti thought he was eluding capture, he was sadly mistaken.

"There he is!" Frank crowed. He released his hold on the armrest and pointed again. Scarpetti had turned right at the exit light, and was weaving through the lines of cars, cutting in and out. "Dad, he’s getting away!"

"Not by a long shot!" Fenton gritted. He accelerated, nearly nudging the car ahead of him with his front bumper. The driver turned and glared, but pulled over, and Fenton shot past him with a nonchalant wave of his hand. Frank cringed inwardly, but riveted his eyes on the fleeing Lincoln. Dad hadn’t better ever say anything about the way Joe or I drive! Not after this!

Mr. Hardy hastily repeated their location into the phone, then added: "Put the phone away, Frank, and hang on. Once we catch him….he doesn’t have a gun…." And we’re going to catch him, oh yes…. Dominic, you murdered Linda and you nearly killed my wife…you aren’t going to get away from me!

Frank obeyed, bracing himself against the dashboard. Fenton was forced to slow down again, due to the traffic congestion, and Frank breathed a silent sigh of relief. He had never realized the risks of riding shotgun with his father!

The pale-colored Lincoln with Dominic Scarpetti at the wheel accelerated up to another light. Fenton and Frank, furious, were stopped by the line of cars exiting the highway, unable to get closer. Fenton glanced into his rearview mirror. Was it time to pull out all the stops and have the state troopers use lights and sirens to clear their passage? As the lights changed, Mr. Hardy stepped on the gas pedal once more.

Up ahead, a New Jersey state police car pulled into the intersection and stopped, preventing the Lincoln’s passage. Another car, this one from the New York State Police, moved to situate itself on the left side of Scarpetti’s vehicle. And the Hardys, with Fenton creating a lane for himself more than once, slid into position directly behind Dominic.

They thought they had him trapped. There was nowhere for him to go…but Dominic Scarpetti had been drinking all morning, knew he was being pursued…and was a desperate man!

With a sudden screech of tires, the Lincoln was wrenched violently to the right, up and over the curb. In a desperate bid for freedom, Dominic Scarpetti accelerated towards the open space of a service station’s lot, toward the narrow opening between the gas pumps and the shiny silver cylinder of a tanker truck preparing to deliver fuel to the underground storage tanks.

Fenton jerked the wheel of the Volvo, preparing to follow Scarpetti’s mad dash, but as he bumped over the curbing, he was halted by Frank’s terrified cry:

"There isn’t room! The Lincoln’s too wide – no, don’t try it – stop!" The last word was a frantic shriek….and it was not addressed to Fenton Hardy.

As if it were a scene in a movie – something they could do nothing about, merely watch occur – the two men stared in horror as Dominic Scarpetti’s car clipped one of the gas pumps, spun sideways, and smashed with terrifying force against the truck’s fuel container. One second, or perhaps two – and then an incredible explosion filled the air, and a sheet of flame erupted, engulfing the Lincoln and turning it instantly into a gargantuan fireball!