In the spacious living room of the Hardy residence, Frank and his parents were still in shock after listening to Brian’s summary of Joe’s role in bringing down two major operating arms of the most powerful criminal syndicate based in New York State. The three of them simply sat there with varying degrees of disbelief, anger and anguish flitting across their faces.

<O>

Frank had a difficult time coping with the barrage of emotions assailing him as he listened to Agent Coolman’s description of Joe’s abduction. The Modus Operandi: a kid with problems at home, a runaway scenario, the use of a mild hypnotic, and a cab. Anger flared quickly to rage, and sank rapidly into terror, rose with gladness that Joe was now home safe, only to stagger under the overwhelming burden of guilt.

Anger at the abductors swung quickly to rage for their transgressions. Then there was the anguish for what Joe went through, fear for the impact if would have on him. Frank had not forgotten the black hole that Joe had fallen into after Iola’s death. He still shuddered whenever he thought of those times.

Worst of all was the feeling of guilt and shame that weigh heavily on him like a millstone around his neck. His brother was taken from him. Joe never ran away from home. He had believed Joe had run away, and in believing that, never really searched for him. Frank thought in bitter irony that it was never his faith in Joe that was the issue. Now it seemed that Joe’s faith in him might be. He should have known better. And it was he who failed his brother.

Then he gritted his teeth, clenched his fingers, and willed himself to calmness, and began to sort through his feelings one by one. He had to, for his own sake, but more importantly, for Joe. He had not been there for Joe five months ago, but he would be there for his brother from now on.

<O>

If he hadn’t been the object of discussion, Joe would have been rolling about on the floor laughing his heart out. Those expressions on their faces were priceless. But now, that only served to deepen his misery.

‘Only me. Joseph Paul Hardy, born with a trouble magnet firmly affixed to my ass,’ Joe muttered to himself with a grimace. ‘In fact, that’s how any author would describe me if they were going to have me in their stories. That’s probably how I am going down in the annals of the Hardy family history.’

He had insisted the agents tell him who died and how. Madeline was killed in a hit and run. Andy’s body was found in a dump, killed by a bullet through his brain. And Yan was poisoned. He and Phailin were the two key witnesses left for the prosecution now. It was so unfair. After all that they had gone through, and fought for. Freedom was short-lived.

‘At least they were free.’ A small voice whispered at the back of his mind. But that offered him little comfort.

<O>

Fenton Hardy, internationally respected private investigator, watched his youngest son sitting alone on the corner couch, curled into a ball with his arms wrapped protectively around himself, and felt that he had failed at being both a father and also a PI. As a father, for having such little faith in his son, for believing that Joe was immature enough to run away out of pettiness when he knew they both had quick tempers and that Joe was still grieving over Iola’s death. As a PI, for not realizing his home was broken into, and that his son was abducted from right under his nose.

At the same time, a small measure of pride arose, that Joe had beaten the odds and given back those who had dared to take him twofold by bringing down those two operations.

‘Human slavery and drug trade.’ The father was almost too scared to think on what happened, but he forced himself to. He owed that to Joe.

Suddenly, he noticed a small red dot on Joe’s chest. Fear filled him as he leapt off his chair and gave Joe’s couch a mighty heave.

“Joe, MOVE!” he yelled. In the next instant, the glass window shattered, and everybody ducked for cover.

OHBHBHBHBO

4 months 2 weeks earlier:

Joe Hardy was on his knees, awkwardly scrubbing the toilet floor. His movements were greatly restrained by the iron shackles around both his wrists and ankles.

“Right out of King Arthur’s dungeon!” Joe mumbled tiredly.

The foot-long chains that connected both his wrist shackles and anklets also meant that he could only shuffle along.

The reason why they put heavy iron shackles on him was because of his two attempts to escape. After the failed first attempt, he got 10 lashes from a leather belt and went a day without food.

His second attempt was almost successful. Well, he would like to think it was. That was when they dragged in a girl and made him watch. Later, as he tended to her wounds, he found out she was called Phailin.

He had not made another escape attempt after that.

After he finished his chore, Joe cleaned himself up the best he could, before knocking on the door to tell the guard he was done. They had given him more chores, less food and sleep than the others for a week now. And he was downright exhausted. They were trying to wear him down and break him. As things stood now, he was afraid they might well succeed.

The guard shoved him into his usual room, and then locked the door behind him. Joe wearily made his way past his sleeping roommates and collapsed onto his makeshift cot. He pulled the flea-bitten blanket around him, and tried to sleep. But tonight, he found himself thinking of home. For tonight, he wasn’t sure he would be seeing home again. That sent a spike of fear deep down his guts.

“They will find me! Dad’s the best detective in the world, and Frank a close second,” Joe hissed fiercely to himself.

‘But it’s been two weeks,’ another voice mocked him. ‘And how were they to know where to find you?’ the voice of doubt continued.

‘No! They will find me! They will not leave me here to die, in the dark and alone. Frank will find me! Frank is always there to pick up after me! Frank...’

Joe recalled the big argument he had with his parents on the day he’d been taken. Would Mom and Dad really believe that he ran away? More importantly, would Frank? Surely Frank would know that he would never leave him voluntarily? Surely they would be searching for him now, regardless of what they believed?

Did he manage to leave any clue behind? Unfortunately, he could only remember being accosted in his home, then waking up right here in this very room.

There were twelve of them in this room, including him. Some were teens, like him. The others were really just kids. Very frightened kids and teens. Like him, when he found out he was ‘napped’ by a human trading ring, though he hid it better than they. Joe uttered a soft curse as he felt a stinging sensation in his eyes. He was not crying. He refused to. Not here. He angrily wiped his eyes with his tattered shirt.

A soft sniffle attracted his attention. Turning, he saw it was the little girl next to him. She could not be more than 10 years old. Reaching out, he patted her comfortingly on her head. Suddenly without warning, the girl just jumped into his arms, clutched him and cried. Stunned, Joe held her, and tried to calm her down; telling her everything was all right, over and over.

After awhile, she stopped crying. Looking up at Joe, she said miserably: “I want to go home.”

“Don’t we all,” a male voice responded bitterly. The girl started crying all over again.

Joe wanted to berate that boy for upsetting her, when all the pieces of observations he had been making just fell into place and clicked. He was his father’s son after all, and he never stopped taking notes on his environment, regardless of the situation. He took a quick glance at everything and everyone in the room, his brain working furiously.

Letting out a little laugh, he reached down towards the girl, and tipped her face up. Looking directly into her eyes, he told her in a soft steady tone: “You will get to go home….We will all go home…”

“Really?” a little boy behind him asked hopefully.

Looking up, Joe found more than a few pair of eyes looking at him.

“Really,” he told them with suspiciously bright eyes and a small smile on his face.

Turning back to the little girl, he asked her: “What’s your name?”

“Anna-Marie,” came a soft reply.

“Anna-Marie. What a beautiful name!” Joe told her as his smile widened.

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Disclaimer

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.