Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Several blocks away from the safe house, two black cars slid quietly into their respective parking slots. Five men dressed fully in black exited from the cars. Following a curt nod from the tallest man, the only one not wearing a ski mask, four of the men moved to survey the perimeter of the safe house.

The tall man then took out a sheaf of papers and unrolled them. It was the blueprints of the safe house. He studied them intently using a little torch light, and then carefully marked all possible entry and exit routes.

Two hours later, his men returned. Quietly but efficiently each had conveyed to him the location and known movements of the FBI agents on night duty.

“Four in constant patrol around the house.”

“Two more at the front, two at the back.”

“Car at left of target.”

“Main power board at the back.”

The tall leader had taken down all the information, making small notations on the blueprint. After a quick study, the leader started issuing instructions. Then he folded the blueprint. They synchronized their watches, then spread out, only to re-approach the house again from different directions.

Fifteen minutes later, the three FBI agents patrolling the perimeter of the house lay dead, their throats slit to the bone. Three of the assassins were already scaling the walls, heading for the upper floors, while the other two moved to breach the house from the ground floor and to disable the power supply. Their orders were clear; no one would be leaving this house alive.

<O>

Agent Brian Mayers just could not sleep. Ever since Fenton had confided in him that something was not right, he had felt nervous. Finally, he gave up and decided to go for a walk. They could always use one more guard patrolling the grounds.

Walking out to the living room, he could see Ned slumped across the garden chair on the verandah.

“Ned! Now is not the time to slouch!” Brian grumbled.

He strode out into the garden, ready to give Ned a piece of his mind when he noted the unnatural posture of his partner. A deep fear formed in his gut as he drew his gun and swiftly made his way to the verandah. When he reached it and turned the body over, his partner’s dead eyes stared back at him unblinkingly, the blood still dripping from the cut on his throat.

Brian fired a shot from his gun, hoping it would alert anyone still alive in the house.

“Assassins!” he yelled as he made his way swiftly back into the house and headed for the nearest handset to call for backup.

OHBHBHBHBO

4 months earlier:

It was only three days ago that Joe had been nervous but happy about seeing his family again. He had been looking forward to eating his mom’s cooking, listening to his dad’s calming voice, and most importantly, to seeing Frank. Now, he sat alone in a deserted alleyway, trying without much success to keep warm. He had really run away from home this time.

For the briefest moment, he had considered going home. But that thought had hurt so much he squashed it.

‘How did it come to this?’ Joe wondered, and then laughed at the irony of the situation. His kidnappers had been right after all. He had been one of the 200,000 kids who would run away from home.

He had hitched a ride out of Bayport with one of the late-night truckers and found himself at a small hamlet on Flanders Bay. He had hoped to find something to do in one of the isolated farmsteads located on the fringes of the town, and stay under the radar for the next few months. By then, he hoped he could work out what to do with his miserable little life.

Here and alone in the silence, he allowed his thoughts to drift back to his happier days not too long ago. To the time when Iola had, with his brother’s help, planned a surprise birthday bash for his happy 16th. He had given Iola a promise ring that night. Then, less than two months later, Iola died, leaving behind shattered dreams and a truck load of guilt. He should be dead! Then Iola would still be alive, the Mortons would not have lost their daughter, Chet would still have his sister, his parents would not have to worry and be disappointed in their younger, rash, and dumb son. . .

Suddenly, a high-pitched scream pierced through the night air, rousing Joe from his guilt trip.

Joe scrambled to his feet, rushed round the corner, and saw three ruffians cornering a young woman against the wall. As one of the men reached out and ripped her shirt, Joe charged. He threw that guy a solid punch on the cheek, pushed the second man onto the third, grabbed the woman’s hand, and ran.

“Come on! Run!” Joe yelled, knowing that the men might chase them as soon as they recovered from shock. And chase they did.

Knowing that they could not outrun those men, Joe pushed the woman ahead and told her “Go! Don’t look back; I’ll buy you some time”. With that, he turned and faced the villains. In the next few minutes, Joe managed to trip one guy, dodged a few hits, kicked another guy and punched the third one in the stomach, before turning and running away. He was hoping they would chase him for revenge and not the woman, whoever she was. At least he had a good chance of out-running them.

Unfortunately, luck was not on his side. He tripped, and the next thing he knew, the three ruffians were on him, kicking and punching.

‘This is it’ Joe thought painfully to himself. ‘At least this time there’s no one here to tell me how rash I am …’

Then he felt someone pulling the ruffians off him …

<O>

Mr. Pan was driving home when he heard a scream and saw three men cornering a woman. Before he could stop his Land Rover 4WD, he saw a young man step in and pull the woman away, and they both ran. He watched as the gutsy blond sent the woman off and took on the three men with a set of well-choreographed moves, before turning to run again.

Unfortunately, the beautifully orchestrated escape failed when the young man tripped in his haste to get away. So intent were the ruffians on beating the blond, they failed to hear him approach. Mr. Pan had dispatched them with relative ease, being a Taiji Master in his own right. The three, knowing they were outclassed, ran away.

Mr. Pan then approached the semi-conscious blond, and was surprised to find a teenage boy, possibly 16, but not more than 18 years old.

“Are you all right? Can you hear me?” Mr. Pan asked as he quickly scanned the boy for injuries. “Come, I’ll take you to the hospital …”

“No! No, no hospital, please …I’ll be OK …please!” the blond boy had pleaded.

Perhaps it was the look of desperation on the boy’s face. Perhaps it was the respect for the boy’s gutsy actions earlier. Mr. Pan could not be sure, but he decided to listen to him.

“Okay, no hospital. But, let’s get you somewhere so you can recover and get cleaned up, all right?” Mr. Pan soothed the lad as he helped him to his Land Rover 4WD. He felt a faint tingle up the back of his spine as he drove home. He had a feeling that this boy would become an important part of his life.

<O>

Joe woke up with a pounding headache. For a moment, he panicked as he looked at the unfamiliar surroundings. The furnishings were sparse. There was only a piece of Chinese calligraphy art hanging from the wall. And he had been sleeping on a futon mattress on the floor.

Then he remembered last night, and realized that his savior must have …well, saved him. He got out of bed with a groan and stopped to evaluate his injuries. Not too bad, he told himself, counting two bumps on his head, a couple of cuts, and bruises all over his body. He would be sporting a colorful torso for a few days. He screwed up his nose when his brain registered the horrible stink from the ointment covering all his bruises.

Hearing the sound of pots and pans, he made his way out of his room and down the stairs, wincing with every step. He was surprised to see a smallish elderly Chinese man stirring a steaming pot in the kitchen, merrily singing a Chinese song.

“Zhao An (Good Morning.),” Joe said.

“Zhao An.” The white-haired Chinese man returned the greeting as he started to ladle something into little bowls. “I see you know Mandarin. Wo xing ‘Pan’. Ni ne? (My surname’s ‘Pan’. What’s your name?)”

“Yi dian dian. Wo du le san nian zhong wen (A little. I had three years of Mandarin lessons.), Joe replied. “Wo jiao Joe. (I am called Joe.).”

“Ni de zhong wen jiang de hen hao. (Your Mandarin’s very good.)” Mr. Pan complimented, and gestured for Joe to take the seat opposite him “Come, you must be hungry, join me for breakfast.”

Joe walked over and saw the bowls of steamy white congee, pickles and vegetables, and he had to groan inwardly. But he was so hungry, he ate them anyway.

“That’s a very brave thing you did last night”

Joe blushed, gave a slight nod, and continued eating his breakfast.

“So, what are you doing in that part of town at that hour of the night?” Mr. Pan asked casually, noting that Joe was not speaking much.

“The woman, is she all right?” Joe asked, changing the topic.

Mr. Pan noted the diversionary tactic, but let it pass, “Yes, I called last night to report the incident and was told she made it to the police station.”

“Good!” Joe said as he finished up his breakfast. He had only eaten enough not to feel hungry. “Thanks for everything, but I should get going. It would be great if you could tell me how to get back to town. I need to start looking for work.”

Mr. Pan looked at the youth and said: “I live a distance from town, but can give you a lift there later. If you don’t mind me asking, what type of work are you looking for?”

“I’ve had part-time work in cleaning, car repairs, waiter-ing, you know, the odds and ends …Are you looking for some help?” Joe enquired hopefully as he took in the condition of the house he was in.

Mr. Pan eyed the youth for a while before answering, “As a matter of fact…yes. I am in need of a helper to help fix the house, and help with my plans to landscape the garden.”

He paused and noted the spark of interest in Joe’s eyes, and made his offer. “I see you are not from this area. What say you take the room you were resting in and we take a cut off your pay?” Somehow he had known the boy would not take charity.

“Really? That’s cool! I mean, I would love to take up your offer, that is, if you don’t mind …”

Mr. Pan had to smile at the youth’s ebullient response. The blue eyes literally sparkled, and he hoped to be able to bring out that sparkle more often.

“That’s settled then.” Then Mr. Pan continued a sly wolfish grin on his face, “Come, and let’s have our real breakfast, while I give you an outline of the work to be covered.”

The expressions on Joe’s face when he brought out a plate of roast duck and a bowl of black pepper beef was priceless.

Then Joe heard the old man say, “I had a grandson …and he hated vegetables too…”

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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.