Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

A/N: Standard disclaimer. I don't own the characters I didn't create. Just borrowing them all from their rightful owners for my own nefarious purposes, as always. 'Suze' belongs to Barbara D'Amato.

Nancy Drew slipped protective mufflers over her ears and slid on a pair of safety glasses. Her hair, naturally blonde with unmistakeably bold red highlights, still held the traces of a hasty brown dye job from a few months ago. The length was such that the ends were just beginning to brush her collar. Today she’d taken the liberty of pulling her hair back into a neat pony-tail.

She quickly loaded her double-action Sig Sauer P226 9mm, squared her body to the target in front of her, positioning herself in a perfect Modern Isosceles stance. The sound of gunfire echoed around her at steady intervals; staccato bursts from other officers practicing at the firing range.

Nancy tensed her finger against the trigger, but was distracted as she noticed someone pass behind her to take up the ‘booth’ to her left. It was enough to break her concentration, and she lowered her weapon momentarily to regroup and re-focus.

Before she could be reinstated to active duty after a lengthy hiatus from the Chicago Police Department, Nancy would have to re-certify so she would again be able to carry her Sig, as well as the Beretta PX4 she used as a backup piece. She was at the practice range now, hoping to sharpen up before her upcoming course of fire.

For over a year, she had been written off the CPD roster. Majority of that time had been spent in hiding, on the run in protective custody. She was finally able to return and confront those responsible for her predicament, and after a couple months’ rest, Nancy felt it was at last time to return to her position as a detective in the Homicide squad.

Expelling a breath, Nancy raised her arms again and stared intently at the target that dangled 5 yards away from her spot in the booth. The target scoring area was an 81/2 x 14 inch overlay. Her main focus was the center mass, and Nancy translated that area in her mind to a real-life target.

Head and chest.

Those were the desirable marks.

Shoot to kill, not to wound.

In the field, simply wounding your quarry might mean they could still have an opportunity to return fire, which could result in deadly consequences.

Nancy had never liked guns, but learn to use them she had, because it was essential to earning a position on the force. In the academy, she had spent many countless hours practicing at the range, honing her already innate hand-eye coordination skills. She wasn’t the best shot on the force, but she always exceeded department requirements whenever she was up for her usual annual re-certification. Nancy hoped meeting the minimum passing score of 70 percent would be no different this time around.

If it came down to a life or death situation, Nancy knew she would shoot to kill. She was thankful that during her time as a patrol officer - even though there had been a few tense moments - such a situation never arose.

Realising she had been standing still for more than a minute as her thoughts danced in her mind, Nancy chided herself. Just shoot, already! She tensed her finger on the trigger once more, and stared down at the target. They time you on the real thing, remember? Get going!

A pop-pop-pop sound managed to work its way through her mufflers, and Nancy involuntarily jumped. It was made by the officer firing off shots in the booth to her left. Even muted, the proximity of the noise emitted from the other weapon left her feeling oddly shaken.

Suddenly Nancy’s arms felt as if they were made of lead, and her breath began coming in short, shallow gasps.

Pop-pop-pop!

The memory of a warm, October night came unbidden. A chill passed through Nancy as details of the drive-by shooting that had sent her into hiding - and seriously wounded her two best friends - presented themselves in full clarity: She could see the street from the sidewalk restaurant patio, and the speeding car with its darkened window rolled down partially to reveal a weapon that sprayed bullets.

Nancy remembered seeing Georgina ‘George’ Fayne flying forward onto the table; Bess Marvin crying out and falling to the ground; feeling the burning sensation in her own upper arm. That area just below the left shoulder, long-since healed, now seemed to tingle.

Pop-pop-pop!

Knees feeling as if they were made of rubber, Nancy struggled to remain standing in the booth. What’s wrong with me? she thought desperately. Something isn’t right. The grip around her gun loosened and her hands felt cool and clammy. She could feel perspiration beginning to dampen her brow.

Pop-pop-pop!

The sound now seemed to explode in her ears, deafening her even with the mufflers in place

I have to get out of here… The thought came to her as she felt her stomach lurch. Hurriedly releasing the clip and safely stowing her weapon, Nancy made a mad dash for the Ladies’ restroom.

The stall door banged open as Nancy hastily pushed her way inside, and she managed to reach the toilet bowl just in time. The door’s momentum caused it to slam back against the frame. It wavered a few times before coming to rest, remaining open just a crack. In her haste, Nancy didn’t even look to see if anyone else was in the restroom, and she quite honestly didn’t care.

Dry heaves at last subsiding, she rocked back on her haunches, took a deep breath and tore a length of toilet paper from the roll to wipe her mouth, then flushed the toilet.

There was a soft knock at the stall’s door. In her fragile state, Nancy instantly felt her heart rate spike, neck muscles tense in surprise, and a prickling sensation rush down her spine.

“Hey. You okay in there?” A voice asked quietly and politely.

“Uh, I’m fine,” Nancy managed to say somewhat breathlessly, but realised she was shaking. She swivelled around and pulled herself up unsteadily. She pulled the stall door open and was met by another cop who was shorter than her by several inches, standing at a height that probably barely met CPD regulations.

“Here,” the other woman said, holding out a neatly-folded, moistened strip of paper towel. “You didn’t sound like you were feeling so hot. I dampened it with some warm water.”

Nancy took it gratefully, and quickly put it to her mouth. “Thanks,” she mumbled sheepishly.

The shorter woman stepped back to let Nancy exit the stall and said: “No problem.”

Nancy headed to one of the sinks and turned on the tap, splashed her face with cold water several times, then rinsed the bitter taste from her mouth.

Feeling a small measure of calm and composure, she turned to pull some paper towels to dry off. The other woman was there, ready with several sheets. A soft, understanding smile flashed across her face.

“Thanks again,” Nancy said gratefully, and wiped her face and hands.

Casually inspecting the officer, Nancy noticed she was wearing navy blue sweatpants and a white CPD-issue T-shirt. Her dark hair was up in a no-nonsense French braid.

“I’m Suze,” the officer said matter-of-factly, catching Nancy’s eyes with her own dark browns.

“Nancy,” she replied, and the pair shook hands.

Nancy pegged Suze to be in her late twenties to very early thirties, and looked like she could be part Latina.

“You look familiar,” Suze said. “It’s Nancy Drew, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Nancy said with a nod.

“The hotshot detective,” Suze was grinning, not unkindly. “I keep pestering my partner that we should both go for the position.”

“So why don’t you?”

“One of these days!” Suze’s voice was optimistic. “Well, I’ll see you ‘round, Nancy Drew; I gotta get back.”

“Nice meeting you, Suze. And thanks again.”

The shorter woman had already turned to open the restroom door, and departed with a short wave of her hand.

In the silence that followed, Nancy peered at her reflection in the mirror.

My nerves feel absolutely fried right now, she thought with apprehension Her face looked pale and wan. I’ve been to the practice range hundreds of times…And today the slightest sound is making me jump right out of my skin. Something is definitely wrong.

The thought of returning now to continue practicing made her shudder. I can’t go back out there now. Not today…Oh, God, what’s the matter with me?

A/N: The 'predicament' mentioned in this chapter can be found in 'Who's That Girl?' if you have not yet read that story.

Let the author know what you think of this story

Home Library Authors Rogue's Gallery Vehicles Chums Message Board Rap Sheet Links Contact

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.