Seth, standing right beside me, stiffened and made a panicky sound in his throat. Seeing his fear brought me back to my senses. “Stay calm,” I whispered to him. “Do whatever they ask. Everything will be fine.”
He was fumbling in his pocket. Glancing over, I saw him take out his smartphone. Hands shaking, he hurriedly tapped the screen until a wobbly image of his own feet came up. He had enabled the video cam.
He was going to record the robbery.
“Seth, listen to me very carefully,” I said in an urgent whisper. “Do not do that. These men are wearing masks for a reason. Just put your phone away.”
But he wasn’t listening. He cupped his hand so the phone was partway concealed and held it low against his leg, angling out at the room, capturing the heist in action.
“Empty your pockets and your purses!” the third gunman yelled. He was my height and thin, wearing a bulky army jacket that didn’t fit. “Nice and calm, people. No sudden moves. We don’t want to hurt anybody.”
The gunman who had locked the doors joined him. “But we will shoot anyone who gets in our way!” he shouted. He rushed to one of the tellers’ windows and proceeded to collect money from behind the counter.
Army Jacket began taking valuables from the people standing in line. Rings, necklaces, and wallets disappeared into a canvas bag he was carrying. He made quick work of it. My mind was racing. What would be the reaction of the gunmen if they saw Seth recording them? It would depend on a million factors. How experienced they were. How nervous. How desperate. Were these men killers?
Army Jacket reached Seth, standing right by my side. I held my breath. The gunman paused only for an instant while Seth dropped his wallet and wristwatch into the canvas bag in one movement. He hadn’t seen Seth’s phone in his other hand. I breathed a two-second sigh of relief. Then Army Jacket was facing me.
Something strange happened then. Army Jacket just stood there, letting the moment drag on too long. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t take my watch or my wallet. He didn’t even seem all that threatening. He was just . . . staring at me.
Did he know me? It was possible. Even though my brother and I are supposed to be officially “retired,” we’d put away a fair share of criminals in our time. Maybe this guy had been sent to prison, courtesy of Frank and Joe Hardy, and had just gotten his release.
See, our dad, Fenton Hardy, was once a world-famous detective. Growing up, Joe and I would help him on his cases. Then we began tackling mysteries on our own. We were proud of our successes. But after one too many close calls, things started to get a little out of hand, for reasons having to do with private investigators’ licenses (we didn’t have any), insurance (none of that, either), and the threat of being sued by every hoodlum we ever put under a citizen’s arrest. Which is not how my brother and I wanted to spend the remainder of our teenage years, provided we’re lucky enough to survive them. Some of us even have hopes of college one day . . . of a scholarship . . . of a normal life.
So with a few phone calls, including references from our principal and assurances to the police chief and state attorney general, we “retired.” Officially, it stays that way—for all the Hardys. Our dad writes books on the history of law enforcement. And Joe and I go to high school.
That cozy arrangement, a.k.a. “the Deal,” lasted about a month before Joe and I started going crazy. Maybe being a detective is something in your blood. I don’t know.
Since then we’ve started taking the occasional case for a good cause or to help a friend, but we try to keep it confidential. And we deny everything. We don’t consider it lying, just being prudent. We haven’t told our dad, which makes me feel a bit guilty, but I get the feeling he suspects.
Not that it mattered right now. All that mattered was that Army Jacket’s arm had slowly fallen to his side. His gun was pointed at the floor. Like he’d forgotten about it. Now was my chance.
I was about to grab the gun and wrestle it out of his hand, but his accomplice hollered, “Hey! What are you doing?”
Shocked back into the moment, Army Jacket raised his gun again. My chance was gone. I’d blown it. I could see the tiny mouth of the black barrel, aimed between my eyes. He was about to fire!
JOE
I WAS STARING INTO A FACE I’d known my entire life: my big brother Frank’s. For a dizzy second or two, I forgot where I was and what I was doing.
It had totally slipped my mind that Frank had been sent on a phony errand down to the bank. Everybody in the Hardy family agreed he had been spending way too much time on the computer lately, and that he needed to go out and get some exercise and fresh air. The rain shower was just a bonus. Besides, Mom and Dad did all the household banking online. It is the twenty-first century, after all.
When I saw Frank, I almost blurted out his name. I caught myself just in time. But there had to be some way I could let him know it was me in the Michael Myers mask (the one from Halloween, you know). How could I signal to him? How could I let him know?
For a second, I thought about speaking to him in sign. Frank and I are both pretty fluent in American Sign Language. I could keep it simple: B-B G-U-N.
Letting him know, first of all, that I was just holding a BB gun. An unloaded one at that. It was the most important thing to communicate if we were going to stop these idiots!
But I’d better back up a little bit. You’re probably wondering how Joe Hardy came to be holding up a bank in the company of two hardened criminals in the first place.
I had been on my way down to the Locker to meet Frank. (It’s actually called the Meet Locker, which I think is kind of a stupid name. Most kids seem to agree and just call it the Locker.) Frank was all worked up about his speech, which was (as he had told me a million times) exactly one week away. Anyway, I was supposed to help him with it.
As I walked past the alley behind the bank, a big guy in a Michael Myers mask—just like the one I was wearing now—darted out from behind a car and yanked me off my feet. Now, before you call me a wuss, I do know judo (I’m a green belt). But the business end of a nine-millimeter Glock was pressed right up against my gut, so I played along.
It was not the first time I’d had a gun trained on me by some hoodlum. Frank and I had been solving crimes since we were little. We had to keep it on the down low nowadays, of course, because we kept getting sued. But the situation wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me.
Mr. Glock dragged me over to a van. The door was wide open. Inside, a woman was squirming and whimpering, and when I took a closer look I recognized Mrs. Steigerwald, the owner of Bayport’s bowling alley, Seaside Lanes. A big guy was holding another gun and had a hand clamped over her mouth, but he lifted it just long enough for her to shout, “Joe! Help m—”
She was wearing a baseball cap and these big, 1970s-style sunglasses—her usual getup—and she was so terrified, her glasses seemed to be fogging up. It was awful. The other gunman told me I had to help them rob the bank . . . or she’d “get it.” Their partner hadn’t shown up, he said, so they were a man short. Then the first guy tossed a big, greasy-looking army jacket at me and handed me another Halloween mask and the BB gun.
I racked my brain, but I couldn’t see any way out. Poor Mrs. Steigerwald was about to hyperventilate.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. S,” I assured her, putting on the army jacket and the mask. “It’ll all be over really quick. Then I’ll come right out to check on you.”
“All r-right . . . J-Joe,” she answered through chattering teeth. Which surprised me, since she normally called everybody plain old “you.” I didn’t think she knew my name. I was always “You—the blond Hardy.” But I let it slide, thinking she was just terrified.
Sixty seconds later, I was a felon.
Have you ever tried to hold up a bank with the sole aim of keeping anyone from being hurt? It’s quite a high-wire act.
“Hey!” one of my accomplices barked at me now, snapping me back into the present. I’d been staring at Frank, trying to figure ou
t how to communicate with him. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
There was no chance to team up with my brother at the moment. It was too risky. I just needed to get this ordeal over with as soon as possible. I took Frank’s wallet and moved on.
The next customer in line brought me to a halt. This time I couldn’t hide my shock.
“Um . . . Mrs. Steigerwald?” I said. My voice was muffled through the mask.
Mrs. Steigerwald looked freaked out—and mad. She wasn’t wearing her hat and glasses now, and her bright-red hair stuck out at crazy angles. Her green eyes—a really memorable shade—stared at me suspiciously. She clutched her purse, getting ready to hit me with it. “What do you want, you?” she asked.
Now I was really confused. How was Mrs. Steigerwald standing right in front of me? If she was in the bank, who was out in the van being held captive? How could she be in two places at once?
“Were you just outside?” I asked her.
She looked confused. “When?”
“Like, two minutes ago.”
“No,” she replied. “I’ve been here for the past half hour, discussing Seaside Lanes’s bank loan with Tom Baines.” The color started returning to her cheeks as she got going. “Which I wouldn’t need to do if the young people in this town would tear themselves away from their screens once in a while for some good, clean, healthy bowling!”
I took a deep breath, set my gun on the floor, and stepped away from it. Then I raised my hands over my head.
Frank nearly knocked the wind out of me when he tackled me and wrestled me to the ground. My brother looks skinny, but he has some power. I didn’t resist. The bank erupted in chaos. People screamed. I caught a glimpse of the other two robbers ducking out the side door. The security guard ran over and put a knee in my back.
Frank ripped the mask off my face. To his credit, he didn’t say anything. He just frowned.
“There’s a really good explanation,” I said.
“I bet there is,” Frank answered.
Before I could get that explanation out, though, Bayport’s finest were on the scene. Our town might have lousy cell phone reception, but I guess the landlines worked just fine.
I was in cuffs and out the door before I could say another word.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FRANKLIN W. DIXON is the ever-popular author of the Hardy Boys series of books.
Don’t miss the next mystery in the HARDY BOYS ADVENTURES: The Disappearance
ALADDIN
SIMON & SCHUSTER, NEW YORK
Visit us at simonandschuster.com/kids
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Franklin-W-Dixon
READ ALL THE MYSTERIES IN THE
HARDY BOYS ADVENTURES:
#1 Secret of the Red Arrow
#2 Mystery of the Phantom Heist
#3 The Vanishing Game
#4 Into Thin Air
#5 Peril at Granite Peak
#6 The Battle of Bayport
#7 Shadows at Predator Reef
#8 Deception on the Set
#9 The Curse of the Ancient Emerald
#10 Tunnel of Secrets
#11 Showdown at Widow Creek
#12 The Madman of Black Bear Mountain
#13 Bound for Danger
#14 Attack of the Bayport Beast
#15 A Con Artist in Paris
#16 Stolen Identity
COMING SOON:
#18 The Disappearance
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALADDIN
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First Aladdin paperback edition October 2018
Text copyright © 2018 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Cover illustration copyright © 2018 by Kevin Keele
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Series designed by Karin Paprocki
Interior designed by Mike Rosamilia
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Dixon, Franklin W., author. | Title: The gray hunter’s revenge / Franklin W. Dixon.
Description: First Aladdin hardcover/paperback edition. | New York : Aladdin, 2018. | Series: Hardy Boys adventures ; #17 | Summary: The Hardy Boys are asked to investigate when their favorite thriller writer dies in what may have been an accident, while the press swarms Bayport to get information about the author’s last novel.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017061138 (print) | LCCN 2018006771 (eBook) | ISBN 9781534411524 (eBook) | ISBN 9781534411500 (pbk) | ISBN 9781534411517 (hc) Subjects: | CYAC: Authors—Fiction. | Death—Fiction. | Haunted houses—Fiction. | Brothers—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General.
Classification: LCC PZ7.D644 (eBook) | LCC PZ7.D644 Gp 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017061138
The Gray Hunter's Revenge Page 10