Countdown to Terror Read Online Free
Author: Franklin W. Dixon
passenger in the car that cut them off. He looked familiar. Frank placed him almost immediately. He was the guy with the mustache and turban he'd seen hurrying for a phone in the airport. It was definitely the same guy.
Now Mr. Mustache held up a small box with a whip-aerial and a button on it. The message was clear. This was the detonator for the bomb they had on board.
"I don't think they're going to blow us up as long as we're good boys," Frank said. "That guy hasn't made a move to touch the button."
"That wouldn't be smart, with us right beside him," Joe pointed out. "I don't think it would do the bridge much good, either."
"I think they're just going to use it as a threat to get us to park someplace nice and quiet where they can question us, but about what I don't know."
Frank sounded calm, but his brain was churning furiously, trying to come up with a way out of this death trap. Right then, he reasoned, they did have one slim advantage. The enemy, whoever they were, didn't want them dead — at least not yet.
"If we let them pace us all the way, we'll never have a chance of escaping," he said. "Sergeant, can you get ahead of them?"
"On a jam-packed bridge?" Dundee asked. But he nodded his head, realizing they might be able to use the distance. "I'll do my best."
A tiny opening developed in the left-hand lane, ahead of their pursuers. Gerry Dundee shouldered his car into it. Then he darted back into another small open spot in the lane next to it, earning a blast on the horn from the driver he had cut off.
They'd gained a bare car length, but the pursuit car was having a hard time catching up. Drivers who've been cut off once aren't willing to let it happen again soon.
Dundee continued to weave through the heavy traffic. It was slow going, pulling a half a car length here, a half a car length there. But as the far end of the bridge came up, they were still within plain sight of their pursuers.
The pursuit car pulled over to the right-hand lane to be in the same one as Dundee. The older policeman grinned.
"Good. They think I'm going to make the right off the bridge and take the underpass to Barrington Street. Well, they're in for a surprise."
He accelerated past the turnoff and whipped into the left lane. Then he made a wild left turn, nearly getting clipped by a horrified van driver. "Get ready to jump, boys," Dundee said as he jockeyed the wheel. "This street dead-ends into a sort of park that should be deserted now."
Frank and Joe saw the greenery up ahead as Dundee swerved to the right side of the road. "Get while the getting's good!" he yelled, jamming on the brakes.
The Hardys jumped. Dundee brought the car around in a screeching U-turn, pretending that he'd just discovered the road didn't go through.
Then the pursuit car rolled up to block the open end of the street.
Gerry Dundee was already halfway out of the car, with one foot on the pavement.
Mr. Mustache must have hit the button, because two seconds later the unmarked car blew up.
Frank and Joe were staggered by the blast. It tore the hood off the engine and shattered the windshield. It also tossed Gerry Dundee like a rag doll in a tornado.
He flew across the street, arms flailing, and landed hard on the grassy ground near the Hardys.
Joe stared at the man lying unmoving near his feet. Frank was looking at the guys in the pursuit car. Apparently they decided they'd called too much attention to themselves. With a screech of rubber, they peeled out and away from there.
Frank turned to his brother, who was kneeling beside Dundee. "Don't try to move him," he said, putting a hand on Joe's arm to stop him. "He may have internal injuries—and we don't want to make a bad situation worse."
Dundee had landed half on his side, half on his stomach, his arm twisted under him. His face lay in the dirt. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head around. Spotting Frank, he sucked in a shallow breath.
At first Frank thought Dundee was just wheezing. Then he
Now Mr. Mustache held up a small box with a whip-aerial and a button on it. The message was clear. This was the detonator for the bomb they had on board.
"I don't think they're going to blow us up as long as we're good boys," Frank said. "That guy hasn't made a move to touch the button."
"That wouldn't be smart, with us right beside him," Joe pointed out. "I don't think it would do the bridge much good, either."
"I think they're just going to use it as a threat to get us to park someplace nice and quiet where they can question us, but about what I don't know."
Frank sounded calm, but his brain was churning furiously, trying to come up with a way out of this death trap. Right then, he reasoned, they did have one slim advantage. The enemy, whoever they were, didn't want them dead — at least not yet.
"If we let them pace us all the way, we'll never have a chance of escaping," he said. "Sergeant, can you get ahead of them?"
"On a jam-packed bridge?" Dundee asked. But he nodded his head, realizing they might be able to use the distance. "I'll do my best."
A tiny opening developed in the left-hand lane, ahead of their pursuers. Gerry Dundee shouldered his car into it. Then he darted back into another small open spot in the lane next to it, earning a blast on the horn from the driver he had cut off.
They'd gained a bare car length, but the pursuit car was having a hard time catching up. Drivers who've been cut off once aren't willing to let it happen again soon.
Dundee continued to weave through the heavy traffic. It was slow going, pulling a half a car length here, a half a car length there. But as the far end of the bridge came up, they were still within plain sight of their pursuers.
The pursuit car pulled over to the right-hand lane to be in the same one as Dundee. The older policeman grinned.
"Good. They think I'm going to make the right off the bridge and take the underpass to Barrington Street. Well, they're in for a surprise."
He accelerated past the turnoff and whipped into the left lane. Then he made a wild left turn, nearly getting clipped by a horrified van driver. "Get ready to jump, boys," Dundee said as he jockeyed the wheel. "This street dead-ends into a sort of park that should be deserted now."
Frank and Joe saw the greenery up ahead as Dundee swerved to the right side of the road. "Get while the getting's good!" he yelled, jamming on the brakes.
The Hardys jumped. Dundee brought the car around in a screeching U-turn, pretending that he'd just discovered the road didn't go through.
Then the pursuit car rolled up to block the open end of the street.
Gerry Dundee was already halfway out of the car, with one foot on the pavement.
Mr. Mustache must have hit the button, because two seconds later the unmarked car blew up.
Frank and Joe were staggered by the blast. It tore the hood off the engine and shattered the windshield. It also tossed Gerry Dundee like a rag doll in a tornado.
He flew across the street, arms flailing, and landed hard on the grassy ground near the Hardys.
Joe stared at the man lying unmoving near his feet. Frank was looking at the guys in the pursuit car. Apparently they decided they'd called too much attention to themselves. With a screech of rubber, they peeled out and away from there.
Frank turned to his brother, who was kneeling beside Dundee. "Don't try to move him," he said, putting a hand on Joe's arm to stop him. "He may have internal injuries—and we don't want to make a bad situation worse."
Dundee had landed half on his side, half on his stomach, his arm twisted under him. His face lay in the dirt. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head around. Spotting Frank, he sucked in a shallow breath.
At first Frank thought Dundee was just wheezing. Then he
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