Running on Empty Read Online Free Page A
Author: Franklin W. Dixon
curb and then gently accelerated forward. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention. This was no time to be stopped by the cops.
Suddenly the bright red and blue lights of a police cruiser filled the Porsche's small compartment. The ghostly cry of a police siren pierced the air.
Frank glanced at the speedometer to make sure he wasn't speeding. The dash was dark.
The lights! He had been so intent on going unnoticed that he had forgotten to turn on the lights once he had hit the brightly lit street.
He pulled on the light switch and mashed the accelerator to the floor. The Porsche jumped forward, and the rear wheels screamed as raw horsepower was unleashed.
In the rear-view mirror, Frank could see the cruiser lurch forward, nudging closer to the Porsche. He shoved the gears into high and the smaller, swifter car soon outdistanced the police cruiser.
He pulled into an alley, and a second later slipped out onto a parallel street. He headed for the garage and was relieved to hear the police siren moving farther and farther away from him.
***
Joe sat on a rusty oil drum, avoiding the hard eye Smith was giving him. They said little to each other since Frank had left. Snake had whined, and Smith had ordered him to move a stack of tires to the other side of the garage.
Joe jumped as the warehouse suddenly echoed with a loud grating sound as the garage door began to rise. It had risen only four feet when a midnight blue Porsche burst through the narrow opening and screeched to a halt. Immediately, the garage door began to close again.
Frank jumped from the front seat, beaming with a big grin. He looked at his watch.
"Ten minutes and fifteen seconds exactly," he announced. He tossed the remote control to Smith.
Smith whistled. "Not a bad haul on such short notice." He paced around the Porsche. "I'm impressed, Frankie."
"You okay?" Frank asked Joe.
"Yeah. Just a little stiff," Joe replied. "We had a swell time." Noticing that Smith was distracted by the Porsche, Joe leaned closer to Frank and whispered, "You found it where Uncle Ed said it would be?"
Frank nodded and winked. They had anticipated that Smith would want some proof that he and Joe were honest-to-goodness car thieves, and what better way to prove this than to "steal" a car. Uncle Ed had willingly given up one of his finer cars in the hope that Chet would be found.
"You two staying somewhere?" Smith asked as he joined them.
"Yeah. The Southport Motor Inn," Frank replied.
"Good." He handed Frank another small black plastic box. "Here's a beeper. I'll call when I want you and Joey to make another hit."
"I thought we passed the test," Frank protested.
"One test does not a partnership make. After all, I don't know if Joey knows the difference between a clutch and a steering wheel. But you, Frankie, are aces as far as I'm concerned."
"Okay," Frank said reluctantly. "Just one thing before we leave."
"What?"
"Don't call us Frankie and Joey again. Call us Frank and Joe or just call us Davis."
Smith's high-pitched roar of laughter echoed off the brick walls of the warehouse.
***
Half an hour later Frank and Joe "Davis" lumbered toward their second-floor room at the Southport Motor Inn. They were tired and worried. They had gained a foothold in Smith's operation, but they weren't any closer to finding Chet.
Frank unlocked the door and pushed his way into the darkness. Joe flipped on the light.
Then they froze.
A man sat in a chair across the room from the door. In one hand he held an open wallet. In the other he held a .357 magnum, its single barrel staring at Frank and Joe in deadly anticipation.
"Welcome home, Frank and Joe Davis. Or should I say Hardy? Whatever you two yahoos call yourselves, you're under arrest!"
Chapter 5
"What are the charges, Detective?" Frank asked, taking in the gold shield gleaming from the man's open wallet.
The detective stood and put his wallet inside his jacket. He held up his hand and began counting. "Auto theft.
Suddenly the bright red and blue lights of a police cruiser filled the Porsche's small compartment. The ghostly cry of a police siren pierced the air.
Frank glanced at the speedometer to make sure he wasn't speeding. The dash was dark.
The lights! He had been so intent on going unnoticed that he had forgotten to turn on the lights once he had hit the brightly lit street.
He pulled on the light switch and mashed the accelerator to the floor. The Porsche jumped forward, and the rear wheels screamed as raw horsepower was unleashed.
In the rear-view mirror, Frank could see the cruiser lurch forward, nudging closer to the Porsche. He shoved the gears into high and the smaller, swifter car soon outdistanced the police cruiser.
He pulled into an alley, and a second later slipped out onto a parallel street. He headed for the garage and was relieved to hear the police siren moving farther and farther away from him.
***
Joe sat on a rusty oil drum, avoiding the hard eye Smith was giving him. They said little to each other since Frank had left. Snake had whined, and Smith had ordered him to move a stack of tires to the other side of the garage.
Joe jumped as the warehouse suddenly echoed with a loud grating sound as the garage door began to rise. It had risen only four feet when a midnight blue Porsche burst through the narrow opening and screeched to a halt. Immediately, the garage door began to close again.
Frank jumped from the front seat, beaming with a big grin. He looked at his watch.
"Ten minutes and fifteen seconds exactly," he announced. He tossed the remote control to Smith.
Smith whistled. "Not a bad haul on such short notice." He paced around the Porsche. "I'm impressed, Frankie."
"You okay?" Frank asked Joe.
"Yeah. Just a little stiff," Joe replied. "We had a swell time." Noticing that Smith was distracted by the Porsche, Joe leaned closer to Frank and whispered, "You found it where Uncle Ed said it would be?"
Frank nodded and winked. They had anticipated that Smith would want some proof that he and Joe were honest-to-goodness car thieves, and what better way to prove this than to "steal" a car. Uncle Ed had willingly given up one of his finer cars in the hope that Chet would be found.
"You two staying somewhere?" Smith asked as he joined them.
"Yeah. The Southport Motor Inn," Frank replied.
"Good." He handed Frank another small black plastic box. "Here's a beeper. I'll call when I want you and Joey to make another hit."
"I thought we passed the test," Frank protested.
"One test does not a partnership make. After all, I don't know if Joey knows the difference between a clutch and a steering wheel. But you, Frankie, are aces as far as I'm concerned."
"Okay," Frank said reluctantly. "Just one thing before we leave."
"What?"
"Don't call us Frankie and Joey again. Call us Frank and Joe or just call us Davis."
Smith's high-pitched roar of laughter echoed off the brick walls of the warehouse.
***
Half an hour later Frank and Joe "Davis" lumbered toward their second-floor room at the Southport Motor Inn. They were tired and worried. They had gained a foothold in Smith's operation, but they weren't any closer to finding Chet.
Frank unlocked the door and pushed his way into the darkness. Joe flipped on the light.
Then they froze.
A man sat in a chair across the room from the door. In one hand he held an open wallet. In the other he held a .357 magnum, its single barrel staring at Frank and Joe in deadly anticipation.
"Welcome home, Frank and Joe Davis. Or should I say Hardy? Whatever you two yahoos call yourselves, you're under arrest!"
Chapter 5
"What are the charges, Detective?" Frank asked, taking in the gold shield gleaming from the man's open wallet.
The detective stood and put his wallet inside his jacket. He held up his hand and began counting. "Auto theft.
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