Farming Fear (13 page)

Freezing slush flew up from their tires as they went. They hit an icy patch on the trail and nearly
skidded out of control. The gunman kept moving toward them, the report of his rifle barely audible over the roar of the buggy’s engine.

Chilling, bitter rain drove down around them, stinging their exposed faces and drenching their parkas.

“If we keep this up,” Joe said flippantly, “we’ll be soaked to the skin again.”

“Any time you see some sniper-proof shelter, I’m willing to stop and take it,” Frank replied. “Until then, let’s keep driving.”

The snowmobile pulled closer and fired a shot across the buggy’s rear.

Joe cut the vehicle to the left, taking a daring chance and darting between two of the big towers. He wheeled the buggy, spinning it one hundred and eighty degrees around. Then he got back on the service road behind their attacker, who was still going in the other direction.

“Good move, Joe!” Frank said as they headed east again, toward the old factory complex.

“That may have bought us some time,” Joe said, “but I don’t know that we’ll be able to keep ahead of him much longer.”

“If we can reach the factory parking lot, we should be able to cut over to the road,” Frank said. “On pavement, we could outdistance that sniper easily.”

“Of course, this baby isn’t street legal,” Joe noted.

“It’s not legal to shoot at people, either,” Frank
replied. “If we get to the street and he follows us, the sniper will have more to worry about than we do.”

While the brothers talked, they had increased the distance between themselves and the gunman. Joe’s sudden turn had caught the sniper completely off-guard. The criminal nearly spun out as he wheeled his black snowmobile and resumed the chase.

Joe put the pedal to the metal. The buggy bounded over the dips and bumps of the power line service road, going airborne for a few seconds after cresting each rise. The younger Hardy fought to control the modified car chassis, while at the same time trying to maintain their distance from the gunman.

Rain and wet snow splashed all around them, splattering their parkas and their exposed faces. “How’s Costello doing in back?” Joe asked.

Frank turned and checked. “He seems okay,” he replied. “It’s a good thing we strapped him in good.”

Crack!

Another shot whizzed past Frank and Joe as the snowmobile marksman found his range once more.

“His shots are getting closer,” Frank noted. “He’s gaining on us, too.”

“I know,” Joe replied. “This buggy may be good in the snow, but it’s not nearly as good as a snowmobile.”

With each passing second, the pursuing sniper closed the distance between the two vehicles.

“Hang on,” Joe said. “I’m going to try something.”

Frank gripped the side of the buggy’s roll-cage, bracing himself.

Joe swerved, taking the buggy off of the roadway and between two of the huge electrical towers. The snowmobiler followed, firing again as he came. Joe cut back in the other direction, weaving between the power scaffolds like a skier running a slalom course.

The sniper kept after him, but all the swerving was throwing off his aim. His shots flew wildly through the air, some ricocheting off of the big metal towers.

“Keep it up, Joe!” Frank said. “I can see the factory ahead, and the road leading out of it looks clear.”

“If we can hit the highway, this guy will eat our slush,” Joe replied. He splashed the buggy through a huge puddle at a dip in the road, then turned to dart between the towers again.

Crack!

A shot sailed over the brothers’ heads and struck a tower ahead of them. It hit one of the connections that held the power lines to the huge metal structure. The line snapped in a shower of sparks and swooped down directly at the buggy.

“Look out!” Frank yelled, but Joe was already swerving. He cut to the left and the electrified line barely missed them. It fell into the wide puddle the brothers had just crossed.

The sniper’s black snowmobile hit the puddle
and electricity shot through it. A sound like thunder echoed above the rainstorm. The gunman went rigid and lost his grip as his snowmobile bounded through the electrified puddle and soared up into the air. The gunman’s hands flew open convulsively. His rifle arced through the rain and landed at the base of one of the towers. The snowmobile exploded in midair, shattering into a hundred pieces.

The gunman flew head over heels and smashed hard into an icy snowdrift. He didn’t get up.

“Yeow!” Frank said.

“Ouch!” Joe agreed. He skidded the buggy to a halt and looked back over his shoulder.

The burning wreckage of the snowmobile covered the slush at the base of one of the big metal towers. The sniper lay motionless in the snow bank nearby.

“I suppose we have to go back and get him medical attention,” Joe said.

“I guess we do,” Frank replied. “Just be sure to skirt that puddle as we go. The power probably cut out at a substation by now, but just in case . . .”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “We don’t want to join that guy in the emergency room.”

Joe drove back cautiously to where the gunman lay, and both brothers got out of the buggy. “Let’s put him in back with Costello,” Joe said. “We’ll take them to the old factory and call for help.”

“This guy should be right at home there,” Frank said, lugging the gunman into the back seat. “After all, he owns the place.” He took off the sniper’s helmet, revealing the unconscious face of Leo Myint.

“Let’s hope he’s got a first-aid kit somewhere in that factory,” Joe said. “He’s going to need it.”

After making sure both of their passengers would survive the trip, the brothers drove to the factory. When they arrived, they found a second black snowmobile parked outside the back door.

Just then, the door opened and a young man with a snowmobile helmet in his hand came out. Seeing the Hardys next to his vehicle, he charged.

Frank dropped and swept out the attacker’s knees with a martial art’s kick. At the same time, Joe stepped forward and planted a solid right uppercut to the man’s jaw. The snowmobiler’s head snapped back, and he went out like a light.

“Who is this guy?” Joe said, looking at their unconscious assailant. “I don’t think we’ve ever seen him before.”

“He must be one of Mvint’s workers,” Frank replied. “A ‘hired gun’ who was in on the scheme with his boss.”

“So he’s the second guy we fought in the barn that night,” Joe deduced.

The brothers dragged the bad guys inside and tied them up. They brought Elan Costello in and laid him on a couch in Myint’s reception area, then
they found a working phone and called the police and an ambulance.

Dark shadows crowded the old factory’s interior. All the power seemed to be out, probably because of the broken line. In the darkness the brothers heard something that made them smile. Joe produced his recharged penlight from his coat pocket, and the two of them did some exploring. In a back corner of the factory, near the restrooms, they found a huddled, shaggy shape chained to a wall: Bernie, the Mortons’ missing dog.

Bernie looked hungry and tired, but not mistreated. He jumped up and barked excitedly when he spotted the brothers.

•  •  •

After turning Myint and his accomplice over to the police, the Hardys and the Mortons gathered in the kitchen of the old family farmhouse. The brothers’ experience with the power lines had left the whole area temporarily without electricity, but all of them had gotten used to living by lamplight anyway. Bernie seemed almost as glad to be home as the Mortons were glad to have him back.

“Leo Myint!” Grandpa Morton exclaimed. “He was causing all the problems? What did
we
ever do to
him?
We’ve only met the man a couple of times in all the years he’s owned that old factory.”

“Yes,” Grandma Morton said. “Why was he giving us so much trouble?”

“It wasn’t just you,” Frank explained “He was out to get anyone in his way—anyone who stood between him and what he really wanted: the sale of his factory to Patsy Stein’s mall consortium.”

“Myint’s business was failing,” Joe said. “He had bought the old factory complex years ago, but it was more space than he could use. He could never rent out enough of it to cover his costs. Once his business hit the skids, he needed a way out.”

“Due to the rough economy, buyers for a factory complex like that are few and far between,” Frank said. “The police told us he’d had the place up for sale for three years. Stein was his only hope to get out before he lost his shirt.”

“There was a problem, though,” Joe said, “Stein didn’t want his land unless she could have yours, and a piece of Vic Costello’s farm as well.”

“So Myint figured if he could give Grandma and Grandpa enough trouble, they’d sell out,” Iola concluded.

“That’s about the size of it,” Frank said. “Myint got one of his factory workers to help him in the sabotage. Working together, they caused a lot of trouble.”

“Those scoundrels!” Grandpa said. “It makes me wish I was younger so I could give them a good thrashing. And their scheme nearly worked, too!”

“What do you mean
nearly?”
Chet asked.

“We got a call from Patsy Stein a couple of minutes ago,” Grandma Morton explained. “She and her
group are backing out of their offer. They don’t need the bad publicity associated with Myint’s crimes. Plus, Costello has refused to sell them that spur he owns by the factory. Without that little piece of Costello’s land, the mall project can’t go forward.”

“First time Vic Costello has ever done
us
a favor,” Grandpa said. “We owe him one.”

“Myint harassed Costello, too,” Frank said. “He let loose their dogs and tried to pull the same kind of sabotage that he pulled on your place.” The elder Hardy reached down and ruffled Bernie’s shaggy head. Bernie woofed appreciatively.

“But Elan Costello almost caught Myint today,” Joe said. “Elan got on his snowmobile and chased Myint into the woods by the power lines. Lucky for us he did, or we might never have bagged that villain.”

“Not too lucky for Elan, though,” Chet noted. “How long did they say he’d be in the hospital?”

“He didn’t have any broken bones,” Joe replied, “just a concussion.”

“The doctors are keeping him overnight for observation,” Frank said. “He should be fine, though.”

Grandma Morton shook her head and sighed. “It’s ironic,” she said. “If we’d talked to Costello more, we might have noticed the criminals’ pattern and figured out that someone was out to drive us both off our land. Oh, well! We’ve got time to make amends. Even neighbors who haven’t been
friendly in the past can learn to live with each other in the future.”

“So, you’re keeping the farm?” Iola asked, hope brimming in her gray eyes.

“Yep,” Grandpa replied. “It was a mistake agreeing to sell in the first place. We were just worn out when we agreed to it.”

“We’re not city people,” Grandma added. “We’re farm folk. Retirement’s not for us. Not yet, anyway.”

“That’s great!” Chet blurted. “We’ll come back next summer and help out for sure.”

“Count us in, too,” Frank said.

Iola smiled. “Now the Morton farm can stay in the family for another five generations.”

“And much of the thanks goes to you, Frank and Joe,” Grandpa said.

The brothers smiled at their friends.

‘We were lucky,” Joe concluded. “If things had gone wrong, it would have been us who’d have bought the farm!”

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Aladdin Paperbacks edition December 2004

Copyright © 2004 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

An imprint of Simon & Schuster

Children’s Publishing Division

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www.SimonandSchuster.com

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

The text of this book was set in New Caledonia.

THE HARDY BOYS MYSTERY STORIES is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Library of Congress Control Number 2004102694

ISBN-13: 978-0-689-86739-2

ISBN-10: 0-689-86739-5