Read Online Street Spies by Franklin W. Dixon - Free Book Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
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dazed. "I can't believe this is happening. Maybe it's some kind of joke."
"I don't think so," Joe told her. He wanted to say more, but he wasn't sure how far he should go. If this was some kind of trap, he could blow their whole investigation by spilling too much. But if the blackmail call was genuine, Tiffany needed his help. He had to get some answers, and he had to get them fast.
"Tell you what," Joe said, handing back the circuit board, "do you have someplace to lock this up? Someplace where nobody can get at it?"
"Yes," Tiffany said. "Over there." She indicated a small floor safe.
"Lock it up," Joe instructed her. "I'm going to talk to a friend. Maybe he can help. Give me the number here, and I'll call you later this afternoon." He grinned at her. "In the meantime, stay cool. We'll come out of this okay."
Outside, Joe pulled his headset out of his messenger bag and put it on, trying to look nonchalant. But when he bent over to unlock his bike and speak into his microphone, his voice was urgent. "Frank, do you read me? Frank, come in."
There was a crackle of static. "Roger, copy clear," came the reply. "Got a problem?"
"I need to talk to you and Dad as soon as possible. Where are you?"
"I just tracked Lightfoot on a delivery from World-Wide's Wall Street office up to Midtown," Frank reported. "The run was clean — no side-trips. I just talked to Dad. He's at World-Wide's testing center. He checked out the van's license plate. It's leased—to MUX."
"How about getting together at Rollo's, up by Lincoln Center?" Joe asked. "You know, the sidewalk caf6?"
"Sounds good," Frank said. "I'll call Dad. Barring traffic problems, we should be able to be there in less than a half-hour."
"Roger," Joe replied. "Out." He coasted his bike out onto the street and merged into the traffic heading west.
As he got to Eighth Avenue, his bike jolted across a manhole cover that hadn't been replaced tightly. Joe looked back to check out his tire, then frowned. A pair of red wires were dangling from behind his seat.
That's weird, he thought. When he'd bought the bike and tried out the headlight, he'd noticed that the wires that led to the generator were blue. He hadn't seen any red wires. Joe sat up straight and thrust his fingers under the seat where the wires disappeared. His frown deepened. He could feel a small metal cylinder embedded in something that felt like damp putty.
Just ahead of him, the traffic light turned red, and he realized the purpose of the wires!
Without a second thought, Joe swung his left leg over the handlebars and leapt off the bike. He somersaulted into the crosswalk as his riderless bike rolled to the middle of the intersection, where the traffic had momentarily cleared.
Then a deafening roar echoed through the intersection, and Joe saw his bike disintegrate into shards of metal fragments. He got to his knees and scrambled to the curb, his head spinning. The front wheel of his bike had been blown free and was bouncing across the street. As he watched, it hit the curb and sailed away in a graceful arc.
Dazed as he was, ears still ringing from the explosion, Joe only vaguely noticed the cream-colored van that suddenly sped up and drove through the intersection. Taxis and cars began to edge around the fragments of his bike that lay in the middle of the street. Behind him, a small knot of curious shoppers and pedestrians watched.
A police car screeched to a stop across the street, siren wailing, lights flashing. Spectators on that corner pointed in Joe's direction and the patrol car whipped across the intersection and pulled up a few feet in front of Joe.
Both doors flew open. A tough-looking woman officer with revolver drawn jumped out of the passenger side and crouched down, using the door as a shield. The driver, a burly cop with a .357 Magnum in his fist, stepped to the front of the car. Both guns were leveled directly at Joe.
"Freeze, kid," the male cop snapped. "One move and you're
"I don't think so," Joe told her. He wanted to say more, but he wasn't sure how far he should go. If this was some kind of trap, he could blow their whole investigation by spilling too much. But if the blackmail call was genuine, Tiffany needed his help. He had to get some answers, and he had to get them fast.
"Tell you what," Joe said, handing back the circuit board, "do you have someplace to lock this up? Someplace where nobody can get at it?"
"Yes," Tiffany said. "Over there." She indicated a small floor safe.
"Lock it up," Joe instructed her. "I'm going to talk to a friend. Maybe he can help. Give me the number here, and I'll call you later this afternoon." He grinned at her. "In the meantime, stay cool. We'll come out of this okay."
Outside, Joe pulled his headset out of his messenger bag and put it on, trying to look nonchalant. But when he bent over to unlock his bike and speak into his microphone, his voice was urgent. "Frank, do you read me? Frank, come in."
There was a crackle of static. "Roger, copy clear," came the reply. "Got a problem?"
"I need to talk to you and Dad as soon as possible. Where are you?"
"I just tracked Lightfoot on a delivery from World-Wide's Wall Street office up to Midtown," Frank reported. "The run was clean — no side-trips. I just talked to Dad. He's at World-Wide's testing center. He checked out the van's license plate. It's leased—to MUX."
"How about getting together at Rollo's, up by Lincoln Center?" Joe asked. "You know, the sidewalk caf6?"
"Sounds good," Frank said. "I'll call Dad. Barring traffic problems, we should be able to be there in less than a half-hour."
"Roger," Joe replied. "Out." He coasted his bike out onto the street and merged into the traffic heading west.
As he got to Eighth Avenue, his bike jolted across a manhole cover that hadn't been replaced tightly. Joe looked back to check out his tire, then frowned. A pair of red wires were dangling from behind his seat.
That's weird, he thought. When he'd bought the bike and tried out the headlight, he'd noticed that the wires that led to the generator were blue. He hadn't seen any red wires. Joe sat up straight and thrust his fingers under the seat where the wires disappeared. His frown deepened. He could feel a small metal cylinder embedded in something that felt like damp putty.
Just ahead of him, the traffic light turned red, and he realized the purpose of the wires!
Without a second thought, Joe swung his left leg over the handlebars and leapt off the bike. He somersaulted into the crosswalk as his riderless bike rolled to the middle of the intersection, where the traffic had momentarily cleared.
Then a deafening roar echoed through the intersection, and Joe saw his bike disintegrate into shards of metal fragments. He got to his knees and scrambled to the curb, his head spinning. The front wheel of his bike had been blown free and was bouncing across the street. As he watched, it hit the curb and sailed away in a graceful arc.
Dazed as he was, ears still ringing from the explosion, Joe only vaguely noticed the cream-colored van that suddenly sped up and drove through the intersection. Taxis and cars began to edge around the fragments of his bike that lay in the middle of the street. Behind him, a small knot of curious shoppers and pedestrians watched.
A police car screeched to a stop across the street, siren wailing, lights flashing. Spectators on that corner pointed in Joe's direction and the patrol car whipped across the intersection and pulled up a few feet in front of Joe.
Both doors flew open. A tough-looking woman officer with revolver drawn jumped out of the passenger side and crouched down, using the door as a shield. The driver, a burly cop with a .357 Magnum in his fist, stepped to the front of the car. Both guns were leveled directly at Joe.
"Freeze, kid," the male cop snapped. "One move and you're
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