time of trying to tunnel under the fence. And we need to save all the time we can."
"Let's get to work on these holes," said Joe, grabbing his shovel again.
Twenty minutes later, Joe and Frank were in the Assassins' hunting clothes, and the Assassins were in the Hardy boys sweat suits. The two killers, bound and gagged, were also in dirt up to their necks. All they could do to express their feelings was make faint noises while their eyes bulged with fury. "Bye now," said Joe, picking up one of their rifles. "I hope this doesn't get you in trouble with your bosses. I'd hate to think of you spending the next few years cleaning dirty weapons and stuff like that."
"I hope the guards at the gate don't check us too closely," said Frank, picking up the other rifle. "I don't want to have to shoot my way out of any tight spots."
"Risk is the name of the game," said Joe cheerfully as he headed toward the gate.
For what seemed like the millionth time in their adventures, Frank had to shake his head at his brother's enthusiasm for taking on danger.
On the other hand, Frank had to admit to himself, life would be pretty dull without the kick of overcoming odds.
For instance, when they reached the gate and gave the guard stationed there a casual wave, and in turn were waved through by him, the surge of triumph and relief made the jittery sensation beforehand worthwhile.
Unfortunately, the feeling of triumph lasted only as long as it took them to reach their camping site.
By the time they arrived, after a half-hour of jogging along the overgrown forest trail in their heavy hunters' boots, they were breathing hard. By now the eastern sky was brightening with the first hint of dawn. Joe looked at where their tent and equipment had been, Shook his head, and said, "They've cleaned out everything. They didn't leave a trace that we had ever been here."
"I guess we should have expected this," said Frank. "Let's check out' the station wagon, though I've got a strong hunch what we'll find."
He was right. The spot where they had parked the station wagon was empty.
"What now?" asked Joe, still looking regretfully at where the station wagon had been. "Two months of hard work on the engine and a new paint job down the drain."
"We need wheels. We have to get back to Bayport fast," said Frank. "That's where our doubles must have gone-to access the Network on our computer. We have to try to catch up with them before they use it. And if we can't do that, we have to alert the Network before our doubles pull off whatever dirty trick they're planning."
Joe wiped his dripping forehead. Already the chill of the Maine night was wearing off as the sun cleared the horizon. It was shaping up to be a scorcher. "It feels like we're chasing our own shadows," he said, looking down the deserted blacktop road. "Let's make it to town and see if we can rent a car there," said Frank. "Good thing Henri and Jacques had wallets stuffed with cash. I guess the Assassins don't believe 'in credit cards." Frank started jogging down the road. "Come on. It can't be more than a six-mile run."
Joe jogged beside him, matching him step for step, even though Frank kept pushing up the pace.
"Aren't you glad now I made you go on all those training runs with me last winter?" Frank asked his brother.
"Give me sprinting any time," panted Joe. "Or at least give me a pair of running shoes. I think somebody slipped lead into the soles of these boots."
Thirty-five minutes later, Joe spotted the general store where they had bought their shovels.
There should be a crowd cheering us on-like at the end of the Boston Marathon," Joe said, gasping for air. "I could use some encouragement about now." “Come on, slowpoke," said Frank, pushing up the pace still more. "Let's just hope that we find someone up this early."
Fortunately, the storekeeper kept country hours. He was sitting in a rocking chair inside his store, sipping coffee. "Morning, young fellows," he said. "Back so
"Let's get to work on these holes," said Joe, grabbing his shovel again.
Twenty minutes later, Joe and Frank were in the Assassins' hunting clothes, and the Assassins were in the Hardy boys sweat suits. The two killers, bound and gagged, were also in dirt up to their necks. All they could do to express their feelings was make faint noises while their eyes bulged with fury. "Bye now," said Joe, picking up one of their rifles. "I hope this doesn't get you in trouble with your bosses. I'd hate to think of you spending the next few years cleaning dirty weapons and stuff like that."
"I hope the guards at the gate don't check us too closely," said Frank, picking up the other rifle. "I don't want to have to shoot my way out of any tight spots."
"Risk is the name of the game," said Joe cheerfully as he headed toward the gate.
For what seemed like the millionth time in their adventures, Frank had to shake his head at his brother's enthusiasm for taking on danger.
On the other hand, Frank had to admit to himself, life would be pretty dull without the kick of overcoming odds.
For instance, when they reached the gate and gave the guard stationed there a casual wave, and in turn were waved through by him, the surge of triumph and relief made the jittery sensation beforehand worthwhile.
Unfortunately, the feeling of triumph lasted only as long as it took them to reach their camping site.
By the time they arrived, after a half-hour of jogging along the overgrown forest trail in their heavy hunters' boots, they were breathing hard. By now the eastern sky was brightening with the first hint of dawn. Joe looked at where their tent and equipment had been, Shook his head, and said, "They've cleaned out everything. They didn't leave a trace that we had ever been here."
"I guess we should have expected this," said Frank. "Let's check out' the station wagon, though I've got a strong hunch what we'll find."
He was right. The spot where they had parked the station wagon was empty.
"What now?" asked Joe, still looking regretfully at where the station wagon had been. "Two months of hard work on the engine and a new paint job down the drain."
"We need wheels. We have to get back to Bayport fast," said Frank. "That's where our doubles must have gone-to access the Network on our computer. We have to try to catch up with them before they use it. And if we can't do that, we have to alert the Network before our doubles pull off whatever dirty trick they're planning."
Joe wiped his dripping forehead. Already the chill of the Maine night was wearing off as the sun cleared the horizon. It was shaping up to be a scorcher. "It feels like we're chasing our own shadows," he said, looking down the deserted blacktop road. "Let's make it to town and see if we can rent a car there," said Frank. "Good thing Henri and Jacques had wallets stuffed with cash. I guess the Assassins don't believe 'in credit cards." Frank started jogging down the road. "Come on. It can't be more than a six-mile run."
Joe jogged beside him, matching him step for step, even though Frank kept pushing up the pace.
"Aren't you glad now I made you go on all those training runs with me last winter?" Frank asked his brother.
"Give me sprinting any time," panted Joe. "Or at least give me a pair of running shoes. I think somebody slipped lead into the soles of these boots."
Thirty-five minutes later, Joe spotted the general store where they had bought their shovels.
There should be a crowd cheering us on-like at the end of the Boston Marathon," Joe said, gasping for air. "I could use some encouragement about now." “Come on, slowpoke," said Frank, pushing up the pace still more. "Let's just hope that we find someone up this early."
Fortunately, the storekeeper kept country hours. He was sitting in a rocking chair inside his store, sipping coffee. "Morning, young fellows," he said. "Back so
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