Free Perfect Getaway by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

wars and fighting with each other, and he figured that a good, enterprising American could come down here and take charge. Carve out his territory, just like a man used to be able to do in the West before all the land got settled. Well, this fellow came down here and did just that. Built this ranch, declared it an independent country with himself as president for life, ran a railroad to the sea, and had himself sitting pretty. Trouble was, the folks down here got their act together and put this fellow in front of a firing squad, and that was that. The ranch, his little kingdom, went to seed, and the railway tracks were overgrown by jungle—until I came along. You might say I'm following in that fellow's footsteps, except I'm not making his mistakes. You see, I know how to protect myself. I know what to protect myself with. And you boys know what that is?"
    He looked at Frank and Joe, demanding an answer.
    "Guns?" said Joe.
    "Sure, I got them," said the chief. "But I'm talking about something more powerful. The most powerful thing in the world."
    "You don't mean atomic weapons?" said Frank, trying not to shudder.
    "Nah, don't need them with what I've got, though I expect I could get some if I wanted to," the chief said, his grin widening. "What I'm talking about is money. Money and information. That's all I need."
    Frank and Joe exchanged a quick glance. Once again, just when they thought they'd found the answer to some of their questions, they'd discovered that all they had was a new set of questions.
    "Yes, sir, money nearly does it all," the chief went on. "But I don't have to tell you two that. Money is what got you down here, right?"
    "Yes, Chief," Frank and Joe answered.
    "But I've got news for you," the chief went on. "All the money in the world can't get you out of here, and you remember that. Nobody leaves here before I say they can. Nobody leaves here alive, that is. You got that?"
    "Yes, Chief," the Hardys responded again.
    "Glad you got the message," said the chief. "Now, you boys follow orders, keep your noses clean, and maybe when your two years are up I'll figure I can trust you and let you go home. But remember—one little foul-up and you two ain't going nowhere, except six feet under the ground."
    "Yes, Chief," said the Hardys, beginning to feel like broken records.
    "Okay, you can go now," the chief said. "Dimitri!" he called. "Assign these boys their duties." He turned and strode away.
    Dimitri, the man who had ridden on the train with them, walked over and joined them.
    "Did the chief give you his orientation speech?" Dimitri asked.
    "Yeah, if that's what you call it," said Joe.
    "That's what I call it," Dimitri said in a voice that made it clear that he didn't like wisecracking. Then he commanded, "Come with me. Time to get that cargo off the train."
    He drove Frank and Joe in a jeep to the boxcars, where men were loading the weapon crates onto a large flatbed truck.
    "Start sweating," he told the Hardys, and they joined the others working in the broiling heat. Even there in the highlands, on a plateau above the rain forest, it was clear that this was Central America. They could feel the sun directly overhead, beating straight down on their backs as they worked.
    When all the crates had been loaded, Frank and Joe climbed into the back of the truck with the other men, and the truck started rolling. It bounced along a dirt road that cut through lush grassland dotted with herds of cattle until it reached the bank of a wide, slow-moving river.
    Dimitri climbed out of the front of the truck and told the men to climb down from the back. He pulled a walkie-talkie and snapped it on. Frank and Joe, standing close to him, could hear him speaking in Spanish.
    After he had finished, he said, "Okay, men, we wait here. Shouldn't take long for them to cross over."
    Joe peered toward the other side of the river. Jungle grew down to the opposite bank.
    "Who are we expecting?" he asked.
    "Bandits. Guerrillas. Freedom