Free Danger in the Extreme by Franklin W. Dixon

piloted the sled out the doors and up onto the ramp.
    Using chains and padlocks, he swiftly secured the sled to the trailer.
    â€œReady,” he said.
    Frank got in the driver’s seat. “Let’s get home and eat.”
    â€œI second that motion,” Joe answered, clambering in the passenger side.
    Frank was about to turn the key when a tremendous bang echoed through the van. The roof over Joe’s head buckled and creased.
    Frank’s eyes went wide. “What? Someone’s up there, Joe!”
    They heard the sound of metal ripping, and the gleaming blade of an ice ax punctured the roof.
    Joe grabbed for the ax head, but it disappeared. The night went silent.
    â€œWhere’d he go?” Joe whispered.
    The answer came quickly. An ax-shaped shadow passed over the windshield, then Frank’s side window exploded in on him.

9 Soft Target
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    Frank threw up his arm to shield his eyes from the flying glass.
    â€œWe’re sitting ducks!” Joe shouted. “Get out of the van.” He opened his door and rolled to the ground. He scrambled to his feet in front of the van.
    A man wearing a snocross helmet with a shaded visor dropped lightly from the roof. He faced Joe, holding the ice ax in the air like a club.
    Frank jumped from the van and ran to his brother’s side. “It’s two against one,” he said. “I’ll take those odds.”
    The Hardys heard a muffled laugh. “Try two against two,” a voice said.
    Frank watched as a second thug appeared fromthe darkness. He swung the heavy rubber track of a snowmobile over his head. The tiny steel spikes that helped the tread grip the snow sparkled in the moonlight.
    â€œUh-oh,” Joe said. “We’re in trouble.”
    The thug with the ice ax leaped forward and took a chopping swing at Joe.
    Joe ducked and heard the blade whistle beside his ear. He nailed the guy with a short punch to the ribs, then danced away.
    The other thug faked swinging the track at Frank, then smashed a front kick into his chest.
    Frank staggered back. He couldn’t get air. All he knew was that he had to keep his balance. His attacker stepped forward. Frank saw the track moving toward him. He lifted his left arm to block it.
    The blow felt like being hit with a chair. Frank fell to the ground, his cheek and jaw thumping with pain.
    He looked up. The thug was standing over him, track held high.
    â€œYou won’t be baby-sitting Neal Jordan anymore,” the man growled.
    Then it seemed as if a spotlight lit up his attacker. The guy quickly darted out of the light.
    Frank heard footsteps as the two men ran away. “Joe?”
    â€œAre you okay, Frank? Can you stand?”
    Frank felt himself nod. He was still groggy, but he stood up.
    He found himself facing the headlights of a pickup truck. Those must have been the spotlights, he said to himself.
    A young man Frank recognized as a snocross competitor stepped out of the truck. “Looks like I got here just in time,” he said. “You two were getting the hard end of that fight.”
    â€œWe could’ve taken them,” Joe replied.
    Frank rubbed the side of his face. “We were getting our clocks cleaned, Joe.”
    â€œSpeak for yourself.”
    The other racer asked Joe what the fight was about.
    Joe had some ideas, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to share them with just anyone. “Don’t know,” he said. “Maybe they wanted my sled.”
    The Hardys helped the pickup driver load his own snowmobile up on its trailer, then got in the van and started home.
    Cold air rushed in the broken side window as they drove.
    â€œOne of those guys had an ice ax,” Frank said. “The other one had a snowmobile track.”
    â€œAnd they both wore snocross helmets.”
    Frank nodded. “That means it probably was Rick Salazar and Jim Edwards.”
    â€œThe only question is, why?” Joe observed. “Salazar