Free Street Spies by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

traffic moving west. Sure enough, there was Lightfoot, a half-block ahead. He was pedaling fast, his bulging messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Frank saw the flash of spokes as Lightfoot banked steeply to the right, just in front of him.
    "Joe, he's turning into the park—going the wrong way on a one-way drive," Frank said. He strained to see as he followed Lightfoot into the park.
    "I'll cut up Central Park West and parallel you," Joe said promptly. "Better save your breath for your footwork."
    "Roger," Frank said as he strained to close the gap between Lightfoot and him. There were other bikes now, as well as the usual fast-moving traffic, and once Frank thought he'd lost him. But then he spotted him again, crossing the bridge over Transverse Road. Lightfoot stepped off his bike and disappeared down the embankment on the far side.
    Frank slammed on his brakes in the middle of the bridge. "Joe!" he barked. "The bridge over Transverse Drive!" Without waiting to hear Joe's response, he pulled off his headset, leapt off the bike, and ran to the rail. Directly below, he could see Lightfoot scrambling down to the road.
    This is it, Frank thought. Without his bike we can't tail him. If I try running down the bank, I'll probably lose him. He backed up a step or two, gauged the angle of Lightfoot's descent, and vaulted far out over the rail.
    But the instant he jumped, he saw it.
    Nearly hidden beneath the arch of the bridge was the cream-colored van!

Chapter 11
    Lightfoot was halfway down the brushy slope when Frank crashed heavily onto his back. Lightfoot exploded with a loud hunh as the wind was knocked out of him. Frank's arm locked in a stranglehold around his neck. His heavy messenger bag dragging from his shoulders, Lightfoot began to thrash wildly as the pair slid down the steep slope.
    At the foot of the slope, almost on the road, Lightfoot landed on his hands and knees. "Get away, man!" he yelled. He gave a mighty heave and threw Frank off.
    Frank fell with a thud, and his head whacked against the curb at the edge of the roadway. For a second a starburst of pain hammered at him, and he slumped over, almost blacking out. Head swimming, he rolled over and pushed himself up. He stood, swaying, fighting the blackness that threatened to swallow him.
    A couple of yards away Lightfoot was reeling to his feet. He appeared dazed and confused, and an ugly scrape on his forehead was welling blood. He turned, fumbling in his messenger bag as he staggered toward the cream-colored van, still parked under the bridge, two wheels on the curb, its hazard lights flashing, the passengers inside making no move to help.
    "I've got it," he shouted frantically. "Open up and let me in! I've got what you want!"
    Suddenly the van's rear door opened a crack. Through the door Frank could see a face covered with a navy-blue ski mask—and the wicked-looking muzzle of a silencer. The gun was aimed at Lightfoot!
    Lightfoot saw the gun, too. For a split second, he stared at it, body frozen. Then, just as the finger tightened on the trigger, Frank summoned all his strength and launched himself forward.
    Frank hit Lightfoot with a flying tackle just above the knees, knocking him out of the line of fire. The two of them landed beside the bridge footing, Frank astride Lightfoot's chest.
    Frank heard a pop! and flattened himself on top of Lightfoot. An arm's length away a three-inch hole appeared in the ground, the shot kicking damp dirt in their faces.
    "Don't shoot, man!" Lightfoot shouted toward the van. He pushed against Frank, trying to shove him off, trying to get up.
    Then Frank heard the roar of the van's engine and the gritty spin of tires on gravel. A black cloud of rubber and exhaust fumes billowed out from under the arch as the cream-colored van pulled away, heading west.
    Lightfoot collapsed, sobbing with fear and rage. "What're they shooting at me for?" he moaned. "I brought 'em what they wanted."
    Before Frank could answer, the Hardys'