Free Street Spies by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

black van, which had appeared under the bridge and frightened off the gunmen, pulled over across the road. Joe jumped out. Lightfoot, struggling to get up, saw Joe and recognition spread across his face. He stumbled backward, holding up both hands as if to ward off a blow.
    "What's going on?" Lightfoot said. Then the realization settled on his face. "The investigation. It was you!" he said as though trying to convince himself it was true.
    "You got to listen, Hot Dog," Lightfoot cried pleadingly. "Gus made me do it! I only did what he said so I wouldn't lose my job!"
    "Give us the bag," Frank said, advancing menacingly on Lightfoot.
    With a grunt, Lightfoot threw the bag on the ground. "Take it, man," he said. "It's yours."
    He hesitated, then turned and scrambled up the bank.
    "You okay?" Joe asked Frank. "You look a little banged up."
    "I'm fine," Frank assured him, handing Joe the bag. "I'll go get the bike."
    "What about Lightfoot?" Joe called as Frank ran up the hill to retrieve his bike and the headset he'd pulled off when he jumped.
    "Let him go," Frank called over his shoulder. "He's small potatoes. We've got what we want."
    When Frank returned, Joe helped him load the bike into the back of the van. "Where to?" he asked, as he slid into the driver's seat.
    "South, back to SpeedWay," Frank said, slamming the door. "On the double." As Joe turned on the ignition, he opened Lightfoot's bag and lifted out a wrapped package the size of a loaf of bread. He began tearing at the paper.
    Joe slammed the van into gear and whipped it onto the drive directly in front of a yellow taxi. The taxi driver leaned on his horn and shook his fist furiously at Joe. Muttering under his breath, Joe pushed the accelerator to the floor and the van surged ahead, leaving the taxi far behind.
    "Did you get a look at the driver of the cream-colored van?" Frank asked, still pulling at the paper.
    "Yeah. He was definitely Asian," Joe said. "He looked a lot like the guy who signed for the package in the phony MUX office."
    The light in front of them turned yellow. "Run," Frank commanded brusquely.
    Joe floored the accelerator and dodged through an intersection ahead of a bus that was coming from the right. He glanced at Frank. "What's the big hurry to get down to SpeedWay?"
    Frank frowned. "There was a character in a ski mask with a silencer in that van," he said, "trying to gun Lightfoot down. Now that their scheme's beginning to unravel, they're probably trying to cover their tracks by eliminating the people who've worked for them." He looked at Joe sideways. "They tried to blow you away this afternoon."
    "That's right," Joe said, catching on. "And Gus is probably the only one who can identify the spy at World-Wide! So it stands to reason that they'd go after him next!"
    At the next stoplight, he picked up the mobile phone, dialed his father, and briefly filled him in, trying to play down the part with the gun so they wouldn't get jerked off the case. "We're headed to SpeedWay now," Joe said. He listened a minute, then nodded. "Yeah, we'll be careful," he said, and hung up.
    Frank had the wrapping off now and was staring at an instrument on his lap.
    "What is it?" Joe asked.
    "Some type of receiver," Frank said, studying the instrument carefully. "The reception range appears to be for the bands used in satellite transmission. It may also have an unscrambler."
    "You think it could have military applications?" asked Joe.
    "That's possible," Frank replied. "Anyway, it's a serious piece of equipment."
    They were stalled behind a delivery truck unloading vegetables at a corner grocery. Joe leaned forward and switched on the van's AM radio. An announcer was reading a newscast.
    "A New York City neighborhood was rocked this afternoon by a violent explosion," the announcer said. "According to an eyewitness, the bomb planted on a bicycle was set off by a blond young man in his teens, wearing a fatigue jacket. The young man, believed to be a bicycle messenger,