Free The Demolition Mission by Franklin W. Dixon

jiggled the latch, but the door wouldn’t open. “It’s locked,” he said in a disappointed tone.
    Removing a small knife from his pocket, Frank worked the latch. “Forget it,” he said finally. “There’s a hasp and a padlock on the other side.”
    â€œMaybe I can break the door down,” Joe said. He threw his shoulder against the door, but it held. He tried it again, but it still wouldn’t budge.
    â€œWe need to hit it together,” Frank said.
    On a count of three the Hardys used all their strength to ram the door. This time Joe went sprawling as the latch on the other side sprang free and the heavy door swung in on a large underground room.
    Frank helped Joe to his feet, then shined the flashlight around the room. Joe switched on a hanging lightbulb and found himself staring at a canvas-covered automobile. “It’s the Saurion!” Joe cried. “We found it.”
    The Hardys pulled the heavy canvas cover off the sleek red sports car.
    â€œThere’s the hole in the dashboard, where the stereo goes,” Frank said, pointing.
    â€œNothing else seems to be missing,” Joe said as he examined the Saurion. “The odometer doesn’t even show a mile since I dropped the transmission.”
    He got down on his back and looked under the sports car with the flashlight. “The transmission’s still got those blown seals,” he reported. “We’ve got to tell Felix Stock we found his car.”
    â€œIt looks like someone was working on the brakes over here,” Frank said. “There’s grease all over.”
    â€œAny fingerprints?” Joe asked right away.
    â€œMaybe, but they’re smeared.”
    â€œThen to be safe, I’ll simply have to wipe them off,” came a cold voice from the corner behind them.
    Frank whirled around, and Joe slipped hurriedly out from under the car.
    â€œFreeze!” the voice commanded. “I have a gun.”
    In the dim light of the single bulb Frank saw that the man was wearing a racing suit, a black racing helmet, and a dark visor that hid his eyes. He was short and looked muscular.
    â€œThat’s a flare gun,” Frank pointed out.
    â€œYou think it’s a toy, you’re welcome to try me.” The man in black aimed it at Frank’s head. “Now, get away from the car!” the man ordered.
    Frank backed up carefully, followed by Joe.
    â€œI regret that I am going to have to do away with you two. The others won’t be happy, but I don’t see any other way.”
    â€œLet’s look at our options,” Joe suggested, trying to gain some time.
    â€œYou don’t have any,” the man said coldly. “Take this rope,” he added, tossing a coil of rope to Joe. “Tie your brother’s hands and feet to that pipe over by the workbench wall. Now!” he snarled.
    Frank backed up to the pipe, and Joe tied up his brother.
    The man with the gun went over and looked at the knots. “Nice work,” he said to Joe.
    Joe remained silent.
    â€œYou come over here,” the man continued, “and turn around.”
    As Joe did as he was told, Frank watched the man suddenly hit his brother on the back of the head. Joe fell to the floor, unconscious.
    â€œHey!” Frank shouted.
    The man in black laughed.
    While Frank began working at the knots binding his hands, he saw their assailant take a pile of oily rags from a workbench. He threw them under the bench, then dragged some cardboard boxes and several wooden crates over. Taking a can of high-octane additive, he emptied it on the pile.
    â€œIt’s damp down here,” the man said. “Wouldn’t a nice warm fire feel good?” He laughed menacingly.
    Frank watched as the man raised the flare gun and aimed it at the pile of debris. The helmeted man pulled the trigger.
    The sudden burst of brilliant white magnesium fire blinded Frank. Immediately he could feel the heat