Summary: After a series of botched investigations, Special Agent Nancy Drew of the FBI has reached a troubling conclusion: one of her fellow agents has turned traitor. Unable to trust anyone within the Bureau, Nancy turns to her old friends Frank and Joe Hardy for help. But after almost ten years apart, will the three detectives still be able to work together? Nancy and Frank are 29, Joe is 28.

A/N: It starts off a bit slow, I know, but I promise it will pick up! Thanks for reading :).

Disclaimer: I do not own Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys

Chapter 1

Special Agent Nancy Drew of the FBI stared morosely into her beer. It had not been a good day.

"Hey, Drew. Anyone home?"

"Hey, Goldstein," she replied dully as Special Agent Phillip Goldstein slid on to the bench at the opposite side of her booth. Goldstein had been her senior partner for the last year, ever since she had been transferred into the FBI's organized crime division. A big man with a wicked sense of humor, he had immediately appointed himself to be her mentor in every sense of the word.

"So … I take it the date was a bust?"

Nancy looked up suspiciously. "Who said I had a date?"

Goldstein tapped the side of his nose slyly, "My superior detective skills never fail. Or specifically, while you changed your clothing before coming here, you're still wearing makeup and a push-up bra."

"I should kick your ass for that," she growled, lowering her face to her beer to cover her furious blushing.

"One of the perks of being gay," replied Goldstein cheerfully. "Also one of the perks of being twice your size. So 'fess up, Drew. Who's the jerk, and when do I get to meet him?"

Nancy rolled her eyes. "Please. The only reason you want to meet any of the guys I date is so you can stare at them while pointedly not fingering your gun."

Goldstein shrugged, making the muscles on his shoulders ripple. Standing well over six feet tall and built like a linebacker, Phil Goldstein looked more like a hired goon than a senior agent in the FBI. "It beats wasting time talking. So when do I get to politely not threaten this guy?"

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that," said Nancy with a bitter laugh. "Apparently, I'm threatening enough all on my own."

"You didn't pull your gun on him, did you?"

"No! No, nothing like that. It's just … apparently, he didn't care for the idea of a woman who knows how to handle herself in a fight. Once he stopped ogling my chest long enough to actually hear a little about what I do, he couldn't wait to get out of there. It was like I'd suddenly turned into a troll."

Goldstein patted her arm. "Come on, Drew. Losers like that don't deserve you."

"I'd feel better if I was able to meet any other kind," Nancy said bitterly.

"You're too young to be so cynical," her partner shot back, and Nancy's lips twitched despite herself. It was a running joke between them; Goldstein was the most cynical person Nancy had ever met.

"Who decided to have a party without inviting me?" asked a mellow alto from behind Nancy. Nancy turned to see a petite, motherly woman standing behind her.

"Hello, ma'am," Nancy said. Agent Lauren Johnson slid in next to Nancy.

"Hi, yourself," she replied. "Why so glum?"

"Bad date," Goldstein told Johnson. Nancy glared at him. She liked Agent Johnson, but there were some things her immediate superior just did not need to know. Goldstein winked at her cheekily.

"And you've come to a cop bar for comfort?" Johnson teased with a smile. "Congratulations, Drew, you're finally a real agent."

Nancy managed to fake a chuckle. Inwardly, she groaned. The last thing she wanted was for her love life to become the latest topic of office gossip. Goldstein gave Nancy a sharp look; her partner had an uncanny ability to read her emotions, no matter how well she tried to hide them.

"So, Johnson, any news on the Petrucellis?" Goldstein asked. Nancy flashed him a grateful smile for the distraction. All three agents were part of a team tasked with cracking a weapons smuggling ring run by the Petrucelli mafia family; so far, they had come across plenty of circumstantial evidence, but nothing that would stand up in court.

"Well," Johnson lowered her voice conspiratorially, "I've just come from a meeting with Graham." David Graham was the senior agent in charge of their task force, and Johnson's immediate superior. Nancy's ears perked up.

"Meeting with the boss on a Friday night?" Goldstein clucked disapprovingly. "And here I've been teasing Drew about her love life."

Johnson leaned across the table and punched Goldstein playfully on the arm. "Adrian understands," she said. "A word of advice, Drew: Don't marry someone who doesn't understand your job comes before date night."

Nancy threw a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am!" she said, then added slyly, "Does that mean we get to hear about your meeting?"

"Ah, to be young and eager," Goldstein said, flashing his teeth in a teasing grin.

"If you're old, what does that make me?" Johnson laughed.

"Ancient," Goldstein replied, earning himself another punch. "Don't worry; you've aged well. And Drew's still a baby."

"You're not that much older than me, even if you do act twenty years younger," Nancy shot back with a grin.

"Ouch." Goldstein placed a hand over his heart dramatically. "Our baby's gotten her teeth." This time it was Nancy's turn to smack him.

"I am glad I ran into you two," Johnson said, her tone turning serious. "Your names came up tonight. Your report correlating spikes in illegal arms sales with gun shows was stellar."

"Nancy did most of the work," Goldstein said. "I was mostly just a sounding board for her ideas."

"Somehow, Phil, Graham and I didn't think you'd done all that rigorous statistical analysis," Johnson said dryly, and Goldstein and Nancy both laughed as Johnson turned to face Nancy. Goldstein hated math. "Graham and I did some research of our own, and it looks like there's going to be a major gun show in Richmond in two weeks. According to your report, that will be the perfect time for the Petrucellis to sell off their stockpiles. We're putting the word out to search for clues as to where those stockpiles might be stored prior to the show. Hopefully, we'll get a lead soon. In the meantime – Drew, you requested a transfer to our unit because you wanted to do more field work, correct?"

"Yes ma'am," Nancy replied, excitement starting to bubble though her.

"Good, because Graham and I want you to take a point position on our next raid," said Johnson with a warm smile. "You've earned it. So finish your beer and go home and get some sleep. You're going to need your beauty rest."

Nancy grinned in excitement "You take the beer, Phil," she said to her partner, pushing the drink across the table. "I don't need it any more. And thanks for the pep talk." She rose and headed out of the bar, feeling decidedly more cheerful than when she had walked in.

NDHBNDHB

One week later, Nancy was stealthily making her way towards the back entrance of small warehouse in rural Virginia. Her nerves were humming with adrenaline, and her heart was pounding so hard she could swear the microphone in her helmet was picking up the sound. It wasn't the first time she had participated in a raid, but it was the first time she had been allowed to take a point position. And tonight wasn't any raid. It was a raid based partially on her research. Success tonight would be a personal triumph as well as a huge coup for the agency. And after the spectacular failures of their last two raids, the agency could use a win.

She glanced back once, just as her group reached the door, and saw Goldstein flash her a reassuring smile. She grinned back wolfishly before turning back to the business at hand. Now came the first test – getting past the alarm system without triggering anything. She held her gun at the ready as their tech specialist, Agent Lopez, popped the cover off the alarm casing and got to work. It seemed to take forever before she heard the lock on the back door click open.

"Drew here. We're in position," she whispered into her mic.

"Acknowledged," the deep voice of Agent Graham rumbled back. The team leader was sitting in an unmarked black van parked a few blocks away, monitoring the raid's progress. "Johnson, that's your signal."

Within moments, Nancy could hear Johnson pounding on the front entrance, shouting for someone to open up. The warehouse stayed silent and dark.

"All agents in," Graham commanded.

Nancy burst through the door, gun at the ready, the rest of her team close behind her. The words FBI, freeze! echoed through the small building.

"All clear here," she reported, glancing around the empty storage room, smelling faintly antiseptic tang in the air. Nancy felt a sinking sensation in her stomach as she realized she could see no signs that the room had ever been used. "Break into pairs and search," she ordered her team, even as Goldstein came up beside her. Over her headset, she heard Johnson give the same order. Nancy tried to stay professional and alert, but the situation was depressingly similar to the two failed raids she had been on previously.

Hours later, Nancy slumped against a wall, eyes closed wearily. They had been combing the house for hours, trying to find even the smallest clue. So far, their search had turned up nothing.

"It's not your fault," a soft voice said. Nancy didn't bother opening her eyes in order to identify her partner.

"My research, my responsibility," she replied, just as softly.

Goldstein leaned against the wall next to her with a hollow thump. "Good research doesn't always mean the leads pan out."

Nancy sat up straight. A hollow thump? Frowning, she rapped on the wall behind her. It sounded solid. Then she knocked on the wall by her partner. The sound was distinctly different. Nancy looked at Goldstein in excitement; he shrugged cynically but began whispering into his mic, explaining the situation. Five minutes later, a group of agents was assembled by the wall, guns at the ready, while Goldstein set up a handheld hacksaw. Another five minutes and a chunk of the wall had been cut away to reveal stacks of crates. Nancy wanted to cheer as she holstered her gun.

Johnson shone a flashlight into the hidden alcove. "No sign of anyone hiding, or of a booby trap," she announced, nodding at Goldstein. He stepped forward and lifted out one of the crates like it weighed nothing, though it was big enough to contain at least ten machine guns. Another agent stepped forward with a crowbar and carefully pried off the lid.

Nancy stepped forward eagerly to peer inside and gasped in shock. The crate was empty, except for a bright yellow smiley face that someone had spray painted at the bottom. "What the hell …" she began, choking down the rest of her curses when Johnson gestured at her curtly. Goldstein shot her a sympathetic look as he lifted down the next crate and the process began again. Nancy's blood began to boil as each crate was revealed to contain nothing more than a yellow face, smiling up at them maniacally.

"They're taunting us," she said to Goldstein softly, but she couldn't hide the anger in her voice.

"I know, but we can't prove it," Goldstein replied, his mouth twisting in frustration.

"What do you mean?"

"We can't link these crates with the Petrucellis, and even if we could, there's no evidence these crates were ever used to smuggle guns."

"Forensics may turn up something."

"I doubt it," Goldstein replied bluntly. "They're too careful."

Nancy closed her eyes in defeat, but her hands curled into fists at her sides. This was starting to feel personal.

NDHBNDHB

That was our third failed raid, Nancy thought the next day. She was lying on her bed back at her little apartment in D.C. after a long day in the office, staring up at the ceiling blankly. Three raids. Three complete wastes of time. She smiled bitterly. At least they had a perfect record. Then she sighed. All those raids had been based on solid research and concrete leads. How could they all fail? And of course, the raid based partially in her own research would be the one to fail the most spectacularly. Not that anyone had reproached her, of course, but somehow that just made her feel all the worse.

An image of a crude yellow smiley face floated in front of her, and she grimaced and rolled over, as if staring at her bedspread instead of her ceiling could make the image disappear. She was not going to let that image get to her. That would be doing exactly what the Petrucellis hoped.

Wait a minute! Nancy thought as her eyes opened wide. If we had the wrong place, then how did the Petrucellis know where to leave a taunt like that? She disregarded Goldstein's point about the lack of concrete evidence connecting the warehouse to the mob family; someone had left those painted faces, and her gut was telling her it was the Petrucellis. Clearly, then, the FBI's failed raids weren't the result of bad intel; somehow, the Petrucellis were feeding them information.

Well, this time their attempt had backfired. Those spray-painted faces may have been infuriating, but they also gave the game away. Maybe that was why the crates had been hidden? Someone may have wanted to keep the FBI guessing, while someone else wanted to thumb their noses at the agents. Nancy filed the thought away for further reference. Any hint of division within the mafia's ranks was a possible weakness to be exploited.

The big question, though, was how the Petrucellis were managing to feed the FBI false intel so consistently. After all, the timing of their last raid had been partially dictated by Nancy's own research, and she knew no one had given her the idea to research correlations with gun shows. Nor could she see how planting information would serve the mafia's purposes. It was hardly an effective use of resources. If they were going to lure the FBI someplace, why not have a trap waiting at the end?

Nancy ran her hands over her face tiredly. Maybe they were supposed to be traps, but failed? she thought, then sighed. It made no sense. Three completely useless traps? Besides, there were no signs of any traps having been set, and those crates could easily have been booby-trapped. In fact, there were no signs of anything at all; forensics hadn't even managed to turn up a dust bunny. Nancy frowned suddenly. No signs of anything at all? Almost like all three sites had been wiped clean of evidence on purpose …

Nancy jumped off her bed and grabbed her work laptop from the secure cabinet that doubled as her nightstand, then flopped down on the futon crammed in her living room and got to work. It took her half an hour to review the research her team had done on the warehouses they had raided. Her face was grim by the time she finished. The research for all three sites was solid.

If those sites had been wiped clean in preparation for the FBI's raids, that could mean only one thing – the Petrucellis knew they were coming.

But how? Were the leads the FBI was following that obvious? Nancy glanced down at her computer and reflexively shook her head. There was little that was obvious about the leads they had followed. Maybe the Petrucellis had penetrated the FBI's security? It was always possible, but somehow Nancy thought it unlikely. Their offices were periodically swept for listening devices, and as to hacking into their email – the Petrucellis weren't involved with high tech crime, and the FBI's email system was among the most secure in the world. So what avenues did that leave?

Nancy went cold as she realized there was only one other possibility. Someone on the FBI's team was on the Petrucellis' payroll. Someone – one of her fellow agents, one of her friends – was a traitor.

Nancy rubbed a thumb absently over the edges of her fingernails as she forced herself to think about her options. Exposing a double agent was a tricky business, and she had no proof of anything. But who could she go to? Who could she risk telling? Everyone was a potential suspect. God, even Goldstein. Who could she trust if she couldn't trust her own partner? Her thumb slowed, then stilled. There was someone she could trust, or rather two someones, if she had the guts to call them – two people who had once been among her closest friends, who were completely unconnected with the Bureau, and who had the skills to help her investigate her own teammates. But would they help her conduct an investigation whose legality was questionable at best? Nancy set her jaw and grabbed her phone. There was only one way to find out.