What starts out as a Spring Break spent helping their father solve a case soon turns into a dangerous confrontation with one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in Atlanta. Along the way, one of the Hardy boys will have to deal with a pain that no young boy should ever have to deal with... a pain that will either turn him into a man or destroy him forever.

A/N: In this story, Frank is 13, Joe is 12. I accept all reviews that offer comments or criticism, but I find flaming to be completely unnecessary. Don't forget, folks… this is fiction. If you don't like it, ignore me quietly.

Thanks so much to all those who reviewed! Thanks to EVERYONE who read... even you folks who didn't leave me a review. I appreciate it anyways. I guess. :) As always, I don't own the Hardys.

Polaris

"Hardy!"

The call came cutting across the airport terminal, which was bustling with activity. It seemed that people from all corners of the world were present, moving in every direction to where the room was so packed there was barely room to breath, let alone walk. The Hardys had disembarked from the plane and gone to retrieve their luggage, Fenton being sure to keep one eye on either of his sons.

Even over the chatter of the entire terminal, however, there was no missing the voice of Almonzo Juarez. As he heard his name, Fenton turned in the direction of the call and broke into a smile as he saw his old friend waving him over.

"'Monzo!" he called back, ushering his sons to keep up. "How are you doing, you old devil?"

Almonzo Juarez was one of the largest men that Frank and Joe had ever met. His deeply tanned, Puerto Rican face was friendly and warm, and his smile seemed genuine. His eyes were so dark they were nearly black, but they seemed to give off a light of their own even in the cool darkness of the terminal. Frank and Joe could see immediately why their father liked and trusted this man.

"Hardy," he said again, his arms stretched out as wide as his smile. "Well enough, señor, under the circumstances." Embracing the private investigator in a huge hug, Juarez turned next to Frank and Joe, waiting behind Fenton.

"And these are your sons, no?" his loud, accented voice boomed. "Hola, young Hardys," Juarez continued, not waiting for an answer. "Glad to see you, glad to see you. Welcome to Atlanta."

"'Monzo, this is Frank," Fenton introduced his sons, gesturing to the taller boy. "And this is Joe. They're going to be helping me out on your case."

"You look like your father," Juarez pointed out, nodding to Frank. "Let's just hope you three can figure this out for me, no?"

"No," Joe agreed, nodding. He stopped and thought, frowning, before he amended himself. "I mean, yes."

The two older men laughed heartily before Juarez ushered them all outside. The three Hardys picked up their duffels and followed the large Puerto Rican out of the airport and down to the street where a car was waiting for them.

Jeremy Paulson was pleased. His new storage garage had been set up without a hitch. Due to unfortunate circumstances, it had been necessary to move his entire stock from a downtown building to a new location. One of which the police had not been made aware.

At this time yesterday, his former headquarters had still been a mystery to the authorities. He was a careful man – being a mob boss tended to require such a personality – and he enforced his rules of caution ruthlessly.

Paulson sat behind his desk in his exotically furnished office, polishing a well-cared for pistol. He turned it over in his hands, examining the gleaming weapon. One of his men had been careless. Secrets had been compromised, locations had been given away. Paulson's entire stock – drugs, weapons, black market items, illegally imported artifacts, money – had been moved to the new building by his most trusted men. They were now ready to resume operations.

But not before Paulson made sure that this would never be an issue again.

The heavy doors to his office slammed open and three men entered the room. The one in the middle looked apprehensive, his eyes darting every which way as though looking for a way out. The two other men flanking him seemed to notice, because each put a heavy hand on the trembling man's shoulders to make sure he stayed put.

"So, Andrews," Paulson began, not looking up from the gun he was polishing. "Your mistake has been fixed. Everything is in the new garage, and there is no danger in the police finding us."

"That… that's good to hear," the man named Andrews stuttered, unable to tear his eyes away from the gun in Paulson's hands. He was determined not to look down at the floor, because he knew he was standing precisely over a wide swath of carpet that was covered in dried blood. Paulson had killed dozens of men for far less than the mistake that Andrews had committed, and he left the floor tainted by their blood as a reminder to the rest of his men. Andrews knew without a doubt that he was about to die.

"You cost us an entire day, Andrews," Paulson continued silkily. "Because of you we had to suspend operations while everything was moved across town. Why is this?"

"I'm sorry," Andrews whispered, now hardly able to stand from fear. "I-I… I'm sorry."

Paulson looked up, meeting Andrews's eyes at last. Frightened, frantic eyes caught hold of cold, merciless ones and Andrews nearly passed out.

"Yes," Paulson said, his voice low and his smile ruthless. "Yes, Andrews, you are."

Moving slowly, almost lazily, Paulson leveled the pistol at Andrews and pulled the trigger. The last thing Andrews ever saw was the smirking, vicious face of Jeremy Paulson.

"Get it out of here," Paulson commanded, sounding almost bored, as his henchmen hurried to remove the body from the office. Paulson calmly went back to polishing his gun, not concerned in the least with the freshest addition to the rust colored pattern on the floor. The loose ends were trimmed. Nothing would be interfering now.

By the time the company car had brought the Hardys to the company's corporate office, it was already two in the afternoon. Both Frank and Joe were starving and would have liked nothing better than to pull over at the nearest McDonalds or Burger King and grab a bite to eat. Unfortunately, their father seemed to be entirely focused on helping his old friend out and had altogether forgotten about the necessity of food, as he was bound to do when on a case.

So it was with heavy hearts and empty stomachs that the two young Hardy boys entered the quiet coolness of the elevator that took them down to the sublevel of the office building, to the filing room where hopefully they would find a clue.

"Brace yourself, amigo," Juarez commented quietly to Fenton as soft elevator music played loftily in the background. "My organization skills are rather... less than they might be."

The elevator bell pinged once and the doors slid smoothly open. Frank and Joe's jaws dropped at the horrific sight, and even Fenton had to close his eyes and look away.

There, occupying the entire space of the sublevel room, were boxes upon boxes of files, cabinets that were full to the point of bursting with little or no labeling to be seen, loose pieces of paper strewn about the floor and in piles on desks that didn't appear to have been used since the day they arrived. There was no perceptible method of organization to the room whatsoever. The only area that remained completely clean and tidy were the garbage bins, and only because they were empty. It seemed that not one shred of paper had been discarded since the conception of the company.

"'Monzo," Fenton said with a sigh, turning to his friend. "Tell me you have the most important files set aside for us?"

"Sorry, amigo," Juarez answered, shaking his head. "This is not my domain... I have no idea where anything is down here. I had to fire the interns who originally took care of all my paperwork for me. Their replacements decided one day that they were going to reorganize the room. As you can see..." Juarez swept a hand around the room, gesturing at the chaos. "They were... ah... unsuccessful."

"Couldn't... couldn't we just go through Steinway's files?" Frank asked in a hopeless sounding voice as he gazed sadly around the room. "Doesn't he have his own office?"

"Sí, amigo," Juarez answered, half amused and half apologetic. "At his home. I told him one day that I didn't want to have to see him when I came to work every day... and he took it to heart. He works from home but keeps all his files down here. All our financial records would be here somewhere. I am sorry I cannot be staying, amigo. I have business that must be attended to elsewhere. You will let me know if there is anything I can do to help, no?"

Fenton only sighed and thanked Juarez, rolling up his sleeves and wading through the sea of papers to the nearest box. Frank and Joe exchanged depressed glances. It didn't look like they were going to be getting those hamburgers any time soon.

The messenger stood in Paulson's office, carefully keeping his gaze averted from the floor. He kept his eyes locked on Paulson, knowing that he had nothing to fear. It wasn't fair to shoot the messenger, after all.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked, his voice steady and his demeanor calm.

"Get in touch with the numbers runner," Paulson said, leaning back in his chair. "He's been attracting too much attention lately... I want him kept busy for a while. You will tell him that our new storage facility has been set up. You will inform him that he is to take inventory of every single solitary asset in the entire warehouse. You will let him know that if he has any complaints, he may take them up with me."

The messenger nodded and quickly departed from the office. He knew there was no chance that the numbers runner would be taking up any complaints. For one thing, contact between the boss and any of the lesser members of the organization were highly limited - hence the necessity for messengers. For another thing... one did not complain to the boss.

Paulson studied the ceiling of his office, still leaning back in his chair. That numbers runner... attracting attention was not advisable in their line of work. Had the man any less talent, Paulson might be tempted to simply dispose of him, but unfortunately, he was good at his job. When he remembered that his first job was to the organization, that was. Attracting attention was not advisable at all... especially when the attention was coming from Fenton Hardy. Paulson smiled. He was being overly concerned for nothing. Hardy would not be bothering them; if necessity demanded, he would see to that himself.

TBC