A/N: Hi, everyone. After an unexpectedly long absence from internet fandom (sorry!), I've returned. The good news is that I have a rough draft of the rest of this story completed, and we are definitely on the homeward stretch! The bad news is that real life is going to be insane for the next two months, so I don't know if I'll be able to keep to any regular posting schedule. I'll do my best to post once a week, but no promises.

Thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited, and followed during my prolonged absence! Your support means the world to me. As my regular reviewers know, I try to respond to every review from those of you who sign in, but I hope you'll forgive me for forgoing that this week due to time constraints. Still, I would be dreadfully remiss not to somehow acknowledge the wonderful reviews of: MissMe113, KennaC, max2013, Harrypotter, j, Shani8, Jabba1, mg, fairytaleprincess03, SnowPrincess88, DragonGirl256, SpinalCoil, Nini, mg, Clementine Folchart, and the seven of you who just left reviews as "Guest." You are all totally and completely awesome.

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

Chapter 21

Joe Hardy loved action. He thrived on the adrenaline rush of running, fighting, and even dodging bullets. Unsurprisingly, he hated stake-outs. And so far, this one had consisted of spending four hours watching a seemingly empty office in a small industrial park on the outskirts of Scranton, Pennsylvania. At least the van they had borrowed from Hardy Investigations was comfortable and he had company. Silent, boring company, but company nonetheless.

"You know, we really need to make this van zombie-proof," Joe said aloud.

Frank ignored him with practice born of long experience, but Nancy rose to the bait. "What?" she asked.

"Well, it's velociraptor-proof and I figure there's not much we can do about an alien invasion, but zombies are a definite risk. I mean, they could rip parts out of the engine and there would be absolutely nothing we could do about it."

"How old are you, twelve? Frank, how do you put up with this idiot?"

"Blackmail," Frank deadpanned. Or at least Joe thought his brother was joking. Frank wouldn't tell Nancy anything too embarrassing, would he? He flicked a nervous glance between his brother, sitting in the driver's seat, and Nancy, who was lounging in the back of the van, a black cap crammed over her telltale reddish blond hair. Ever since they had found out that there was nothing going on between Nancy and Goldstein, the awkwardness between Frank and Nancy had lessened significantly. But still, Joe was Frank's blood relation. He decided to push his luck.

"Maybe the Petrucelli family is really a family of vampires. I mean, mafia vampires! How cool would that be? Then we could really have a stake out!"

"Nancy," Frank said, "did I ever tell you about the time that Joe tried to impress a girl and ended up setting his pants on fire?"

"Frank!" Joe looked at his brother in utter betrayal.

"How on earth did you manage that?" Nancy asked curiously.

"With a blow torch," Joe said crankily. "Could we please talk about something else?" He suddenly sat up straight. "Like the truck pulling up in front of that office?"

This was what they had been waiting for. They knew from Goldstein that the FBI thought this place was another mafia-owned building; the FBI was planning to raid it later that night. The plan they had devised was straightforward – Nancy, Frank, and Joe would stake the place out ahead of the FBI's arrival, and see what they could learn.

Frank straightened up as well. "Grab the parabolic microphone and start recording," he instructed. "I'll take care of recording the visuals." Nancy quickly passed the equipment to Joe while Frank pulled out a powerful set of binoculars. The three detectives were quiet as Joe aimed the microphone's tight beam at the truck.

Soon, bits of chatter began to echo inside the van as Joe zeroed in on the two burly men who were just getting out of the small truck. Most of it was frustratingly innocuous as the men complained about having to load heavy crates on the warm summer's day. Joe's arms ached with the strain of holding the microphone in place; the beam had to be tightly aimed, or it wouldn't pick up the men. Finally, one of the men warned the other that "the boss" would be arriving in half an hour, along with a cleaning crew. Joe's ears perked up. It wasn't evidence that would stand up in court, but it was enough to convince him the FBI's information had been correct.

"The boss …" Nancy said softly, but there was no mistaking the excitement in her voice.

"Along with a cleaning crew …" Frank responded, just as softly.

The three of them continued to watch the men. They disappeared inside the building briefly, then reemerged and began loading crates and boxes into the back of the truck. Joe kept the microphone on them, but the men were working in silence. After watching them ferry several crates each out of the office, Frank spoke up.

"Watch how they're carrying those crates. You can see they're straining, more than you might expect for things that size. They're heavier than they look."

"As if they contained, say, weapons or ammunition?" Nancy said, in mock surprise. "We were right. They're cleaning out the evidence before the FBI can raid the place." Nancy hesitated, and Joe could see her frustration at watching the evidence they needed being carted around in plain view. "What do you say we rush them? There are three of us, and only two of them."

"And who knows how many more arriving any minute? We need to know more before we make a move."

Nancy blew out her breath in frustration, but to Joe's surprise, she didn't argue further. Silence descended over the threesome. Joe felt his own frustration building as he watched the two men continue about their business. So far, all the evidence they had was circumstantial, and if the goons loading the truck didn't start talking soon, that was all they would get.

At that moment, a dark blue van pulled up in front of the office and four men climbed out. Three of them began unloading cleaning supplies and lugging them into the office building; the fourth sauntered over to the two men loading the crates. Joe trained the microphone on them hopefully.

"Hank, Carl," his voice came over the receiver. "Why aren't you done yet?" Joe frowned. That voice sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"Sorry, boss," one of the men responded. "We've been doing our best."

"Well hurry it up. The Feds aren't supposed to show until nine, but you never know."

"Jackpot," Frank whispered triumphantly. Joe expected Nancy to say something, but she was chewing her lower lip.

"Is there another set of binoculars in here?" she asked.

"Yeah, there should be one shoved at the back of the toolkit," Joe replied. "It doesn't record or anything, though. Why?"

Nancy didn't answer, but Joe could hear her rummaging around. A moment later she was leaning forward through the gap between the two front seats, binoculars trained on the men.

"I knew it!" she hissed triumphantly. "That's Il Pugno. Frank, see if you can get a good shot of the scar on his face. That'll help identify him in court."

"The hit man who tried to kill you?" Joe asked, startled. No wonder the voice had sounded familiar. It was the same guy Joe had spoken to the morning after Nancy's accident.

"Yes. He must have a bigger role in the Petrucelli organization than we thought."

"We have to get him," said Frank.

"Are you crazy?" Nancy exclaimed. "Now there are six of them, and only three of us."

"So we wait until the guys with the truck leave. Then it's four against two, and if we're quiet, we should be able to sneak in and take them down one by one."

"Four against three," Nancy said firmly. Frank shook his head.

"We need you to trail the truck and try to find their headquarters."

"One of you guys can do that. I want to see the look on Puggy's face when he sees that I'm alive!"

"But that's just it. Since everyone thinks you're dead, you're our ace in the hole. We don't need Il Pugno to give it away."

Nancy was silent, and Joe could practically hear the wheels turning in her head as she thought it over. "Sure this isn't some kind of misplaced chauvinism, Hardy?" she said at last.

"If it was, would I be suggesting you head alone into an unknown situation?" Frank replied. He looked tense.

"Fair enough," was all she said, but there was an undercurrent of meaning in her words that Joe didn't understand. Frank seemed to relax a bit, though. Joe shook his head. He wanted those two to get together, but their relationship was entirely too complicated for his taste.

"We'd better sneak out of the car soon, Frank," he said. "Nancy needs to be ready to go as soon as those guys are gone."

"Ok, we'll wait behind those bushes," Frank decided, indicating a clump of shrubbery not far from the van.

"Finally," said Joe, putting down the parabolic microphone. "Let's go." His heart was starting to race as adrenaline began to pump through his body. Joe kept his breathing deep, trying to calm his body down. There was no point letting eagerness tire him out.

Frank hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Nancy, you've got your gun?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied, then leaned over and kissed Frank and Joe each on the cheek. Joe blinked. "For luck," Nancy explained with an impish grin. Joe glanced at his brother, who looked almost as startled as Joe felt. What the hell is up with those two? Joe wondered again. Then he gave himself a little shake. Now was not the time to wonder about Frank's love life. Joe grinned to himself as he slipped out of the van. It was finally time for some action.

NDHBNDHB

After half an hour of crouching in the bushes, Frank was caught off guard when the mobsters' truck finally grumbled to life. He shifted his body weight, subtly stretching sore muscles as he watched the truck drive away. A minute later, Nancy started the Hardys' van and followed. Frank watched the two vehicles drive out of sight.

He was distracted by Joe's elbow nudging his arm. Joe was looking at him pointedly, clearly raring to go. Frank shook his head and motioned to his brother to wait. They were being rash enough charging into the office building. There was no point being stupid, too. Frank's caution was proved justified a moment later when a man appeared silhouetted in the open loading dock. Frank crouched lower as the man peered around the dock searchingly, then let out a silent breath in relief as the man disappeared back inside.

"Now?" Joe whispered. Frank nodded, and together the two brothers crept towards the building, staying behind cover as much as possible. When they reached Il Pugno's van, Joe held up a hand, signaling Frank to wait, and disappeared around the front of the vehicle. Frank heard the soft groan of moving metal, and then Joe reappeared, looking smug. He opened his hand. There, glistening with grease, lay the van's spark plugs. Frank suppressed a grin. Suddenly, the years fell away and he felt like a teenager again. Only the feel of his gun, snug in his shoulder holster, told him any different.

Frank snuck the rest of the way to the loading dock, Joe close behind him. A quick peek over the lip of the docking bay showed that the coast was clear, and he quickly hauled himself up and into the shadows next to the wall. Joe followed, then motioned to the far side of the room. Frank followed Joe's gaze to the open door on the opposite wall; dimly, he could make out the shadow of a man mopping.

This time, Joe took the lead, creeping across the room on silent feet as he carefully unholstered his gun. Frank hesitated, but kept his own gun holstered. Then Joe was behind the man with the mop, jamming his gun into the man's back. The man threw his hands in the air and froze. Frank barely caught the mop before it fell to the ground.

"We can do this the hard way or the easy way," Joe growled threateningly in the man's ear. He jabbed the gun into the man's back pointedly. "And you want to do things the easy way, don't you? Don't speak, just nod."

The man nodded fervently.

"Good. Then you're going to let my friend here tie you up, and you're not going to make any attempt to escape, got it?"

More nodding followed, and Frank quickly tied the man up with some fishing line he had grabbed from the van. He made sure the knots were tight – he had no faith in the man's promise not to escape – then gagged and blindfolded the man with strips torn from the man's shirt and rolled him into an out of the way corner.

"What was the hard way?" Frank whispered as soon as they were out of earshot.

Joe grinned. "I figured you'd tase him."

"I don't have a taser."

Joe's grin faded a little. "Oh. Maybe next time I'll just hit him."

Frank snorted softly. They proceeded down a short hallway, pausing when they came to a staircase.

"Let's split up," Frank whispered. "They're likely to be spread out, and we don't want anyone to get away."

"I'd like to see them try," Joe said, baring his teeth in a feral grin. "I'll stay down here." He kept going down the hallway, while Frank contemplated the staircase in front of him. There was nothing for it but to go up slowly and hope the slight creaking of the floorboards wouldn't give him away.

Frank had just made it to the top of the stairs when he heard a rattle. Confused, he looked around, trying to identify the source of the sound. He was in a long hallway filled with closed doors, which were muffling the sound. It sounded almost like a rattlesnake, but that couldn't be right. What kind of machine would make a noise like that?

Moving carefully, Frank eased open the nearest door. It opened into an empty office, devoid even of furniture. The next door revealed the same, as did the one after that, but as Frank moved down the hallway, he could hear the rattle more and more clearly.

Frank cracked open the last door and peeked through the gap. What he saw made his eyes widen. A wiry man with dark hair was shaking a can of spray paint vigorously. Even with his back to Frank, Frank recognized Il Pugno. This was the hit man who had run Nancy into the river, who was responsible for her nearly dying. It was all Frank could do to keep from pulling his gun and shooting the hit man right there. His hand had actually started moving before Frank came to himself with a visceral jerk. What the hell was he doing? He jerked his hand away from his gun as though he'd been burned. If he shot the hit man in cold blood, he'd be no better than a murderer himself.

Think, he admonished himself. What would you have done when you were eighteen?

It was as that moment that Il Pugno turned and spotted him crouched in the doorway. Quicker than any snake, the hit man went for his gun.

NDHBNDHB

Joe had no trouble finding the two remaining cleaning men on the first floor. A few yards past the stairwell, the hallway he was in opened up into a large storage room. One man was mopping by the entrance to the room, a set of ear buds in his ears and an mp3 player at his hip. Another mobster was on his hands and knees scrubbing at something on the floor at the far side of the room.

Casually, Joe sauntered up behind the man listening to music and tapped him on one shoulder. The man barely had time to flinch as he turned and saw Joe's fist flying towards him in a knockout blow. The man crumpled to the ground with a satisfying thud.

Unfortunately, the noise was enough to alert the other man to Joe's presence. Joe went into a fighter's crouch as the man rushed towards him with a bellow.

Joe easily dodged the mobster's first swing, but a second punch glanced off his jaw and had him seeing stars. Shaking his head to clear it, Joe managed to duck just as the man released a third punch aimed at Joe's head.

Ignoring the pain in his jaw, Joe aimed a hard punch at the other man's stomach that had the man doubling over gasping. He was just about to slam his elbow into the back of the man's head when a gunshot echoed through the building. Instinctively, Joe looked up towards the sound of the noise, and the other man took advantage of Joe's distraction and tackled him.

Both men went down hard, and Joe had no time to worry about Frank as the mobster closed his hands around Joe's throat. Gasping furiously for air, Joe clawed at the other man's hands, but they were gripping too hard. Just as he started to see spots, Joe slammed his forehead into the other man's face. Stunned, the mobster's grip loosened just enough to for Joe to wrench himself free, driving his elbow into the other man's stomach for good measure. A hard right hook finished the fight up.

Panting, Joe rose and quickly tied up both unconscious mobsters, then dashed up the stairs just as the sound of another gunshot tore through the air.

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