Disclaimer: I do not own the Hardy Boys or any of the canon book characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Note: This story was written around the year 2000, so technology is not as advanced as it is today. People still used landlines! Also it was originally co-written with another person, to whom I give much credit and thanks.

Thank you to all those who have left feedback and commentary, and to those 'following'; it is greatly appreciated.

January Thaw

By EvergreenDreamweaver and Sparks JSH

Chapter 15

"Frank…Frank, you awake?"

The voice was familiar, but it wasn't Joe's. Who?…where am I? Frank blinked his eyes open and then wondered if something had happened to his vision, for he still could see nothing. A sudden sensation of pain caused him to groan and clutch his aching stomach. Can't – catch my – breath….

"Hang on a minute." There was a scraping, grinding sort of noise, and light flooded in, making Frank wince and close his eyes again for a moment. When he opened them cautiously, he saw Tony bending over him with a look of intense concern on his face. "Are you okay, Frank?"

"I think so." Frank sat up slowly, holding his stomach. "Ahhh, man that hurts!" He looked up at Tony and this time noticed the darkening bruise on his friend's jaw. "What about you?"

"I'll live," Tony assured him, gently fingering his chin. "Luckily, I don't have a glass jaw – and all my teeth seem to be intact too."

"Joe—" Frank suddenly remembered just what had occurred, and why they were where they were. "Where's Joe?"

"Let's get out of here and find out." Tony shoved the hot-tub cover back further and stood up, then reached down to assist Frank. "Easy now, you don't look so good," he added, watching the elder Hardy attempt to stand. Frank tried to straighten up, but doubled over again for a moment.

"It's okay…just bruises…." Frank took a few shallow breaths, then managed a deeper one and stood erect. "Let's go…."

The two boys climbed out of their makeshift prison, and Frank spotted his younger brother lying a few yards away, flat on his back in the snow. "Uh-oh," he muttered, and stumbled over to kneel beside Joe with Tony right on his heels.

As Frank automatically reached to feel for his brother's pulse, Joe moved his head and moaned. As he turned his head, Frank saw an ugly reddish-blue bruise on his left temple.

"Oh man, did he ever take a hit!" Tony breathed.

"It doesn't look too good, I agree…Joe? Joe, can you hear me?"

"Yeah…" Joe's reply was more a groan than words. At least he's coming around! Frank thought. "Frank, 'zat you?"

"It's me; Tony and I are right here. Open your eyes for me, okay?"

"Head hurts…so much," Joe whispered, but his eyelids fluttered open and he stared up at his brother with dazed blue eyes.

"I know it does," Frank said soothingly. "Just lie still for a minute." He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief, intending to make a cold pack, but found it was gone. Where'd my handkerchief go? Oh, that's right, Joe took it to dry off Rachel's face. Unable to locate his own handkerchief, Frank delved into Joe's coat pocket and unearthed one, which he proceeded to pack with snow. Why didn't he use his own handkerchief for Rachel instead of taking mine? He pressed it against the bruise on Joe's temple, and immediately felt guilty when Joe flinched from the touch.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, sorry! But this'll help keep down the swelling, Joe, you know that."

"Yeah, I know." Very slowly, Joe levered himself to his elbows, then sat upright. Tony hunkered down behind him, serving as a prop and a back brace. Joe peered at his brother from beneath the snow-filled cloth. "You guys okay?"

"Just some bruises," Frank answered grimly. "You took the worst of it. Those guys meant business." He looked around the yard, then blinked, suddenly focusing on something. "Hey, we've got to go after them!" he gasped, and struggled to his feet. "They can lead us right to Megan and Callie! Look, they left footprints!" He pointed, and Tony and Joe obediently looked where he indicated. Sure enough, doubled footprints led out of the backyard.

"Let's go! Come on, Joe, can't you stand up?" Frank tugged on his brother's arm impatiently, trying to raise him from the snow.

"Wait a minute, give me a minute," Joe pleaded. "Everything still spins if I move my head too fast." Although he was as yet unable to stand, Joe's mind was racing. Did those goons say anything about Dad? The one that hit me said "the boss said not to kill you unless I didn't have a choice"…no, that's not it…one of them said something about "moving the girls." But he didn't mention Dad. What if they killed him….

"Frank, hang on a second." Tony braced Joe and helped him get to his feet. "You can't just go barreling off after them; think a minute!" He put a supporting arm about Joe. "You okay now, buddy?" Joe nodded. "Do you still have your phone with you? And is it okay?" Tony continued. Joe nodded again, and removed it from his pocket. "Okay, Frank, call Con Riley, right away. Tell him we've located the girls – no, sorry, tell him you think you've located Callie, and we need some backup." Tony pushed the phone toward Frank, who stared at it a few seconds, then began to dial. While the elder Hardy talked to Riley, Tony propped Joe against the side of the hot tub and held the ice pack against his temple. Occasionally he took it away from Joe's head and pressed it against his own rapidly-swelling jaw.

"Frank – tell Con not to run the siren or lights on the way here," Joe roused himself to remind his brother. "We don't want to scare them off." Frank nodded, finished his conversation, and handed the phone back to Joe. Then he stooped and picked up something from the yard.

"This time I'm not letting this out of my hands!" he muttered, hefting the baseball bat. "I've got a couple of scores to settle with those goons….Okay, let's go," he urged the other two, and led the way out of the backyard, careful not to mar the telltale prints.

"Wait a minute." Joe caught Frank's arm as he was about to step into the front yard. "Look, the tracks go right across the street – and see, that van? Look, those guys loading it are our new friends, aren't they?"

Frank looked where Joe was pointing, and nodded. "There's the one that slugged me." He slapped the bat lightly against his palm as he spoke.

"And my pal Rocco," Joe breathed. "…and there's the third one. Okay, we've got to get across the street without them seeing us…."

Luck was with them. Almost immediately, all three of the men disappeared into the house, apparently after another load of supplies, leaving their van standing in the driveway with its back doors wide open.

"Now!" Frank hissed, and the three boys ran across the street. "Joe, get inside," Frank directed. "Tony, stay on the side away from the house, so the door shields you." He hopped into the van after Joe and crouched down, waiting.

"Give me the bat, Frank," Tony requested, and Frank quickly slid it out to him. There was little room to wield it inside the van, and Tony might need it.

In just a few minutes, voices and footsteps sounded, coming from the house. Frank and Joe exchanged glances and both tensed. Snow crunched underfoot, and then a figure appeared at the van's back doors, carrying a large box. As if they had rehearsed the moves a hundred times, Frank seized the box; Joe grabbed the arm of the man carrying it and jerked him forward into the van, then twisted his arm behind his back to hold him immobile. Frank calmly set down the carton, flattened his right hand, and delivered a karate chop to the back of Sid's – for Sid it was – neck The thug collapsed with a grunt, and lay still, sprawled halfway into the back of the van. Tony hastily moved around the side of the vehicle, picked up Sid's legs and shoved him unceremoniously onto the back deck.

"Nice one, Frank," Joe commented. He busily set about undoing Sid's belt and proceeded to strap the man's hands together behind him with it, while Tony, grinning fiendishly, tied Sid's shoelaces together with the tightest knots he could manage, and wrapped the extra lengths about the thug's ankles. Frank searched the man's pockets and retrieved a wicked-looking .38 revolver which he slid into his jacket pocket.

"Get ready," Tony hissed, and disappeared around the side of the van just as the back door to the house opened once more.

"Sid, quit taking so long!" a voice bellowed, accompanied by the sound of snow squeaking underfoot once again. "We've got a whole lotta stuff that has to go in there yet!"

This time Tony took the initiative. As Bob stepped to the van, the youth bent down, reached beneath the door, and struck a solid blow with the baseball bat, right behind Bob's knees. A strangled cry escaped the burly henchman's lips, but Frank was out of the van and on him before he could utter a second yell. He gripped the man around the throat and leaned close. "One sound, and I'll crush your windpipe!" he whispered, and tightened his grasp to drive the point home.

Bob nodded. The boys dragged him to his feet and hustled him around the side of the van, where Joe stuffed a familiar-looking cloth into his mouth and tied the handkerchief that had been doing duty as an ice pack across it.

"What was that you used as a gag?" Frank inquired quietly, anticipating the answer.

Joe grinned. "Your handkerchief." he whispered, and ferreted in Bob's pocket for his revolver.

Frank, remembering just what was smeared all over that particular handkerchief, grimaced – and then began to laugh. When Bob's hands were secured behind him, they pushed him into the van's seat, and tipped him sideways so that he wasn't visible from the house. Meanwhile, Tony had found a couple of rags and gagged the semi-conscious Sid. Then they resumed their places, swung the back doors almost shut, and waited once more.

"Sid? Bob? Where'd you guys go?" Rocco bellowed. "I'm not gonna move all this junk by myself; get back in here!" A long silence followed, while the boys held their breaths and their positions, all silently willing the third goon to follow his mates to the van. "Sid?"

Finally the awaited footsteps approached. "He's mine," Joe mouthed silently to Frank, who nodded agreement. Rocco pulled open one of the back doors, and as he did so, the younger Hardy lunged forward, gripped the top of the door frame, and shot both feet directly into the thug's face. Rocco fell backwards into the snow, blood spurting from his nose. Tony darted around the side of the van once again, and rapped Rocco smartly across the temple with the baseball bat. The man went limp, out cold.

"Quick, get him in here!" Frank hissed, shoving Sid to one side to make room. Joe and Tony lifted Rocco and placed his body next to Sid's, and the three boys quickly tied Rocco's hands and feet and gagged him too.

"Tony, can you stay here and keep an eye on these three idiots?" Joe asked, as he pulled Rocco's gun from the man's pocket. He handed the weapon to Tony, who wrinkled his nose distastefully, but accepted it. Frank, observing that Sid, at least, was regaining consciousness, grinned wickedly.

"Tone—" he suggested, "why don't you entertain them while you wait? You can tell them about your uncle – the one from Chicago?" As Tony stared at his friend, bewildered, Frank winked at him, and after a moment, Tony's face cleared.

"Oh, you mean my Uncle Guido?" he said. "Sure, I've got lots of stories about Uncle Guido. You'll enjoy these, Sid; you and my uncle may know some people in common. Ever been to Chicago? My uncle is quite well known there. Uncle Guido happens to be very fond of me, you know that? He's going to be quite upset when I tell him about this situation, and how someone almost broke my jaw…."

Joe and Frank slipped quietly from the van, leaving Tony to spin his tale of an entirely-fictitious Mafia uncle, and headed toward the house.

"…and we almost got away. We were actually outside. But then Sullivan caught us," Callie concluded the story. She and Megan had spent some time telling Fenton Hardy what had transpired the night before, when they had made their escape attempt. Both girls were pale and hollow-eyed from lack of sleep; Callie especially appeared drained. Mr. Hardy looked tired, but not as exhausted as his young companions.

"You two were very brave – and very resourceful," Fenton commented. His compliment brought a faint smile to Callie's lips, and Megan's cheeks turned pink. Enforced togetherness was giving her a new view of the famous detective – and likewise giving Fenton a new perspective on the girl Frank was so enamored with.

"What do you think will happen now?" she asked – but before Mr. Hardy could reply, the door to their room banged open, and Sullivan, still wearing his ski mask but recognizable by his clothes, stamped into the room.

"All right, time to move out," he growled.

The girls and Fenton blinked at him. "Where?" Callie asked blankly.

The man snorted. "You really think I'd tell you? Come on." He took a key from his pocket and proceeded to unlock the cuff that held Megan to her chair. "On your feet."

Megan shivered. "I'm so cold and stiff," she complained. "I don't know if I can stand up." She started to rise, but sank back in her chair. "Ow, my knees hurt!"

"I said, on your feet!" Sullivan snapped, grabbing her arm and yanking her up. "No excuses, you little brat."

"It's not an excuse—" she answered, but managed to stay standing this time.

"You don't have to mistreat her!" Fenton protested. Sullivan just snarled, and shoved Megan in front of him as he passed Fenton's chair.

Holding the gun in his left hand, Sullivan used his key to unfasten Callie's handcuff. "Okay, Blondie, let's go."

Callie, taking her cue from Megan's earlier action, also shivered. "I'm cold too," she said. "And I was sick last night; I feel so weak." She stared up at Sullivan, trying to look as pathetic as possible. "I don't think I can walk."

Sullivan, apparently pushed to his limit, backhanded Callie across the cheek. Her head snapped back, and Fenton, with an outraged shout, endeavored to rise from his chair, but was stopped by the cuff on his wrist.

"I'm warning you, Hardy, don't try it!" Sullivan swung the gun toward the enraged detective. Sullivan glared at him for a moment, then turned toward Callie once more. "Get up, or you get a bullet right now, and I won't have to deal with you any more." She hesitated, and he moved the gun closer to her head. With a sigh, Callie struggled to her feet. Her cheek bore a large red mark where she had been struck.

"I'm trying, believe me," she told their captor. "I don't want you to shoot me, but I feel so shaky…."

Sullivan prodded Callie in front of him. "Over there, with her." Slowly, Callie began to walk towards Megan. As she passed Fenton's chair, she stumbled a little, and put her hand out to catch herself and regain her balance.

Fenton's reaction was swift. He reached for Callie with his free hand and yanked her forward, flinging her to the floor. At the same time, he swung one foot in a sweeping arc towards Sullivan's legs, and aimed the other in a kick at his gun hand. Sullivan bellowed in fury as he went down, nearly becoming entangled with Callie's feet, but Fenton's kick missed its target, and Sullivan rolled away, coming up with his gun leveled directly at the detective's head.

"You've brought this on yourself, Hardy!" he shouted, and cocked the trigger.

"No!" Without quite realizing what she was doing, Megan flung herself across the intervening space and stood between Fenton and Sullivan. "You can't shoot him – remember, if anything happens to Mr. Hardy, the conference plans will all be changed, and all this will be for nothing!" She was so pale her freckles stood out sharply, but her blue-green eyes sparked with anger and defiance. "You can't shoot him, and you can't shoot either of us—" she glanced swiftly at Callie, who was picking herself up off the floor, "because then all your leverage with Frank is gone too."

"Megan – my dear girl…" Fenton's whisper came from behind her. "Megan, don't risk yourself like this!"

Sullivan's eyes were like chips of ice, but he heeded Megan's words. He got to his feet slowly, never taking his gaze from his captives. "Get over there," he snarled, gesturing with his free hand. "I won't shoot anybody – yet." Callie moved toward the door, and after a long hesitation, Megan followed. Behind her, still imprisoned in the chair, Fenton shook his head in bemused amazement.

Brave little girl – both of them – brave girls; he thought. But now they're being taken away again – and this time there's no one to follow them, or find them. This man Sullivan, whoever he is, holds all the tricks…and if something happens to Megan – Frank may never forgive me.

Sullivan gripped Megan firmly by the arm, and kept his gun aimed directly at Callie's back. "Keep moving," he prodded. "Over to the landing, and down the stairs. You should know the way, girls; you just went that route last night, remember?" The girls silently walked toward the stairs, but just as Callie put her foot on the first step down, Sullivan glanced out the landing window, which overlooked the front of the house.

With a snarled curse, Sullivan yanked Megan back, and gestured for Callie to return also. "Back into that bedroom, now!" He hustled the startled two down the hall, jerked open the bedroom door and shoved them inside, then followed them and slammed the door. He pulled the ski mask from his head with his free hand, revealing dark hair, and features contorted with rage.

"Plans have changed!" he snapped. "As of now – none of you will leave this house alive!"