A/N: First and foremost, I am so, so sorry that it's taken me so long to update. I have a job that sometimes requires me to travel a lot, and I've been on the road quite a bit lately. Between airports, hotels, and working late, it's been extremely hard finding the time to write. So I hope you all can forgive me for making you wait so long for this chapter. I can't make any promises on when the next one will be ready, just because of the randomness of my life, but I can promise that I won't forget about this story, no matter how crazy my life gets!

To everyone who reviewed, I'm extremely grateful for the feedback and I always look forward to receiving it. For those who have commented on my usage of some mature words, I'll forewarn you that there are a few more coming in this chapter…but, there is nothing in here that exceeds the T rating that's been given to this story – not in earlier chapters, this one, or any future ones. Just keep in mind that this story was rated T for a reason, and please read responsibly. And now, without further ado, on with the story!

Disclaimer: I don't own Nancy, Frank, Joe, or Chet – if I did, it wouldn't take me nearly as long to update!

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Mitch Gallagher was having a very bad day. He wasn't sure exactly how he knew this, since he couldn't quite think around the splitting pain in his head, but he knew this with a certainty that ran deep into his bones. At the moment, he was facedown on rough asphalt and his mouth tasted like he had swallowed some of said asphalt. His nose and jaw ached from where they had met the ground forcefully. His hands were scraped raw and stinging badly. All these facts combined to strengthen his conviction. This was a very bad day, indeed.

With a low groan, Mitch slowly raised himself from the asphalt, his hands curling into tight fists as the piercing pain seemed to spread from his head through his entire body and black dots swam before his eyes. As his fingers came in contact with his palm, he felt a foreign object in his right hand that his muzzy brain vaguely identified as paper. Before he could investigate the object, however, a sickening thought jolted through him, gracing him with a brief moment of vivid lucidity as he spun towards his truck that was parked at the side of the road, mere feet from where he had lain.

"Iola!"

The cry was ripped from his throat, and he raced towards the truck, though the sight of the empty cab had already left an equally empty feeling in his stomach. Still, he wrenched open the passenger door frantically, hoping against hope that the little girl might simply be pressed against the floorboards, playing an innocent, yet poorly timed game of hide-and-seek. But his heart already knew that wouldn't be the case, and his eyes confirmed it. Despite that, he searched everywhere: the cluttered bed of the truck, under the vehicle, the bushes on the side of the road. Finally, he had no choice but to admit the horrifying truth to himself.

Iola was gone.

Mitch felt despair claw at his gut and a horrible burning in his throat. As his hands clenched into tight fists, he remembered the piece of paper that he had felt there earlier. Realizing that he must have dropped it in his search for Iola, he scanned the ground frantically, his eyes alighting upon a folded piece of yellow notebook paper. He seized it and unfolded it with trembling hands, the words on the page swimming as his eyes struggled to focus. Finally, he was able to make out the handwritten words.

"Mr. Gallagher, please be so kind as to pass the following message along to Mr. Morton's two detective friends:

"A young bud, not yet in bloom

Too tender yet to experience such doom

Her aunt before her, dead at such a young state

Alas, her niece now rushes to the same fate"

Mitch's blood chilled as he read and re-read the words. The sound of a passing vehicle snapped him out of his stupor, and he ran towards his truck, jumping into the driver's seat. A wave of dizziness assailed him, but he resolutely gritted his teeth and turned the key into the ignition. He swung the truck onto the road, swerving wildly as his vision blurred again. But twenty years of driving experience and sheer determination helped him keep the truck on the road and relatively in his own lane, even at the speed that he was pushing the vehicle towards. As he drove, he reached his left hand into his coat pocket for his cell phone so that he could call the police and then Chet, in that order.

His coat pocket was empty. Mitch cursed loudly and pushed the gas pedal down harder while he mentally corrected himself.

This wasn't just a bad day, this was a downright shitty day.

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Joe couldn't quite describe what he felt when they reached the main house and there was no sign of any vehicles parked out front. His instinct had already told him that Mitch and Iola would not be there, but deep down, a part of him had hoped that they would be greeted by the sight of little Iola running out the door to greet her daddy and her Uncle Joe and Frank. However he felt, though, Joe knew it paled in comparison to how his friend was feeling at that moment. As he thought this, Chet spun around towards them and stated the obvious.

"They're not here."

Chet's face was pale, and panic was clearly starting to show in his eyes. Frank gave him the best reassuring smile that he could muster.

"Let's not panic yet. It's possible that Mitch just broke down by the side of the road or something. He might have called Mrs. Paulie to let her know."

Even as Frank said this, he knew that would not be the case. Like Joe, his gut told him that something had already happened, that something was already horribly wrong. But he knew panicking would not be productive right now.

The five headed into the house, Chet calling out for Mrs. Paulie. The housekeeper appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, in much a similar manner as she had when the Hardys and Nancy had first arrived. But where she had greeted them with suspicion, she greeted Chet with a warm smile.

"Mr. Morton, you're back early! I was just baking some cookies for when the little one gets home from school. I'm making chocolate chip, her favorite. Would you like one?"

Mrs. Paulie studiously ignored Frank, Nancy, and Joe, her earlier misgivings about them apparently not appeased by Justin's vouching for them. Nancy could see Justin roll his eyes at this out of the corner of her eye, but before he could comment on Mrs. Paulie's rudeness, Chet answered.

"Mrs. Paulie, have you heard from Mitch? He and Iola should have been back by now."

Mrs. Paulie glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Goodness, you're right! I completely lost track of time. I wonder where they are – I haven't heard from Mitch at all."

"I'm calling him," Chet stated firmly, and picked up the phone sitting on a small table in the living room. Joe didn't think it was possible, but his face paled even further.

"The line's dead."

"That would explain why I couldn't get through when I tried to call earlier," Joe said. "But that doesn't explain why I couldn't get through to you on your cell phone."

Mrs. Paulie cleared her throat. "I believe I might be able to answer that. Mr. Morton, I found your phone under the bed of little Iola's room when I was cleaning this morning. I meant to give it to you when you came home for lunch, but I completely forgot. It had kept ringing all morning, which I found rather irritating, so I finally started pushing buttons until it stopped."

Joe whirled on the housekeeper, his earlier frustration with her returning. "That was me calling! And it was important!"

"Joe." Chet laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't get mad at Mrs. Paulie. It's my fault – I tend to lose my cell phone about every other day in the most random places. You know me, I was never very good at keeping up with things." At this, he gave a small, wry smile, and Joe caught a glimpse of his old friend through the concerned father that now stood before him.

"Sorry, Chet," Joe murmured. "I didn't mean to blow up."

Mrs. Paulie quietly handed Chet his cell phone. He immediately began scrolling through his missed calls, but they were all from Joe. He then used the phone to try to call Mitch on his cell, only to have it ring a few times and then go to voicemail. He hung up, frustrated.

"Mitch isn't answering."

Silence ensued, as everyone contemplated where Mitch and Iola could be.

Then, the phone on the small table rang, shattering the silence.

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Chet stood frozen in place, his eyes wide with shock at the fact that the phone that had been dead moments earlier was now ringing. Frank's voice broke him out of his stupor after the second ring.

"Answer it, Chet."

Chet slowly picked up the receiver, bringing it to his ear gingerly.

"Hello?"

There was a low chuckle on the other end. "I'm sorry, Mr. Morton, but your friend Mr. Gallagher is not available to answer his phone right now. How may I assist you?"

"Who is this?" Chet asked, his voice shaking with a combination of fear and anger.

"Do you mean your friends the Hardys haven't made the proper introductions yet? Tsk, tsk. How impolite of them. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is John Krieger."

"That name means nothing to me," Chet ground out. "What's important to me are Mitch Gallagher and my daughter. Where are they, and what have you done with them?"

"Mr. Gallagher is just fine, although I imagine he must have quite the headache right now. As for your daughter, we have not harmed her."

Just as Chet started to breathe a shaky sigh of relief, the breath choked up in his lungs at Krieger's next word.

"Yet."

Chet's hand tightened around the receiver to the point of pain.

"She's just a little girl! Why are you doing this? Is it money? I don't have much, but I can pay you. Just tell me what you want!"

"I want the Hardys to suffer," Krieger growled. "I want them to watch the people that they love go through hell and know that they are the reason for it. I want them to know that they are responsible for destroying the lives of those they love."

Chet paled even further as his eyes darted up to the two brothers, who were unable to hear the other end of the conversation. Frank and Joe both had extremely concerned looks on their faces, and Chet felt his sense of friendship war with the blinding need to protect his daughter.

"Frank and Joe are my friends, but your fight is with them, not with my family. Leave my daughter out of this. She's only five years old, for God's sake!"

Krieger chucked, a low, menacing sound. "And that's why she's perfect."

His voice turned cold. "Listen up, Morton. You tell those friends of yours, who I'm sure are right there with you by now, that if they want you to ever see your daughter alive again, then they need to follow this next clue carefully."

As Krieger spoke, everyone watched Chet's eyes grow wide and his grip tighten even more painfully on the phone. After a few more seconds of tense silence in the room, Chet carefully replaced the receiver on the phone. He lifted his gaze to the group, and his friends saw the glazed look in his eyes.

"What is it, Chet? What did he say?" Frank demanded urgently.

"He wanted me to give you a clue. He said you have to follow it if I ever want to see Iola alive again," Chet replied slowly, his voice as dazed as the look upon his face.

"What was the clue?" Joe asked, simultaneously wanting to shake his friend to snap him out of his stupor and at the same time, afraid that any sudden movements might actually cause Chet's thin grip on reality to crack.

Everything in this world comes with a price

So does your precious little daughter's life

For the Hardy boys this lesson must be shown

The time has come for them to take out a loan

Chet spoke the words in an eerie monotone, and Nancy felt a chill run down her spine as he finished. She looked around at the other faces in the room. Justin and Mrs. Paulie looked torn between shock and confusion, Frank had a furrow between his brows that told her he was gravely concerned, and Joe looked utterly infuriated.

"That son of a…"

But before Joe could finish the expletive, the sound of a vehicle coming to an abrupt halt outside the house interrupted him. Chet was the first to move, and he was out the front door before any of the others, in time to see the huge cloud of dust that the black pickup truck had kicked up. As Chet ran down the porch steps, his friends close behind, Mitch staggered out of the truck, holding onto the open door for support. Just as Mitch tried to take a step forward, Chet reached his side and grabbed his arm, pulling it over his shoulder to support the older man. Joe quickly rushed to Mitch's other side, and together, the two men brought Mitch to the porch steps and helped him sit.

As Mitch regained his sense of equilibrium, Chet glanced back at the truck. He knew in his gut that his daughter was with the madman that had called him, but still, a part of him hoped that he would see her little face peeking through the windshield. No such luck, though. When he turned his head back to Mitch, he saw his foreman looking at him with an expression full of guilt and remorse.

"I lost her, Chet. I'm so sorry."

Chet dragged a hand through his hair, frustration and adrenaline rushing through every vein in his body.

"It's not your fault, Mitch. You're my friend and foreman, not her bodyguard."

"It is my fault!" Mitch argued vehemently. "I'm the one who pulled over when I saw the guy on the side of the road with his car's hood propped up. I'm the one who foolishly thought that I could help the guy out. I'm the one who was so oblivious that I got knocked over the head when I wasn't even looking. I was the one who was an absolute idiot," Mitch finished in frustration.

Frank moved over to stand in front of Mitch, entering his line of sight.

"These men are professionals. You couldn't have stopped them."

Mitch shot him a suspicious glare.

"And just who are you?"

"These are Frank and Joe Hardy, two of my old friends from Bayport. And this is their friend Nancy Drew." Chet made the introductions quickly.

Mitch's expression changed from suspicious to thoughtful.

"Are you two boys detectives, by any chance?"

Frank and Joe shot each other startled looks, then nodded at Mitch. Mitch reached into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper, handing it to Frank.

"This note was left on me after I was knocked me out. Whoever these men are, they wanted me to pass it along to you."

Everyone crowded around Frank as he read the short poem aloud. When he finished, Joe shook his head.

"This is the first time they've given us two clues, not just one. And both of them are vague. How are we supposed to know which one to follow?"

Nancy looked thoughtful. "Maybe we're supposed to follow them both," she suggested.

"It doesn't make sense," Frank disagreed. "The clue that they just gave Chet over the phone made it seem like they were leading us to a bank, or something to do with money. Krieger mentioned a loan, so that's a natural conclusion. But the only clear reference in this clue is a bloom, or flowers. What does a bank have to do with flowers?"

"I'll be damned," Justin muttered. He shot a quick sheepish glance at Nancy. "Pardon my language again, ma'am." Then his expression turned serious, and he directed his words to Chet.

"The Meyerson bank," Justin stated.

"My God, you're right," Chet breathed.

Justin nodded, excitement growing in his voice. "It makes sense. The Meyerson bank is really just part of a national bank chain of a different name, but it's housed in the Meyerson building. The building was named after George Meyerson when his wife made a huge donation and had a large garden built outside with a statue of her late husband in it. The garden is well-known and actually fairly famous locally because of its exquisite landscaping."

Frank nodded thoughtfully. "It fits. Although I don't know how they plan to sneak a young girl into a crowded bank."

"Today's Wednesday. The bank closes at noon on Wednesdays," Justin informed him.

"It's about 3:30 now, which means the bank would be empty. I think it's the best lead we've got," Nancy mused.

Joe jumped off the porch steps. "What are we waiting for, then? Let's go!"

"I'm going too," Chet stated firmly, rising from his crouched position beside Mitch.

"No," Frank said quickly, planting himself in front of his friend. The glare that Chet sent him was lethal, but Frank held his ground. "No, Chet," he repeated. "It's going to be dangerous, and I'm not going to risk your life too."

"She's my daughter," Chet ground out in a low voice. "I don't care if I have to die to protect her."

Joe stepped up next to his brother, and his eyes were filled with unspoken emotion.

"The same goes for me, Chet. And I don't want her to lose her father, either. She's already lost one parent – she shouldn't have to lose another."

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw Nancy start at Joe's words, but he didn't dare look at her. He knew that the conviction in Joe's voice had swayed Chet, and he wanted to drive the point home.

"Chet, someone needs to stay here and keep things together. Mitch needs medical attention, and the FBI needs to be contacted so that they know what's going on." Frank pulled out his wallet and handed Chet a business card. "Call that number and ask to speak with Assistant Director Burr. If the operator questions you, say that you're a friend of ours and have information on the fugitives that A.D. Burr's task force is after. That'll get you through."

Chet looked like he was about to argue, but Joe cut him off.

"Please, Chet. Trust us to take care of Iola and bring her home safely."

His voice cracked slightly on Iola's name, as old memories of another young girl who perished in an explosion assailed him. A long look passed between him and Chet, a look of shared pain and grief. Finally, Chet nodded and stepped back.

"Go, then. And hurry."

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