J.M.J.

Author's note: Welcome, welcome! So begins, a bit earlier than I expected, the fifth part of the White Roses series. Thank you in advance for reading, reviewing, following, favoriting, or all of the above! My special thanks to everyone who reviewed any or all chapters of the previous four stories in this series. You have all been a major inspiration to keep writing. I don't want to be one of those authors who beg for reviews, because that kind of annoys me when other authors do that, but I will say that I really, truly do appreciate them and they are one of the highlights to writing fanfiction.

If you have read the previous four stories, you can probably go ahead and skip the rest of this brief introduction and just go on with the story. If you haven't, you shouldn't be too lost. There are, of course, a lot of references to previous books, but anything that's absolutely vital for you to know will be explained in this story. I do have a few warnings that I've been putting on the beginning of each story of this series because I'm a little paranoid. First off, there is some violence. In particular, the first part of this chapter may be disturbing to some readers, so if you are easily disturbed, you may want to go ahead and skip the part in italics. You won't be missing anything vital; its main purpose is to provide a little more insight into what a particular character is going through as the curtain opens on this story, so I think it deserves to stay in there, but it can be skipped if you prefer. There will be other instances of violence throughout the story, which I will not give warnings about because it will detract from the experience of reading the story. Be assured, however, that none of it will be more graphic than a possible mention that blood is present and none of it will be gratuitous. The second thing is that I do intend to delve into character development more than I have in some of my past stories, and that is impossible to do, in my opinion, without at least some philosophy and possibly theology. It might also take characters in unexpected directions which may or may not be a tough sell. Finally, I am trying not to be too political, but the story will be seriously declawed without some criticism of a particular type of government (communism) and some mention of the crimes committed by it. If any of the above bothers you, this story may not be a fit, which doesn't hurt my feelings. I want people to read my stories, but I want them to enjoy them.

One final note: this story takes place about a month and a half after Decades of Deception, so everyone is still the same ages, namely Frank is twenty and Joe is nineteen.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy! God bless!

White Roses

Part V

Traitor's Game

Chapter I

The taillights were the only thing that could be seen of Gregorio Moretti's car in the darkness. Fenton Hardy practically had the pedal to the floor, but the taillights refused to look any closer.

"Hey! Don't forget this isn't a police car! We don't have any sirens," the young man in the passenger seat reminded him.

Fenton glanced over at Sam Radley, but he couldn't see anything of the private detective's features in the dark. He imagined he probably looked a bit frightened. "I can't slow down. We've got to catch Moretti." Fenton pressed the pedal down even farther, and the car leaped ahead.

Even in the dark, he could see that Sam had braced himself. "You're going to get somebody killed if you don't slow down."

Fenton felt drops of perspiration on his forehead and he brushed them away. "It doesn't matter. I won't let Moretti get away, no matter what."

Practically before he knew it, they were in the city, racing through the streets of New York at no lesser speed than they had been using on the open highway. If anything, Moretti was driving even faster than he had before. Fenton pressed the pedal down still more. His foot would be going through the floor if he pushed any harder.

"Are you crazy, Fenton?" Sam protested, hanging on for dear life. "You're going to kill someone!"

Fenton kept his eye focused on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel until the knuckles were white. "Must…catch…Moretti…" he repeated as the only thought his mind could form.

Then it happened. A blond young man stepped into the street in front of the car. Fenton didn't even try to swerve. He could think of nothing but catching Moretti until he heard the sickening crash and the windshield shattered in the impact.

He slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop. Fenton barreled out of the car, already knowing whom he had hit. He ran to the battered, broken victim and gently turned him over. His son's lifeless blue eyes stared up at him.

"Oh, Joe," he moaned.

Fenton woke with a start, cold sweat on his forehead. He glanced wildly around him, unsure for the moment where he was. It was dark, but even in the dark, he knew it was a familiar place. He was in his own bedroom. His wife, Laura, was sleeping next to him—thankfully, he hadn't woken her up this time. That car chase had been seventeen years before and Moretti was dead and gone. Joe was safe and sound in his own bedroom under the very same roof. There was nothing to be afraid of.

So he told himself. So he had been telling himself every time he had a dream like this for the past year. They had gotten better lately, but if Fenton was particularly stressed or overworked or reminded in some way of what had happened, they would come back. Whenever they did, there was no point trying to go back to sleep, so Fenton got up and went downstairs. He went to the living room, sat down on the couch, and turned on a sitcom from the 1960s. It was brainless, but that was what Fenton wanted right now. He wanted something that didn't require much thinking, but at the same time, used enough of his brain that he couldn't think about anything else.

There wasn't anything more to think about at this point. Fenton had turned it all over in his head a thousand times before this. Joe hadn't been hurt in the car chase with Moretti. He had only been two then. He was nineteen now, and a year ago, he had been shot during a case. He had almost died, but instead he had made a full recovery. Still, Fenton blamed himself, and he just couldn't shake that no matter how many times everyone else told him he wasn't to blame. His guilt caused these dreams, where Joe would be killed or seriously injured in some dramatic event from Fenton's life, usually some case he had worked on in the past. Sometimes it was even something Fenton had seen in a movie. But it always ended the same, and Fenton knew that he would be off his game all day tomorrow now and possibly even a few days longer. He let out a deep sigh and wished for the hundred thousandth time that he could go back and change what had happened that day.

Little by little, the TV show lulled him away from those thoughts, and by the third episode, he was nodding. It was sometime during the fourth that he finally fell asleep again.

HBHBHBHBHB

"Hand me that wrench, would you?" Chet Morton reached a hand behind him without taking his head out from under the hood of his yellow 1954 Ford, which he affectionately called the Queen.

Joe Hardy was standing the closest to the tray of tools, and he picked up a wrench and placed it in Chet's hand. "So, do you think you're going to get it running sometime today?"

"Oh, sure, she just needs a little adjustment…Hey, this is an inch and a quarter wrench. I need the one inch one." Chet handed the wrench back to Joe, who exchanged it for the correct one.

"We could just take my car," Joe said. "It doesn't need any adjustments."

It was a little after two in the afternoon and Joe was drumming his fingers on a work bench in the Morton barn, impatiently waiting for Chet to get his car into working order. It was the last day of July, and Chet's parents and sister, Iola, were flying in from a camp in Texas in twenty minutes. Iola had been injured in an incident two years earlier which had left her paralyzed from the waist down. She had been determined to at least learn to ride a horse again, which had led her to going to this camp. Not only was she regaining her balance well enough to sit on a horse, but she was also regaining a bit of feeling in her legs through the therapy which the camp coach had her doing. It was all great news, although it did mean that she wasn't going to be home much from here on out. She only had a few weeks' break and then she would be back in Texas. That part was hard on Joe, since they were dating, and so naturally he was impatient to get to the airport to pick her up.

Joe and Chet weren't the only ones around. Joe's dark-haired older brother, Frank, was there as well, as were their friends, Biff Hooper, Phil Cohen, and Tony Prito. The other boys had no intention of going to the airport since that would be too crowded, but they had nothing else to do, so they had dropped in to see they could help with anything. As it happened, Chet had everything under control but his car, and he never let anyone touch that, so they all wound up standing around, talking and occasionally ribbing Chet about how his car was forever in need of repairs.

"You guys need to have more respect," Chet said in an exaggeratedly aggrieved tone. "When you get to be the Queen's age, you'll be lucky if you're doing even half as well as she is."

"If we were doing any worse than the Queen, we'd be dead," Biff teased him.

Frank looked at his watch. He hated to be late himself, and the realization of how late Chet and Joe were going to be was making him antsy. "Honestly, Chet, Joe's right. You don't have time to finish fixing the Queen." He had been tempted to say "this hunk of scrap metal" but he knew that Chet would offer to fight him before letting anyone insult the Queen so deeply.

"It'll only be a few more seconds," Chet replied.

"You said that an hour ago," Joe reminded him.

"What would the Queen think, me riding around in another car?" Chet asked. "It would practically be like cheating on her."

Joe pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not a girl, Chet. It's not even a 'she'. It's a car. It doesn't have any feelings."

Chet gasped in mock offense. "You're the one with no feelings, Joe. This is a sensitive machine. You need to be careful how you talk to her." He patted the car affectionately.

Phil rolled his eyes. "You know, there's some days I wonder why I hang out with you guys."

"Probably because we're awesome," Chet replied.

"Awesome or not, it's quarter past two," Joe said. "Your parents are going to take an Uber home if we don't get there soon."

Chet slammed the hood shut in alarm. "Quarter past two! Why didn't you say something sooner? We're going to have to drive like a NASCAR racer to get to the airport in time."

He led the way to Joe's car, which was parked outside. Joe slid into the driver's seat while Chet climbed into the passenger side. Joe turned the key, but all it did was make a feeble attempt at starting and then died. Several more attempts to turn the key didn't produce any better results.

Joe smacked his head against the steering wheel. "You've got to be kidding me. It must be contagious."

The others had followed them, and Frank was looking underneath the hood as soon as Joe pressed the button to open it.

"You guys could use my car," Tony offered.

"I'm almost afraid to at this point," Chet replied. "Joe, do you think it's you or me that's the car jinx?"

Joe scoffed. "I don't believe in jinxes or curses or ghosts or any of that stuff. I don't even believe in bad luck. It's just a coincidence."

Chet folded his arms. "Funny how anything that might have a supernatural explanation is 'just a coincidence' but when it comes to things like seeing the same guy twice in the same day when you're working on a mystery, it's never a coincidence."

Joe didn't have an answer for that so he ignored him and continued examining the engine.

Tony gave Chet a questioning glance. "You almost sound like you do believe in jinxes."

Chet shrugged. "I don't know. I've just heard of a few things where the most logical explanation is actually that ghosts did it."

At that, Frank and Joe glanced at each other and shook their heads. They had seen a lot of strange things in their careers as amateur detectives, but it always ended up that there were reasonable explanations for everything that did not involve ghosts. Chet, on the other hand, was more of a dreamer, so it wasn't all that surprising if he was going through a phase of believing in ghosts.

"Let's take a poll," Tony suggested. "Everyone who thinks that ghosts are at least possible, raise your hand."

He and Chet raised theirs at once. Phil hesitated a few seconds and then raised his hand, as well.

"Seriously, you guys?" Frank asked in disbelief. "How can you believe in all that silly stuff?"

"I don't believe in most hauntings," Phil defended himself. "Most of the time, I think there is some other explanation, but if you believe in God and angels and human souls, is it really that far-fetched to think that they occasionally interact with living people in more dramatic than usual ways?"

"I don't think they do," Frank said, although he realized he wasn't really answering the question. "At least, I've never seen any evidence for it."

"Maybe you just didn't notice it," Tony suggested. "Anyway, I agree with Phil that it doesn't happen all that often."

"Besides the question is whether ghosts are hypothetically possible, not whether you have evidence that they're real," Phil pointed out.

Frank wanted to be fair, but he absolutely didn't want to admit that he thought ghosts were even vaguely possible. While Frank grappled with how to answer the question, Phil's phone buzzed and he pulled it out. He heaved an annoyed sigh.

"Her again?" Biff asked.

"Her who?" Joe asked.

"That girl Phil went out with one time a couple months ago," Biff replied. "You know, Darcy."

Joe was glad he was behind the raised hood of the car so that no one saw his sudden change of expression. He had had a most uncomfortable run-in with Darcy that still left him feeling the need for a shower every time he thought about it.

"She's still bothering you, Phil?" Frank asked.

Phil shoved his phone back in his pocket. "She just sends some nasty texts every now and again. It's no big deal. It's just annoying."

"'Nasty' doesn't begin to describe them," Biff said. He whistled. "I was wondering if I should dump Phil's phone in a bucket of disinfectant after seeing that."

"Yeah, well, you weren't supposed to see it," Phil reminded him. "I just asked you to hold onto my phone for a couple of minutes, not read the incoming texts."

"If I hadn't, then the rest of us wouldn't know that you have a creepy stalker woman," Biff defended himself.

"If she's stalking you, you should file a complaint with the police," Frank put in.

Phil shook his head. "It's not that big a deal. It's only every once in a while. I just ignore her and delete the texts."

"You could block her number," Tony reminded him.

"Yeah, I know. Like I said, it's not a big deal. I don't want to block her in case she decides she wants to clear the air the sometime, but if she keeps this up much longer, I'll bite the bullet and block her."

He had barely finished speaking when Frank's phone rang. Frank took it from his pocket and looked at the screen.

Joe was standing next to him, so he saw the name that appeared on the screen. "Speaking of ex-girlfriends calling…"

Frank took a few steps away and answered the phone. It was Jones Nonam, a girl who had lived in Bayport for a few years. She and Frank had gone on a few dates before mutually calling it off before it became anything serious, but they had remained friends. Then Jones' family had moved away and they had fallen out of touch somewhat, apart from an occasional text to update each other on what was going on. The last one had been several months ago, and so the fact that Jones was calling now all of a sudden made Frank worry that something was wrong.

However, Jones' chipper tone quickly reassured him about that. "Hey, Frank, what's up? How's Bayport?"

"Hi, Jones. Nothing special, I guess. Bayport's fine. Same as always."

"Good. How's all the gang there? Are you and Callie still going out?"

"Yeah, we are. What's going on with you?"

"Oh, I would say the usual, but it's more usual for you than for me."

Frank felt his pulse quicken slightly as he guessed what Jones might mean by that comment, but he asked her anyway.

Jones chuckled. "Well, it's kind of a long story. You'll never guess where I am to begin with. You'll never guess, because I guarantee you've never heard of it. I'm in a little country in the Himalayas called Ziyou."

"You're calling all the way from Asia?" Frank asked. "What on earth are you doing there?"

"I'm on this mission-trip-type thing. It's actually really cool. I need to tell you about it sometime, and I would now, but there's somebody who wants to talk to you."

There was a soft beep as Jones evidently turned her phone on speaker.

"Frank?" a male voice with a Chinese accent said. "Is that you? This is Jim Foy."

"Jim! None of us have heard from you in ages," Frank replied.

Jim Foy had been an exchange student who had stayed with Biff's family three years earlier. Although he had promised he'd keep in touch, no one had heard a word from him since he had gone back to China at the end of the school year.

"I know," Jim said. "I'm sorry about that, but they seized my phone and laptop when I was arrested. I didn't know how to contact you after that."

Frank shook his head. "Wait. When you were what?"

"There's a lot to explain," Jim told him. "Frank, do you and Joe and your father still solve mysteries? I need your help. You see, my uncle was murdered. I need you to find out who did it. Well, who specifically did it. I know generally."

"What do you mean?"

"He was killed by Black Rose."