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something." Frank lowered his voice, staring suspiciously toward the front of the cabin. "Notice anybody else on the plane?"
    "The old lady?" Joe said, leaning back as the plane began taxiing down the runway.
    "The old guy is with her." Joe stiffened. "He was supposed to get off," he whispered. Frank nodded. "That's why I want the aisle seat.”
    The force of the plane's takeoff pushed the Hardy boys back in their seats. "It's probably just a coincidence or some kind of misunderstanding," Joe insisted in a whisper. "Yeah." But Frank kept his eyes on the cockpit door-and on the seats right in front of it.
    The takeoff was routine, and soon they were at cruising altitude high above the Atlantic. Over the intercom came the voice of a stewardess. "Passengers may now leave their seats if they desire.”
    The first passenger out of his seat was Martha's elderly friend. He shuffled back to the restroom with an embarrassed smile.
    Joe saw that while Frank seemed to take no notice of the man, his fingers were on the buckle of his seat belt, ready to release himself in an instant if necessary.
    "I think you're getting a little paranoid over all this business," Joe whispered after the man had entered the lavatory. "The poor guy's just going to the john. Do you really think that old geezer and his lady friend are going to try anything? You must be crazy."
    The door to the restroom swung open with a bang. Standing in the doorway was the old man, but somehow he'd washed sixty years off his face. His clothes hung baggily around him. Joe gasped. In the man's left hand was an aerosol can-Mace. But gripped in his right was a hand grenade. At least he hasn't pulled the firing pin, Joe thought.
    "Stay in your seats, and no one gets hurt!" the man commanded as he ran up the aisle. Too late, Joe realized that he spoke with a slight but detectable accent. "We're taking control of this plane in the name of the Assassins."
    Frank burst from his seat, snapping a karate blow at the hijacker. It connected with his right wrist, paralyzing the hand. The grenade flew from nerveless fingers.
    But the hijacker's other hand was operating fine. It sent a spray of Mace into Frank's face. The acrid stench of the chemical filled the air as Frank involuntarily backed away. He was choking and reeled in sudden blindness.
    "Now you pay." The hijacker's voice was venomous as he prepared to club the helpless Frank.
    But Joe had snapped open his seat belt. He barreled out of his row and crashed into the guy. They staggered across the aisle, crashing against the seat on the other side. Joe's hand clamped over the top of the spray can. He didn't want the Mace in his face. He could hear sputtering sounds from the spray nozzle as the contents of the can squirted into the palm of his hand. Even there, the chemicals burned his skin. Still worse, they made his hand slippery. He was losing his grip!
    The hijacker twisted Joe's hand-and the can-free. Joe had just one move to make. Bracing one foot behind the man's ankle, he propelled them both into the laps of the people on the seat. At the same moment, he shoved his own chemical-covered hand straight into the terrorist's eyes.
    The man tried to raise the spray can again, but the people in the seats had overcome their surprise and grabbed the man's arms. Still, he was able to release a cloud of the chemical as he thrashed about wildly.
    But the Mace worked against him, too, as Joe kept his soaked hand over the man's face. The hijacker bucked and tore his face free, which was the opening Joe had been waiting for. As soon as the man had blindly twisted out of his grip, Joe's other hand drew back, cocked in a fist, and homed in for the point of the guy's jaw.
    Frank, meanwhile, couldn't tell what was happening. He stumbled along the aisle, coughing. Tears ran down his cheeks, the effects of the chemical sprayed into his eyes. His brother's battle was a painful blur-until he felt a body brush past him.
    Struggling to focus his