Page 84 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
Bell shrugged out of his heavy pack and gave it to Joe. “You know what to do. Good luck.”
He sprinted out of the magazine and stopped. He looked fore and aft. The man had vanished. Bell held his breath and strained his ears. He heard a soft noise to aft and took off running. He saw a shadow flicker in the stairwell vestibule. Bell raised the shotgun, but there was no target. He raced for the stairs, climbing them two and three at a time, not knowing if the other man was armed and laying an ambush. At the top of the stairs, Bell peered out into the hallway. It looked very much like the one below. He heard feet slapping against the metal deck and gave chase, running for the ship’s bow this time.
He leapt over the door coamings like a steeplechaser, his shoulder and head hunched so as not to hit the top lip, his gun cradled in both hands. Bell spotted his man as he tried to slow himself and turn a sharp corner. It gave him all the opportunity he needed.
The shotgun roared twice with two quick pulls on the trigger. Twenty pellets sprayed from the weapon in an expanding arc that literally filled the hallway with lead. The anarchist made it out of the line of fire, but many of the pellets ricocheted off the steel walls.
Bell heard the man scream and fall just out of view. He ran up, the shotgun swung around his back and an automatic pistol now in his right hand. He darted his head around the corner. The anarchistwas on the deck, but he wasn’t down by any count. It didn’t look like he’d been hit at all. He was sitting with his knees bent to help stabilize the big revolver in his hands.
Bell ducked back an instant before the man fired. The slug hit a bulkhead and left a golf ball–sized divot. Bell fired blind at the wall near where the anarchist sat to distract him enough so that he could reach around the corner with his Browning. He emptied the clip at where he knew the man sat, cycling the pistol as fast as he could, knowing muscle memory was bringing the barrel back at his target following each shot.
He switched the pistol to his left and held the shotgun one-handed when he chanced another glance around the corner. He hadn’t hit the man with every shot, but there were enough holes in him and in the right places for him to stay down, permanently.
Bell took a second to get his bearings. Up ahead he saw the curved wall of the barbette, the armored structural support for the ship’s forward turret. The hallway the dead man took led to some officer’s quarters. There was a great deal of wood paneling and tarnished brass accents and better-quality light fixtures. This was where the Brazilians had been living. It smelled of dirty laundry and unwashed men.
He turned to retrace his steps when he heard men coming toward him. They were running hard. His gun battle had drawn their attention. He dashed from the corridor, his gun aimed down the main passageway. He saw three men running abreast, all armed. Bell ran in the opposite direction, trying to get out of their range. A few shots were fired his way, but none came close. He turned a corner and went a dozen paces before finding a stairwell. He went down it by lifting his feet and sliding on his hands. At the base he turned andraised the shotgun. The anarchists were smart, they fired down the steps before they could see him, forcing Bell to retreat.
He ran into a room off the ship’s central corridor. It was a vast dining area, with heavy round tables bolted to the floor and a kitchen visible through a pass window. He waited by the door, wishing he had a small hand mirror. He had to trust his hearing and instincts. He’d been hunted so many times before he knew that the need for caution by the hunter balanced with the desire of the kill produced a certain pace. He waited, imagining the men reaching the bottom of the stairs. He could almost see them exchange glances and point to the open dining room door. They would feel a sense of confidence. They knew the ship better than the man they hunted. They would know there was no place to hide.
They’d start striding faster and faster.
With a shout Bell swung around the door and opened fire, charging at them for added confusion as it was the opposite of what they’d expect. They were exactly where he’d thought they would be. He emptied the shotgun’s magazine, filling the hall with a scything gale of lead shot. Each man was hit multiple times at almost point-blank range. It was as if the deck had vanished under their feet when all three men went down, limbs like rubber, pistols clattering to the floor.
After jacking a fresh magazine into the side of the shotgun’s receiver, Bell went to check on the men. They were all dead. He recognized one as the man who’d caught him sneaking around Rath’s training facility, the one with the compass rose tattoo.
A pistol shot rang out from down the corridor and a bullet came close enough for Bell to feel its motion. He whirled, dropping so his chest was on the deck, and returned fire. His attacker had vanishedaround a corner. Bell thought about giving chase but the clock running in his head told him he’d wasted enough time. His mission had been accomplished.
He climbed up three flights of stairs before he reached the main deck. Bell walked down yet another corridor, looking for a way to get outside so he could get off the ship. Before he could find a hatch, he froze as he heard yet more men ahead.
44
The chase had only gonea couple of blocks when the rear van door suddenly burst open. Archie got his first look at Balka Rath and understood why everyone said he was so handsome. Even with a cruel sneer to his mouth, his looks were otherworldly, truly like an angel come to earth. Then the man whipped a pistol into view. Hanzi had been watching the mirrors and alerted Balka that they were being pursued.
He opened fire. The Ford’s windshield spiderwebbed and then collapsed onto Archie and James’s lap in a cascade of daggerlike shards. Archie swerved, managing to sideswipe a city bus but dropping out of Balka’s immediate line of sight. He waited then fired again, trying to either hole the radiator or the driver.
Dashwood had to ignore the glass cutting into his waist when he punched out his side window with the butt of his pistol and thrust his torso outside the car. He was one of the best shots in the office, but the angle of his body sticking out of the car made accuracy allbut impossible. He fired once but when he saw that his bullet missed the van entirely he stopped shooting. Unlike Rath, he wouldn’t needlessly endanger civilians.
Archie slowed to increase the range and Hanzi took advantage, accelerating hard in an attempt to get away. Archie could have caught him with no trouble, but he’d put himself square in Balka’s range again. They turned onto Seventh Avenue and Archie finally saw an opening. He punched the gas and swung around the side of another bus and used its bulk to shield them from Rath. He was doing fifty when he reached the front of the bus directly abreast of Hanzi’s khaki-colored delivery van.
With a deft touch on the wheel, Archie crossed in front of the bus and hooked the Ford’s bumper into the van’s front spoked wheel. The wood splintered like it had been hit with a grenade. Hanzi kept the now three-wheeler stable by jamming its left side against Archie’s sedan.
Archie turned the wheel to slam the Ford into him and then quickly swung away. Hanzi was too slow to match the maneuver and the van’s left front collapsed onto the road in a shower of sparks. Hanzi lost all ability to steer his van. He hit the brakes, threw open his door, and vaulted from the driver’s seat before they’d come to a complete stop. He hit the sidewalk, rolled over on one shoulder and leapt to his feet to sprint away.
Archie had also slammed the brakes, but had done so without realizing he hadn’t pulled far enough away from the double-decker bus he’d just overtaken. Its brakes and tires screamed in a valiant attempt to stop, but to no avail. It slammed into the Ford hard enough to accordion the trunk. Hanna was thrown into the back of the front seat with enough force to break her collarbone. A piece ofthe broken windshield the size and shape of a steak knife was driven two inches into Dashwood’s groin, barely missing his femoral artery.
In the second-long gap between hearing the bus’s brakes lock and the vehicle hitting the Ford, Archie launched himself from his seat over the steering wheel and through the now-empty windscreen frame. The impact knocked the car forward but Archie jammed his foot on the top of the steering wheel, and he fell flat onto the Ford’s hood.
He rolled off onto the roadway, groping for the pistol under his suitcoat. He staggered to his feet in time to see Hanzi start running. Pedestrians were already on edge because of the four mysterious explosions that had rocked the city. Seeing a man running from an accident ramped up their anxiety and as a result they parted as if by Moses. Archie aligned himself in a proper firing stance and pulled the trigger.
The .45-caliber slug hit the fleeing anarchist in the right buttock and lodged against the outside of his pelvis. The kinetic impact of the heavy bullet kicked his right leg out from under him, so he went down on the sidewalk without any chance of bracing himself. The impact of his skull against the unyielding concrete was like a melon dropped from a table. He’d be out for hours.
Just then Balka Rath jumped out of the back of the van. Archie tried to line up a shot, but the crowd was in full-blown panic because of his first shot. They gave the anarchist perfect cover and Rath seemed to disappear. Archie caught a glimpse of him running down the street and he took off in pursuit. It was like running through a herd of stampeding horses. People were scattering in all directions, some trying to get onto the roadway, others trying to find a lane torun on the sidewalks, others dashing into storefront doorways and others emerging from the shops. It was bedlam and Archie felt he was losing his target.
He pressed on, his mouth a tight grim line as he edged people out of his way as gently as he could. Up ahead, he saw a tall man suddenly lurch right with enough force to dislodge his hat. He knew Rath had just pushed the man out of his way. He wasn’t as far behind as he feared.
All at once the crowds seemed to thin and Archie caught sight of Rath. The anarchist must have sensed him. He looked back, his cherubic face a mask of both fear and anger. His eyes widened when he saw his pursuer. Rath suddenly juked left through the door of a hardware store. Archie raced for it, his gun at the ready.
The store was laid out in long aisles running toward the back. Each was lined with shelves displaying all manner of tools, plumbing supplies, bins of nuts and bolts, and anything else someone in the building trade would need. Archie lost a few precious seconds because Balka hadn’t run down the aisle directly behind the door. He had to check three of them before he saw his man nearly at the other end. He raised his pistol but couldn’t fire as there were two men in overalls examining lengths of copper pipe for sale. Rath dashed through a curtain to the back of the store separating the customer’s area from the private domain of the employees and owner. Archie was hot on his heels and burst through the curtain a second later, stooping as low as he could just as he parted the dark fabric.
