The Striker Clive Cussler (best book recommendations .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Clive Cussler
Book online «The Striker Clive Cussler (best book recommendations .TXT) 📖». Author Clive Cussler
DIRK PITT® ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
Poseidon’s Arrow
(WITH DIRK CUSSLER)
Crescent Dawn
(WITH DIRK CUSSLER)
Arctic Drift
(WITH DIRK CUSSLER)
Treasure of Khan
(WITH DIRK CUSSLER)
Black Wind
(WITH DIRK CUSSLER)
Trojan Odyssey
Valhalla Rising
Atlantis Found
Flood Tide
Shock Wave
Inca Gold
Sahara
Dragon
Treasure
Cyclops
Deep Six
Pacific Vortex!
Night Probe!
Vixen 03
Shock Wave
Raise the Titanic!
Iceberg
The Mediterranean Caper
FARGO ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
WITH THOMAS PERRY
The Tombs
WITH GRANT BLACKWOOD
The Kingdom
Lost Empire
Spartan Gold
ISAAC BELL NOVELS BY CLIVE CUSSLER
The Thief
(WITH JUSTIN SCOTT)
The Race
(WITH JUSTIN SCOTT)
The Spy
(WITH JUSTIN SCOTT)
The Wrecker
(WITH JUSTIN SCOTT)
The Chase
KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
WITH GRAHAM BROWN
The Storm
Devil’s Gate
WITH PAUL KEMPRECOS
Medusa
White Death
The Navigator
Fire Ice
Polar Shift
Blue Gold
Lost City
Serpent
OREGON FILES ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
WITH JACK DU BRUL
The Jungle
The Silent Sea
Corsair
Plague Ship
Skeleton Coast
Dark Watch
WITH CRAIG DIRGO
Golden Buddha
Sacred Stone
NONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER
Built for Adventure: The Classic Automobiles of Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt®
WITH CRAIG DIRGO
The Sea Hunters
The Sea Hunters II
Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
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New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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Copyright © 2013 by Sandecker, RLLLP
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
ISBN 978-1-101-59266-3
ENDPAPER AND INTERIOR ILLUSTRATIONS BY ROLAND DAHLQUIST
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Also by Clive Cussler
Title Page
Copyright
Map
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE: COAL
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
BOOK TWO: FIRE
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
BOOK THREE: STEAM
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
A Smoke-filled Room
1912
THE MARMON 32 SPEEDSTER PARKED ON WALL STREET IN A shadow between two lampposts.
Roundsman O’Riordan took notice. It was the dead of night. Orders said let no one bother the bigwig politicians and officeholders who were horse-trading upstairs in the Congdon Building. And the auto had a clear shot at the limousines waiting for them at the curb.
Its side curtains were fogged by the damp rolling off the harbor. O’Riordan had to get close to see inside. The driver was a pleasant surprise, a beautiful lady with straw-blond hair, and the cop relaxed a little. But all he could see of the gent beside her were steely contours. Still, you couldn’t rap your stick on a Marmon 32 and tell the swells to move along like they were bums on the sidewalk, so with his right hand by his pistol, he tapped the side curtain lightly, like touching his glass to the mahogany to signal the bartender of a classy joint he was ready for another but didn’t mean to be rushing him.
A big hand with long, nimble fingers slid the curtain open. O’Riordan glimpsed a snow-white cuff, diamond links, and the black sleeve of a dress coat. The hand seized his in a strong grip.
“Paddy O’Riordan. Fancy meeting you here.”
Raked by searching blue eyes, the roundsman recognized the gold mane, the thick flaxen mustache, and the no-nonsense expression that could only belong to Isaac Bell—chief investigator of the Van Dorn Detective Agency.
He touched his stick to his helmet. “Good evening, Mr. Bell. I didn’t recognize you in the shadows.”
“What are you doing out so late?” Bell asked.
O’Riordan started to answer before Bell’s grin told him it was a joke. Policemen were supposed to be out late.
The detective nodded at the limousines. “Big doings.”
“Judge Congdon’s got a special waiting at Grand Central. Tracks cleared to Chicago. And I’m sorry to tell you I have me orders to clear the street. Straight from the captain.”
Bell did not seem to hear. “Paddy, I want you to meet my wife— Marion, may I present Roundsman O’Riordan, former scourge of Staten Island pirates back when he was in the Harbor Squad. There wasn’t a wharf rat in New York who didn’t buy drinks for the house the night Paddy came ashore.”
She reached across her husband with an ungloved hand that seemed to glow like ivory. O’Riordan took it carefully in his enormous fist and bowed low.
“A privilege to meet you, marm. I’ve known your good husband many years in the line of duty. And may I say, marm, that Mrs. O’Riordan and I have greatly enjoyed your moving picture shows.”
She thanked him in a musical voice that would sing in his mind for days.
Chief Inspector Bell said, “Well, we better not keep you from your rounds.”
O’Riordan touched his stick to his helmet again. If a crack private detective chose to canoodle with his own wife in a dark auto on Wall Street in the middle of the night—orders be damned.
“I’ll tell the boys not to disturb you.”
But Bell motioned him closer and whispered, “I wouldn’t mind if they kept an eye out if I have to leave her alone a moment.”
“They’ll be drawin’ straws for the privilege.”
• • •
BACKSLAPPING POLITICIANS burst from the building and converged on the smaller of the limousines, a seven-passenger Rambler Knickerbocker.
Isaac Bell opened the curtain to hear them.
“Driver! Straight to Grand Central.”
“Don’t love handing the vice presidency to a louse like Congdon, but that’s politics.”
“Money talks.”
The Rambler Knickerbocker drove off. Senior men emerged next. Moving more slowly, they climbed into the second limousine, an enormous Cunningham Model J, hand-built at great expense to Judge James Congdon’s own
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