The Bootlegger Clive Cussler (that summer book .txt) 📖

ship kept going. Then Isaac Bell’s airplane, which he recognized because it was identical to the Newport Flying Service planes but didn’t have that name written on it, swooped out of the storm and dropped a bomb on the tanker.

That didn’t do a thing to it. Then the tanker shot blue tracer bullets at Bell. And now Bell’s plane was falling out of the sky with its wings on fire.

“When he hits the water,” he told Robin, “we’ll pick up the pieces.”

“He won’t hit the water,” said the little girl. “He’ll hit the ship.”

Sharp-eyed Robin was right. Bell’s plane was flying behind the ship, catching up at forty knots to the tanker’s twelve. At the last second, it dodged the funnel and smacked down on the middle of the ship, slid along the flat deck between the funnel and the house in a shower of sparks, and banged to a stop against a ventilator.

“That can’t have done Mr. Bell any good,” Darbee said to Robin. “Might as well head home.”

“Let’s wait,” said Robin.

“What for?”

“It isn’t over.”

•   •   •

“OUT!”

Bell grabbed the Thompson .45 in one hand and Asa with the other. He half helped, half threw the boy over the side, hooked a bundle of stick grenades on his belt, and jumped down beside him. “Run before it blows.”

“It will blow up the ship.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

They ran toward the house and took cover around the front of it.

Bell’s flying boat exploded. Wings, tail, floats, most of the passenger cabin, and the burning fuel tank flew into the wind and fell in the harbor. The few parts still smoldering on the steel deck were drenched by the rain. The ship, which was pounding ahead at twelve knots, and its flammable cargo, seemed immune. Bell had one hope left.

He drew his Browning pistol and shoved it into Asa’s hand. “Stay here. Take this. Shoot anybody who tries to follow me.”

Detonating the three-inch shells stacked around the cannon would blow the bow off the ship and stop her dead. He had failed to do it from the safety of the air. Here on the ship, the trick would be to do it without blowing himself up, too. Bell ran toward the cannon on the foredeck. Could he throw a grenade accurately enough to detonate the shells yet from far enough to escape with his life? He was reaching for one on his belt when he heard a shot behind him.

Bell whirled around. Asa had fallen to the deck.

A shadow swooped out of the rain like a giant bird. In the corner of his vision Bell saw a wet rope glistening. He saw Marat Zolner’s face—lips drawn with effort, eyes eerily calm. He saw a rubber-soled boot. The boot was flying at his face. Bell slewed aside. It slammed into his chest, knocked the Thompson out of his hands, and threw him halfway across the ship.

Bell tucked his shoulder, rolled, and sprang to his feet in a fighting crouch.

He was amazed to see the tall, lithe Russian so near, he could almost touch him.

Zolner was holding the rope. It was tied to the front rail on top of the wheelhouse, and Bell saw that he had jumped from the back to swing three stories to the deck.

“Simple physics, Bell. What are you doing on my ship?”

“Arresting a hero.”

“You’ve spoken with Fern.” Zolner let go of the rope.

Isaac Bell attacked, throwing lightning jabs and a hard left hook. He landed all three punches. Zolner shrugged them off. Bell threw two more with the same lack of effect. The man was so fast, it was like punching quicksilver.

Bell had twenty pounds on him, a huge advantage. He used it, wading in, punching hard. Ducking and weaving with incredible speed, Zolner pulled a long-handled blackjack from a back pocket and swung it. The blow was remarkable for its power and its accuracy, and Isaac Bell realized, as pain blazed through his elbow, that Zolner had hit him exactly where he intended to. His arm hung limply, coursing like fire, useless.

Zolner smiled. “That should even things up.” He shifted the blackjack from one hand to the other, left to right, right to left, fast as a juggler. The weapon was a blur and suddenly, in a burst of synchronized movement, it jumped at Bell’s face.

43

THE BLACKJACK whistled through the air. It came from Bell’s left and Bell could not lift his left arm high enough to block the bone-crushing blow. He struggled to raise it anyway. Otherwise, he hardly moved.

The blackjack grazed his nose.

Bell had moved just enough to let the blackjack pass and draw Zolner’s arm across his torso. He concentrated one hundred seventy-five pounds of bone and muscle to crash a low right cross straight into Zolner’s rib cage. His reward was a soft crack of bone and a gasp.

The Comintern agent staggered.

Bell moved to finish him off.

Zolner was too fast and too strong. The body blow should have doubled him up. But before Bell could retract his right fist and cock it for another blow, Zolner charged with sudden fury, kicking, punching, swinging his blackjack. Another strike against Bell’s elbow took his breath away. They grappled. Zolner broke loose.

Bell swiped blood out of his eyes, vaguely aware that the blackjack had torn his brow. He felt as if the tanker’s deck was shaking under his feet.

Zolner circled. Hunched, favoring his side, he said, “None of this would have happened if your precious boss hadn’t blundered into a bullet.”

“Three bullets.” Bell went straight at him.

Zolner sidestepped and jerked his thumb in the direction where Asa had fallen on the deck. “Is your vengeance worth it? The boy is dead. Your boss is crippled. And I’ll go home a hero.”

Bell stopped in his tracks.

He’s outfoxed me at nearly every turn, he thought. He’s outfoxing me now, but I don’t know how. Bell knew he was not thinking clearly. He was exhausted after two days in the storm. His arm was on fire.