The Saboteurs by Clive Cussler (top 10 best books of all time .TXT) 📗

nodded to the waiter to take away his place setting. “We can’t have that sort of thing on our doorstep, nor can we afford postponing the completion of the canal. We are too heavily invested.”

“Precisely,” Talbot said brightly. “I want permission from the Canal Authority to lead a small band of local fighters to hunt down Viboras Rojas. I have the men. I just need the consent. Senator, George Goethals just doesn’t understand that a war is looming over the horizon, one he can’t win but one I can snuff out now. Please contact him and get him to agree to my—”

From outside the large dining room came a sharp shout, and then the closed wooden doors shuddered as a man was thrown against them. A second later, five heavily armed men burst into the cavernous chamber, and the gunfire they unleashed was a hurricane of lead and flame.

4

Renny Hart’s cry was all the warning Bell needed. Even as the gunmen were rushing into the room, he was getting to his feet and sliding the .45 Colt from its holster. In the next fraction of a second, before one of the shooters could trigger off a hail of .303 rounds from the Lewis machine gun slung over his shoulder, Bell recognized he was outgunned. Fighting a pitched battle was out of the question. His priority shifted to protecting the Senator’s life.

Chivalry may dictate that he protect Elizabeth Densmore, but he knew she wasn’t the intended target. William Densmore was the most important person in the room, and Bell knew he had to save his life.

Bell left his pistol in its holster and squatted so he could ram the heels of his hands against the underside of the table.

The Lewis gun erupted, blasting out a tongue of flame and a stitching string of rounds that shattered glass and splintered wood. The weapon filled the room with such a din that even Elizabeth’s shrieks of terror were drowned out.

Using the muscles of his legs, Bell heaved the table up on its side. Plates and cutlery and stemware tumbled to the floor as he flipped it vertically so that it presented a heavy shield between the gunmen and their intended target. The waiter fell flat. Court Talbot was struggling to pull a snub-nosed revolver from inside his bush jacket because young Miss Densmore was clambering all over him. She held on to one of his arms while her other arm wrapped around his head. She continued to scream like a steam whistle.

William Densmore had fallen over backward and had gone so red that Bell was legitimately concerned he’d have a heart attack and save the gunmen, doubtlessly members of Viboras Rojas, the trouble.

The shooters were rushing forward and would quickly outflank their position. The table was more than tall enough for Bell to stand behind. The windows were close, but to reach them they’d have to run a dozen feet in plain sight of the shooters. They’d be cut down long before they’d make it.

The table was resting on its edge and two of its four legs. The other two legs were at head height. Bell shoved one of the legs as hard as he could, and the entire table rotated a quarter turn. Talbot understood what was happening even if he couldn’t disentangle himself from Elizabeth’s clutches.

The party hiding behind it realized their protective cover was lurching away from them and shuffled on the floor to keep it between them and the shooters.

Bell pushed at the leg now just in front of him, and the table turned another quarter revolution, prompting the party to move again. The waiter stood. He was a big, strapping kid who looked like he could play football for Cal. As soon as Bell flipped the table another partial turn, he was in position to hit the next leg and keep the table rolling across the dining room. All the while, the gunmen continued to rush at them and fire. Their aim was atrocious, thankfully, but rounds still slapped the table, and shards of decorative woodwork rained down from the ceiling.

Their table crashed into another one already set for the next morning’s breakfast. The table twisted enough that the party was momentarily exposed. Bell pulled his Colt free from its holster and fired one-handed while yanking Senator Densmore to his feet.

His aim was far superior to the Panamanians’, especially the machine gunner. Every time he yanked the Lewis gun’s trigger, the barrel rose and pulled to the left. Bell put him down with two rounds to the torso and spiraled another shooter to the hardwood floor with a fatal wound to the throat. Bell ducked back behind cover.

“You’re armed?” Courtney Talbot asked incredulously.

A moment later, another of the terrorists had taken up the Lewis gun and let fly. The bullets pounding against the table sounded like it was taking blows from a hammer, but it held. Not even the powerful .303 round could penetrate the stout wood.

Bell fired blindly around the table and dragged a near-catatonic Densmore through one of the shattered windows. Densmore tripped at the last second and pulled Bell to the sidewalk just as a bullet screamed past his ear. Shards of broken glass crunched beneath their tangled bodies.

Bell had seconds. He got Densmore up.

“Run,” he shouted to the others, and provided covering fire so they could make their escape through another window. Elizabeth was sandwiched between Talbot and the waiter as they vanished into the night.

The sun was fully set, but there were plenty of lights around the Hotel Del. The midway of Tent City blazed like a carnival, and the raucous toots of a steam calliope carried on the gentle breeze. The air Bell drew into his lungs was sultry and salt-laced. Next to him, the Senator puffed like an asthmatic in full distress. Near to where they stood was a bellhop station. It was unmanned, but a gleaming brass luggage