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

trolley was tucked against the building’s flank. Rather than explain his plan, Bell shoved Senator Densmore in the chest so he fell backward onto the trolley. Bell kept his pistol in his hand and threw his weight behind the cart. They began rolling down the hill and away from the hotel, accelerating with each passing second.

“Have you lost your mind?” Densmore bellowed in a panic. “Leave me be, you fool.”

“Kindly shut up, Senator. I’m saving your life.” Bell chanced a look behind them as they gathered more and more speed. They were almost past the smokestacks of the hotel’s dedicated power plant. The gunmen were just now leaping through the broken window more than a hundred feet back. One of them had taken up the Lewis gun from his dead comrade and swapped out the platter-like magazine.

Like all the best hunters, the shooters looked for movement more than anything else and immediately focused on the glimmering brass cart rolling down the hill toward the marina. The streets were full of revelers—couples and families out to enjoy the distractions offered by Tent City. The stream of fire from the Lewis gun would cut through them like a scythe through winter wheat.

The luggage cart was wobbly and awkward. Bell had to keep running behind it in order to prevent Densmore’s bulk from accelerating it past a point of no return and crashing. Still, he managed to pull his right hand back enough to point his Model 1911 into the air and fire off the last two bullets in the gun.

People who’d originally thought the hurtling luggage cart with two men aboard was some sort of lark suddenly burst into a panic at the whip-crack report of gunfire. Women screamed, and the men began herding them away from the marina. The groundswell of fear that spread through the crowd likely saved lives.

But Bell taking his right hand off the trolley for the barest of seconds had disastrous results for him and Densmore. The cart listed just a bit. Despite its swiveling casters, it was going too fast and was too unevenly loaded to remain upright.

It flipped onto its side, Bell jumping free just as it fell to the roadway. He hit the ground with his shoulder and allowed momentum to flip him over several times. Senator Densmore stayed with the cart, as it scraped along the pavement, before he rolled clear, his body absorbing the impact with its sloshing waves of fat.

Bell got to his hands and knees, giving himself a second for his senses to clear. He shook his head from side to side and got to his feet. Densmore was on the ground a few feet away, moaning. Bell limped over to the Senator, reaching for a spare magazine. He ejected his spent clip, letting it fall to the ground, and slapped home a fresh one. He racked the slide to seat a fat brass cartridge in the chamber, all the while walking faster and faster. Densmore levered himself onto his backside just as Bell reached him. Bell didn’t slow. He dipped and rammed his left arm under the Senator’s armpit and hauled the large man from the ground and propelled him forward.

“Unhand me this instant.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet, sir,” Bell told him. “These Red Vipers are a persistent lot.”

The Queen Anne–style boathouse was packed with people enjoying a private party. None of them had heard the shots or seen the cart crash in the parking lot. The waters around the building were thick with boats. Mostly they were single-masted day sailers or large steam yachts, but there were a number of wooden-hulled speedboats.

The air suddenly exploded as the Lewis gun opened up in a roar of fire and smoke and lead. Bell threw Densmore flat just as they’d stepped onto the pier. The shooter had opened fire from two hundred feet away and let the gun’s bolt cycle until it was out of ammo. Like before, this man couldn’t control the heavy weapon, and rounds ricocheted off lamposts and the ground and streaked harmlessly into the night air. But some people in the crowd were hit.

Bell fired two hasty return shots before dragging Densmore to his feet once again. He’d noted that the other two gunmen were rushing forward while the machine gunner had been left behind to change ammo drums.

“Stay low,” the Van Dorn detective cautioned.

Densmore nodded. The Senator was getting over his initial shock.

The throngs of revelers around them had erupted into a mindless mob of screaming and shouting and manic motion. To escape the deadly fire, people surged in ragtag shoals, like frightened fish first sensing a hunting shark. Many ended up falling into the water, while others were pushed to the ground. Bell saw several citizens risk their lives to save those who’d fallen, while others were reaching for life preservers and boat hooks to help those who’d tumbled into the bay. Most others had started running in whatever direction got them away from the carnage left in the wake of the deadly burst of automatic fire.

Bell’s eye passed over the array of boats pulled fast to the long pier and spotted the one he wanted. It was a mahogany-hulled runabout with an open cockpit that had just arrived, driven by a dapperly dressed man who was handing over a mooring line to a uniformed dock attendant. Another employee had already helped his stunning companion out of the boat and onto the dock.

The party had all frozen at the sound of the Lewis gun chewing through its drum of .303 rounds, and Bell seized the opportunity. He pushed the Senator into the boat’s rear bench seat, just in front of the engine housing, and jumped in after him. The owner swiveled to protest the unauthorized boarders.

Bell showed him the ugly profile of his Colt automatic. “Need to borrow your boat.”

The man went ashen but quickly scrambled out of his prized harbor cruiser. Bell ignored everything but getting away from the charging gunmen. As