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

it was far too wide to reach across. The guard had to go around it, and by the time he could, Bell would be dashing across the lawn.

The man rushed for the desk and swung a punch with his left hand. It looked awkward, and the range was far beyond his reach, but his fist smashed into Bell’s face anyway. It was a glancing blow yet one that stunned Bell for the long moment it took his brain to process the possibility of being struck.

The guard took that opening to leap on the desk and chop down with what Bell now realized was an artificial arm, one fashioned several inches longer than its flesh-and-blood partner in order to serve as a weapon of surprise.

The distraction had so rooted Bell to where he stood that he barely got an arm up to protect himself as the man tried to stave in his head. The power of the blow struck him with enough momentum to drop him to his knees, and his forearm went numb.

The guard jumped off the desk, aiming his shoes at the back of Bell’s neck.

Bell rolled just before the impact, hooked a hand around the man’s ankle before he had centered his weight, and yanked him off his feet. He crashed to the floor hard enough to rattle the house. The dog began barking in another room, and its claws scratched frantically as it accelerated through the house to investigate the disturbance. Bell got to his feet and pushed through the French doors and back out into the storm. Its glass shattered in his wake as the guard swung again with his elongated prosthetic arm and it met nothing but the elegant door.

Bell retrieved his poncho as he ran. The dog was after him like an arrow and would have sunk its jaws into his thigh before he reached the patio’s edge had it not detected the strong scent of manchineel again.

It kept barking and running alongside Bell, but it wouldn’t commit itself to attack. Bell ran hard for the manchineel trees, flipping the poncho over his head as he plowed into the toxin-laced forest. The storm had diluted the trees’ potency, yet any water touching his skin still felt like fire. The dog managed to get tangled between Bell’s feet. Bell and the dog both fell to the ground in a jumble of limbs. The animal’s coat was short, so its skin was poorly protected. It let out a yelp when its belly hit the forest’s litter of wet leaves and it scrambled to its feet before Bell had even come to a full stop.

Torn between its duty to protect his master and its instinct of self-preservation, the dog raced back toward the house in an inky black streak.

Bell got to his feet, careful not to use his hands when levering himself upright. He adjusted both his hat and poncho to give the most protection and set off again, much more mindful of his surroundings.

He steered clear of the driveway, knowing that with the dog returning to the house so soon, the guard would go search for him in an automobile. Minutes into his hike back to the Renault, a long-hooded saloon sedan drove by slowly. Bell paused and sank to the ground until the vehicle was past. He could tell the car was turning toward Panama City when it reached the end of the drive. Bell tore through the jungle to get to the road and ran as hard as he could in the opposite direction to where he’d left his car. He figured the guard would check the roads for no more than a mile or two before doubling back and investigating the coast road past the estate.

Bell reached the Renault in record time, but he was breathing so heavily that he wasted precious seconds doubled over trying to get his breath back. He set the throttle and choke to the proper settings and worked the hand crank a quarter turn to prime the carburetor. Then he pulled the throttle, making sure the car was in neutral, before returning to the crank once more. It took six tries for the now cooled engine to fire. In that time, a glow had emerged down the road, a vague aura that grew in brightness as the stately saloon drew closer.

Bell hopped back into the sodden driver’s seat and put the Renault in reverse, steering by looking over his shoulder so he didn’t waste time turning the car around. He didn’t bother with the headlights.

He backed down the road as fast as he dared, and all the while Dreissen’s car was growing closer and closer. He was still far out of range of the German’s lights, but every second their corona became brighter. He’d gone at least a mile in reverse and suspected the engine was overheating, as no air was getting through the radiator. He had to spin around or the car would die.

By what silvery light made it through the storm clouds from the half-moon, Bell judged the best spot to sling the car around. Near one of the other hacienda driveways, the gravel track was a bit wider. Bell steered the Renault as close as he could risk to the verge and then stomped the brakes and powered the wheel hard over. The roadster slewed around so quickly that the front wheels lost grip. Bell had the transmission in first by the time the hood was lined up with the road once again. He popped the clutch and mashed the throttle so the engine would stop the car from spinning out and into the ditch.

He was quickly up to thirty miles per hour, and while Dreissen’s automobile kept gaining, the driver never got close enough to spot Bell ahead of him. After three miles or so, Bell saw the other car’s headlights diminish, as the guard slowed, and then go dark when he turned the big car back toward the hacienda.

Bell took his foot off