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

typewriters had gone silent, and he could hear chairs scraping back as officers rose to get a better look at the disturbance.

The desk sergeant happened to be out from behind his counter and talking to a couple kids waiting on a couch while their mother was giving a statement. He was older, rounded, yet he had good reflexes. And he wasn’t fooled by the uniform. He tried to stop Bell, as he raced for the front door, grabbing at one of his arms. Bell easily twisted free, but the veteran cop was on his heels when he burst out onto the street.

A police car sat at the curb. Bell couldn’t tell if the engine was running, but there was a driver in the front seat, with another cop leaning in the window, chatting.

Bell turned right and kept running. He looped an arm through the shoulder holster strap to keep one hand free. At the end of the block, he slowed just enough to look back. The sergeant was jumping into the backseat of the patrol car. It accelerated from the curb, its horn honking to make room in the traffic. They would be on him before he made another block.

As a truck was just about to roar past, Bell ran into the street, trying to keep pace with the vehicle. The two-ton Mack had an open bed with tall wooden stakes along the sides. Able to match its speed for barely a second, Bell leapt and managed to grab two of the stanchions just behind the cab. His feet hung dangerously close to the spinning rear wheels. He pulled and groped and climbed to get his legs clear of danger.

The truck went around a corner, and Bell’s grip was almost broken as his legs swung out away from the vehicle. When the truck was back on the straightaway, the centrifugal force dissipated, and Bell slammed into its side. He was forced to tuck his legs to keep them from being torn off.

A second later, the police car careened around the same corner, its driver honking the horn furiously. The sound was muffled by the din in the street and the truck engine’s noise.

Bell clamped the blade with his teeth and straightened himself out a bit, climbing high enough for one foot to find purchase and free up a hand. He transferred the knife to its sheath. From his perch, clinging to the outside of the truck, it felt like they were rocketing down the street. In fact, the police car chasing them was much faster and would overtake the Mack in just a few more seconds. Bell noted the truck’s cargo contained tidy ranks of small wooden barrels. Hand over hand, he clambered to the rear of the vehicle and swung himself over the single length of chain that acted as a tailgate. He landed atop the barrels and rushed to unhook one side of the chain. It dropped free, twisting and rattling on the rough road like a snake.

He kicked one of the two-foot-tall pony kegs off the back of the truck. It smashed onto the ground hard enough to crack some of its staves, and a thick black fluid oozed out. It was either engine grease or molasses.

The police car slowed in plenty of time to swerve around the obstacle and continue the chase. When it drew closer, Bell unleashed another projectile. He kicked the second barrel much harder this time, causing it to land farther behind the truck and nearer the pursuing sedan. The driver had to brake hard before jerking the wheel over to avoid the keg.

Bell did this two more times before the cops decided they didn’t need to close in on the truck again but seemed satisfied to tail the big Mack for as long as it took. They thought ahead and knew the driver had a destination for his cargo and would reach it at some point. All they had to do was stay behind it.

For a moment, Bell sensed that he was trapped. The .45 hanging under his arm wasn’t an option. There was no way he was going to open fire on the police. If he somehow made it into the Canal Zone, he doubted Ortega would launch a formal protest over some trumped-up charges. But if Bell took potshots at the police, he imagined Colonel Goethals would be compelled to turn him in.

He was contemplating jumping out of the moving vehicle when inspiration hit. He dumped two more barrels haphazardly to give himself some working room. The police car dodged them with ease. Bell then lined up four barrels at the very edge of the cargo bed, but rather than kick them off one by one, he lay down and wedged his back against them and waited until the opposite lane was choked by traffic. Against the barrels’ combined two hundred–plus pounds of deadweight, he pushed with his arms and legs. The barrels dropped in unison, and all four split open and stuck fast.

The lane was effectively blocked. Bell dusted off his hands in triumph as the cops had no choice but to stop. It would be several minutes before there was a hole in the traffic, buying Bell enough time to improvise the next part of his escape.

The policeman didn’t hesitate. He swung the wheel and took the cruiser up onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians and smashing apart the wooden boxes of vegetables displayed outside a greengrocer’s. The car dropped back onto the road past the gooey barricade, and this time kept coming. The sergeant leaned out the window, a revolver in his hand.

Bell wormed his way into the remaining barrels to protect himself. The gun roared. Bell heard the bullet hit close by.

Unbeknownst to him, the truck’s driver had a second man in the cab with him. At the sound of gunfire, the man looked back to see a police car on their tail with one officer brandishing a weapon. He yelled at the driver to stop.

The truck