Dirk Pitt 22 - Poseidon's Arrow

by Clive Cussler

  The avenue meandered up a hill, leaving behind both traffic and roadside businesses—and also any lighting. Passing a rusty Volkswagen Beetle, Pitt caught sight of the truck a half mile ahead. The utility van’s small engine howled in protest as he kept the accelerator floored, while the small tires lapped up the asphalt. The road curved sharply, and Pitt screeched through the turn, spraying a cloud of dust on a blue Dodge Charger parked on the shoulder. The Charger’s headlights instantly popped on, and it eased onto the road.

  “You still feeling sorry for those utility men?” Pitt said.

  “A wee bit. Why do you ask?”

  “I think they went and called the Federales on us.”

  “How do you know?”

  Pitt glanced in the rearview mirror as flashing lights exploded on the Charger’s roof.

  “Because they’re right behind us.”

  17

  THE CHARGER’S ROOF-MOUNTED LIGHT BAR BATHED the parched hillsides in alternating rays of blue and red. A short distance ahead, the pickup truck’s driver clenched the steering wheel when he saw the lights behind him.

  “Pablo! It’s the police. They were waiting at the last bend.”

  Sitting in the truck’s rear seat, Pablo glanced over his shoulder at the lights, then looked at the speedometer.

  “You were not speeding?”

  “No more than a kilometer or two over the limit, I swear.”

  Pablo showed no signs of concern on his bullish face. “Lose them before we get close to the airport,” he said without emotion. “If necessary, we’ll ditch our weapons. And the girl.”

  Ann tensed, wondering if they would kill her first. Sitting between Pablo and the bearded man named Juan, she didn’t know which man to fear more. Shrinking from Pablo, she turned toward her other guard. With a black eye and dried blood on his cheek, Juan sat with a pistol against her ribs and a snarl etched on his face.

  Ann’s hands had been bound and a gun held on her after Pablo discovered her on the boat. Fear had gripped her since, but now a glimmer of hope surfaced in the form of the Mexican police. Perhaps Pitt had somehow informed them. She silently prayed that she wouldn’t get caught in the cross fire of a shoot-out.

  The driver accelerated sharply, which caused the four-door pickup to sway and bounce over the rough road. It zipped through several switchbacks before cresting a high coastal ridge. Once over the summit, the road wound down the opposite flank, dropping into the broad valley that housed the border town of Tijuana.

  A million lights twinkled through the hazy smog suspended over the city. That view soon vanished as the pickup raced down the slope and entered the city’s outskirts. Looking back, the driver saw he had distanced himself from the police car’s flashing lights.

  The truck approached a busy four-lane freeway that looped around the southern end of Tijuana. Pablo noticed the driver begin to turn onto the highway. “No, stay off the highway! Go through the city, it will be easier to lose them.”

  The driver nodded and headed into the congested confines of Tijuana. He glanced into his mirror once more. Another vehicle was preventing the police car from closing pursuit.

  The intervening vehicle was the utility van. Pitt was doing everything he could to keep within reach of the pickup, despite the police car on his tail. He had nearly melted the van’s small engine, whipping it up the hill at high revolutions to keep pace. The more powerful police Charger easily caught up to the van, then rode its rear bumper with authority.

  Pitt created a slight advantage for himself on the downhill run, driving the van on the very edge. Gravel flew as he rocketed through the turns, more focused on staying with the pickup than eluding the police car. The Charger’s driver was more cautious, allowing Pitt to create some separation as they barreled toward the city.

  “We’re going to have to do something about our companion,” Pitt said, as they entered the city of nearly two million people.

  Giordino glanced at the back of the van, which was stockpiled with tools and electrical supplies that had been clanging back and forth.

  “I’ll see if there’s a Federales removal device in back.” He carefully climbed out of his seat as they swayed down the road.

  The van’s walls were lined with spools of wire and bins full of electrical connectors, plus an assortment of tools. Hardly an arsenal of defense, Giordino thought. Then he spotted a short rack of conduit pipe. Used to protect exposed wiring, the thin four-foot sections of galvanized steel were threaded at each end. Giordino’s brow arched as he found a binful of couplings. He called up to Pitt. “I think I’ve got something.”

  A minute later, the van sped past the freeway on-ramp and continued into the city. The pickup turned right at a stoplight two blocks ahead, and Pitt called out to Giordino, “Coming up!”

  He eased off the accelerator, ensuring that the police car hung close behind. When they got within a few car lengths of the stoplight, Pitt yelled, “Now!”

  Giordino kicked open the rear doors and slid out an eight-foot section of conduit he had coupled together. He wedged one end against a chunk of wood braced by the rear wheel wells and secured its lateral movement with pieces of wire he wrapped around the door hinges. Pitt gave him a second to scramble out of the way and then slammed on the brakes.

  The police officer had already slowed when he spotted the pipe slide out like some kind of medieval jousting lance and braked heavily when the van’s rear lights lit up. Pitt had the advantage with a lighter vehicle and he pressed his case by slamming the van into reverse the instant it lost forward momentum.

  The police car rammed into the van’s rear bumper moments after being impaled by Giordino’s makeshift weapon. The conduit pipe rammed through the Charger’s grille and radiator before striking the engine block and crumpling like an accordion. A cloud of steam burst from the engine bay, unseen by the policemen inside whose vision was blocked by exploding air bags.

  Pitt threw the van into first gear and stepped on the gas. A grinding sound erupted from the rear as the van struggled to move forward. The bumper finally broke free from the Charger, and the van lurched ahead. Giordino looked back to see the pipe jutting from the grille of the police car like the beak of a hummingbird, steam billowing behind it.

  Giordino made his way back to the front seat. “Now you’re really going to cost those utility boys.”

  “Just proves those two gringos really were crazy.”

  Pitt tightened his grip on the wheel and scoured the road ahead with renewed urgency. Every cop in Tijuana would soon be searching for the battered utility van. Wheeling around the corner, he pressed the accelerator to the floor. They’d have to make a play for Ann—and quickly.

  18

  I DON’T SEE THE POLICE LIGHTS ANYMORE.” The pickup’s driver flashed Pablo a dirty smile. Years of drug use had left his mouth a cavern of brown gums and decayed teeth. “I think we lost them.”

  “Do not draw attention to your driving,” Pablo said, “but get us to the airport without delay.”

  The driver checked the route on the truck’s navigation screen: it angled across the city toward the airport on the northeast side of town. Glancing constantly in the mirror for police lights, he paid little attention to the small utility van that followed a short distance behind.

  As they approached the city center, the streets became more congested. The pickup’s driver turned east, down a street called Plaza El Toreo, where the dirty sidewalks were swarming with people. As he dodged some jaywalkers, the pickup hit a large pothole, which sent the crate bouncing on the truck bed.

  Following close behind, Pitt and Giordino saw the unsecured box move.

  Giordino rubbed his chin. “What do you suppose is in there that’s causing all the excitement?”

  “I wish I knew.” Pitt had to suppress his anger over leading the crew of the Drake into a dangerous situation without any advance warning.

  Giordino pointed at the truck. “If you pull alongside the bed, I might just be able to g
rab hold of that thing.”

  Pitt considered the idea. Driving a wanted vehicle, and with no weapons, they had little chance of overpowering the men in the pickup. Their options were limited, if not suicidal. “Maybe we could negotiate a swap for Ann,” he said, “if they don’t kill us outright.”

  They had the advantage of being in a crowded city, one with a sketchy reputation. Giordino agreed it was worth the risk.

  Pitt kept the van close to the pickup’s rear bumper, waiting for a break in the oncoming traffic so he could pull alongside. The vehicles reached a stop sign, which Pitt eased past without stopping. He was chagrined to look up and see a police car passing in the opposite direction.

  He held his gaze ahead as the car passed, then tracked it in his mirror. The police car rapidly made a three-point turn on the narrow street, nearly flinging a boy off a motorbike.

  “I think we’ve been made,” Pitt said.

  Giordino rolled down his window. “Then let’s at least get something for our trouble.”

  Pitt edged closer to the truck as lights erupted behind him.

  The police car tried to fight its way across the intersection, but a semitrailer truck had turned in front of it, slowly navigating through a tight turn. Pitt looked ahead, waiting for a battered Isuzu to pass in the other lane before catching a gap in the oncoming traffic. Flooring the accelerator, he surged into the other lane and pulled alongside the truck. Giordino leaned out the side window and thrust his arms into the bed, grasping for the crate.

  The pickup’s driver, alerted by the police lights in his mirror, saw Giordino lunge out of the van. He immediately tapped his brakes. Giordino just managed to duck back inside his window to avoid colliding with the truck’s cab. For an instant, the two vehicles traveled alongside.

  “Almost got it,” he said to Pitt. “Give me one more try.”

  Giordino sat nearly face-to-face with Juan, who was desperately lowering his window.

  Pitt matched the truck’s braking, then looked ahead and saw a cement mixer rambling down the road directly in front of him. “Make it quick!” Pitt stepped harder on the brakes.

  The pickup accelerated, and Pitt fought to match it before facing a head-on collision.

  As the van again pulled alongside the pickup’s bed, Giordino was true to his word. Hanging half out the window, he snared a handle on one end of the box. With a hard pull, he yanked the box out of the bed, letting it dangle alongside the van. “Got it!”

  Pitt had no room to accelerate past the truck, so he braked hard. But the truck also slowed, keeping him hemmed in the opposite lane with the cement mixer just yards away. A narrow side street appeared on his left, and Pitt stomped on the accelerator and turned the wheel hard over.

  Inside the truck, Juan finally lowered his window. He climbed halfway out and aimed a Glock 22 at the van. He fired a wild volley of shots—until the pickup driver shouted, “Look out!”

  Too late, Juan turned to see the front fender of the cement mixer a heartbeat before it clipped him just beneath his collar. His clothes caught on the fender and he was plucked out of the truck. Both legs were smashed as he was ripped backward.

  Swerving left, Pitt barely escaped a collision of his own. As the van screeched across the cement mixer’s path, just missing its front bumper, a spray of bullet holes opened along the side panel and up the passenger door. Only the last bullet did any damage, splintering the crate and nicking Giordino’s hand. Nerve reflex caused him to release his grip, and the crate plunged to the pavement.

  Panicked, the cement mixer’s driver slammed on the brakes. Briefly clutching the fender, Juan slid off and under the left front wheel. The opposite tire found the dropped crate, and the mixer bounced over both. The massive vehicle skidded to a halt, but only after flattening the remains of Juan and the crate under its dual rear wheels.

  Stunned by the sight in his rearview mirror, the pickup’s driver lost rein of his own vehicle. He drifted right and barreled into a Chevy Cobalt parked at the curb. The four-door pickup rode up onto the little car’s trunk before grinding to a halt. A bang filled the air as the pickup’s front tire cut into the car’s shredded body and burst.

  Across the street, the utility van went from careening past the cement mixer to nearly rear-ending an SUV. The side street was clogged with traffic, and Pitt locked the brakes to slide to a halt. Crowds of people filled the sidewalks and street, blocking the traffic ahead. Pitt noticed flashing lights reflecting off the storefront windows; the police car was approaching the scene.

  “I think,” Pitt said, “this would be a good time to kiss our utility van good-bye.”

  Giordino shook his head. “And I was just getting rather attached to her.” He found a roll of electrical tape and began wrapping his bleeding hand.

  “You okay?” Pitt asked, just realizing his friend had been injured.

  “I may have to give up two-fisted drinking for a spell, but I’ll live.”

  They jumped out of the van and blended into the crowd that began to surround the cement mixer. Ignoring Juan’s flattened body, they moved to examine the smashed box.

  There was little to see. A mangled assortment of wires, circuit boards, and metal casings were spread under the truck like a disemboweled robot. Whatever the box had contained, it was well beyond any attempt to resurrect.

  They slid away from the mixer as two police officers approached with their sidearms drawn. Pitt and Giordino worked their way toward the pickup truck, using the mass of onlookers to avoid detection. The crowds were thicker on the sidewalk, so they joined the throng moving alongside the mangled sedan and truck. With a sense of dread, Pitt stepped forward and peered inside the pickup.

  Both right doors were flung open, but Ann and the other occupants were nowhere to be seen.

  19

  PABLO HAD WATCHED THE DESTRUCTION OF THE crate with disbelief. The death of his fellow gunman registered as little more than a nuisance, but losing the box made his face turn crimson. He vented his rage on Ann.

  “What do you know of the device?” He jabbed his pistol against her.

  Ann gritted her teeth and said nothing.

  “Pablo . . . the police are approaching.” The driver’s face was pale, and his fingers shook atop the steering wheel.

  Pablo glared at Ann. “You will talk later. Do as I say or I will kill you here. Now, get out of the car.”

  Ann followed him out the passenger-side door as the driver grabbed a light jacket and draped it over her bound hands. She glanced back toward the utility van but failed to see Pitt or Giordino. She had been as shocked as Pablo to see them appear alongside the truck, and she wondered how they had been able to track her.

  As they stepped onto the sidewalk, a young man in a black silk shirt accosted the driver.

  “That’s my car,” he said, pointing to the smashed Chevy. “Look what you did.”

  Pablo stepped over to him and discretely mashed his pistol into the man’s stomach. “Be quiet or die,” he said in a low voice.

  The man stumbled backward, nodding profusely. His eyes wide, he turned and fled down the street.

  Pablo stepped back and grabbed Ann by the arm, then glanced over his shoulder. He saw the police officers exit their car, and then he studied the crowd. He quickly spotted two Americans in work clothes looking under the cement mixer’s right rear wheels. He had recognized them when their van had pulled alongside as the men who piloted the Drake’s submersible.

  He turned and nudged Ann forward. “Move.”

  “What about Juan?” The driver gazed toward the cement mixer with a look of shock.

  Pablo said nothing, ignoring the body of his dead partner as he guided Ann into the center of the busy sidewalk.

  Arriving at the pickup a minute later, Pitt and Giordino scanned the crowds for Ann. A small girl sat on the curb, selling fresh-cut flowers out of a cardboard box. She caught Pitt’s eye and held out a clump of daisies. Pitt paid for the flowers, then handed them back to the girl with a
smile. Blushing, she sniffed the daisies, then raised a hand and pointed down the street.

  Pitt winked at the girl and took off in the same direction. “This way, Al.”

  The crowd grew thicker as they made their way down the block. Pitt surveyed the moving mass, trying to spot Ann’s blond locks. They moved with the herd to the end of the street, which opened into a large parking lot packed with cars. Finally, Pitt and Giordino saw where all the people were headed.

  A newly rebuilt stadium towered over the opposite end of the parking lot. The structure was perfectly round, yet much smaller than a typical American baseball or football stadium. Streams of people headed into the building, following ramps at either end. Pitt looked up to see the top of the stadium capped in electric lights that read PLAZA EL TOREO.

  “Soccer?” Giordino asked.

  “No. Bullfight.”

  “Darn, and I forgot to wear red.” Giordino hadn’t noticed that his bloody hand had stained one pant leg crimson.

  They hustled up the nearest ramp, jockeying to gain entrance with the other late arrivers. The aroma of roasting corn from a vendor’s stand filled the night air. Giordino filled his lungs, trying to mask the odor of burning trash from a nearby slum that was mixed with the sweat- and alcohol-laced crowd entering the arena.

  Keeping his eyes on the ramp ahead, Pitt spotted a large man enter the stadium, holding a blond woman beside him. “I think I see her.”

  Giordino made like a bulldozer, pushing his way through the crowd, with Pitt close behind. As they fought their way to the turnstiles, Pitt asked Giordino, “Do you have any money?”

  Giordino fished through his pockets with his good hand, extracting a loose handful of bills. “The late-night poker games aboard the Drake have been kind to me.”