Clive Cussler - Shock Wave

Pitt stared upward and scanned the skies. “A squadron of fighters from the aircraft carrier Nimitz, bristling with air-to-surface missiles, should be whistling over at any moment.”

“A bureaucrat with an obscure governmental agency with the power to order an attack on Canadian soil? I don’t believe so.”

“You’re right about me,” said Pitt. “But my boss, Admiral James Sandecker, has the leverage to order an air strike.”

For an instant, a brief eye blink in time, Pitt thought Merchant was going to buy it. Hesitation clouded the security chief’s face. Then he grinned, stepped forward and wickedly backhanded Pitt across the mouth with a gloved hand. Pitt staggered backward, feeling the blood springing from his lips.

“I’ll take my chances,” Merchant said dryly. He wiped a speck of blood from his leather glove with a bored expression of distaste. “No more stories. You will speak only when I ask for answers to my questions.” He turned to Crutcher and Elmo. “Escort him to my office. We’ll continue our discussion there.”

Crutcher pushed a flat-handed palm into Pitt’s face and sent him staggering across the dock. “I think we’ll walk instead of ride to your office, sir. Our nosy friend could use a little exercise to soften him up ...”

“Hold on there!” came a sharp voice from the deck of the yacht. Boudicca Dorsett was leaning against the rail, watching the drama below on the dock. She was wearing a wool cardigan over a white turtleneck and a short pleated skirt. Her white-stockinged legs were encased in a pair of high calfskin riding boots. She tossed her long hair over her shoulders and gestured to the gangway leading from the dock to the yacht’s promenade deck. “Bring your intruder on board.”

Merchant and Crutcher exchanged indulgent glances before hustling Pitt on board the yacht. Elmo prodded him viciously in the lower back with the assault rifle, forcing him through a teak doorway into the main salon.

Boudicca sat on one edge of a desk carved from driftwood with an Italian-marble top. Her skirt, taut under her legs, rose to mid-thigh. She was a robust woman, almost masculine in her movements, yet exuding sensuality and an unmistakable aura of wealth and polish. She was used to intimidating men, and she frowned when she saw Pitt clinically appraising her.

A first-class performance, Pitt observed. Most men would have been awed and cowed. Merchant, Crutcher and Elmo couldn’t keep their eyes off her. But Pitt refused to play on her turf. He ignored Boudicca’s obvious charms and forced his eyes to travel over the luxurious furnishings and decor of the yacht’s salon.

“Nice place you have here,” he said impassively.

“Shut your mouth in front of Ms. Dorsett,” Elmo snapped, raising the butt of his weapon to strike Pitt again.

Pitt whirled on his feet, knocked away the approaching rifle with one hand and rammed his other fist into Elmo’s gut just above the groin. The guard groaned in pain and anger and doubled over, dropping the rifle, both hands clutched at the point of impact.

Pitt scooped up the rifle from the salon’s thick carpet before anyone could react and calmly handed the weapon to a stunned Merchant. “I’m tired of being on the receiving end of this cretin’s sadistic habits. Please keep him under control.” Then he turned to Boudicca. “I realize it’s early, but I could use a drink. Do you stock tequila on board this floating villa?”

Boudicca remained calm and aloof, staring at Pitt with renewed curiosity. She looked at Merchant. “Where did he come from?” she demanded. “Who is this man?”

“He penetrated our security by posing as a local fisherman. In reality he’s an American agent.”

“Why is he snooping around the mine?”

“I was taking him back to my office for the answers when you called us to come aboard,” replied Merchant.

She rose to her full height and stood taller than any man in the salon. Her voice became incredibly deep and sensuous, and her eyes were cool as they flicked over Pitt. “Your name, please, and your business here.”

Merchant began to answer. “His name is—”

“I want him to tell me,” she cut Merchant off.

“So you’re Boudicca Dorsett,” Pitt said, brushing off her question and returning her gaze. “Now I can say I know all three.”

She searched his face for a moment. “All three?”

“Arthur Dorsett’s lovely daughters,” answered Pitt.

Anger at being toyed with flashed in her eyes. She took two steps, reached out, grasped Pitt’s upper arms and squeezed as she leaned forward, crushing him against one wall of the salon. There was no expression in the giantess’ black eyes as they stared unblinkingly into Pitt’s, almost nose-to-nose. She said nothing, only stood there increasing the pressure and pushing upward until his feet were barely touching the carpet.

Pitt resisted by tensing his body and flexing his biceps, which felt as if they were clamped in ever-tightening vises. He could not believe any man, much less a woman, could be so strong. His muscles began to feel as if they were mashed to pulp. He clenched his teeth and bleeding lips together to fight the rising pain. The restricted blood flow was numbing and turning his hands white when Boudicca finally released her grip and stepped back.

“Now then, before I encircle your throat, tell me who you are and why you’re prying into my family’s mining operation.”

Pitt stalled for a minute while the pain subsided and feeling returned to his lower arms and hands. He was stunned by the woman’s inhuman strength. Finally, he gasped out, “Is that any way to treat the man who rescued your sisters from certain death?”

Her eyes widened questioningly, and she stiffened. “What are you talking about? How do you know my sisters?”

“My name is Dirk Pitt,” he said slowly. “My friends and I saved Maeve from freezing to death and Deirdre from drowning in the Antarctic.”

“You?” The words seemed to boil from her lips. “You’re the one from the National Underwater & Marine Agency?”

“The same.” Pitt walked over to a lavish bar with a copper surface and picked up a cocktail napkin to dab away the blood that dripped from a cut lip. Merchant and Crutcher looked as stunned as if a horse they had bet their life savings on had run out of the money.

Merchant gazed blankly at Boudicca. “He must be lying.”

“Would you like me to describe them in detail?” asked Pitt carelessly. “Maeve is tall, blond, with incredibly blue eyes. Strictly a camp-on-the-beach type.” He paused to point at a portrait of a young blond woman, wearing an old-fashioned dress with a diamond the size of a quail’s egg set in a pendant around her neck. “That’s her in the painting.”

“Not even close.” Boudicca smirked. “That happens to be a portrait of my great-great-great-grandmother.”

“Neither here nor there,” Pitt said with feigned indifference, unwilling to tear his eyes away from the incredible likeness of Maeve. “Deirdre, on the other hand, has brown eyes and red hair and walks like a runway model.”

After a long pause, Boudicca said, “He must be who he says he is.”

“That doesn’t explain his presence here,” Merchant persisted.

“I told you during our last meeting,” said Pitt. “I came here to study the effects of the chemicals and pollution flowing into the sea from the mine.”

Merchant smiled thinly. “An inventive story, but far from the truth.”

Pitt could not relax for a moment. He was in the company of dangerous people, cunning and shrewd. He had felt his way, assessing the reaction to his line of approach, but he realized it was only a matter of a minute or two before Boudicca figured out his game. It was inevitable. She had enough pieces to fill in the borders of the puzzle. He decided he could better control the situation by telling the truth.