Clive Cussler - Poseidon's Arrow

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.”

“Thank goodness there’s no talent aboard that ship.” Pitt plucked a twenty and handed it to the attendant.

They didn’t wait for the change, bursting through the turnstiles and running up into the stadium.

Trumpets blared from a live band as the evening troupe of matadors and their assistants was introduced, the cuadrilla traipsing across the circular dirt arena in a colorful procession. A raucous crowd filled the stadium, standing and cheering. Lost in the mass of bodies, Ann and her abductors were nowhere to be seen.

“They might be making for the exit on the other side,” Pitt said.

Giordino nodded. “In that case, we better split up.”

They descended a stepped aisle to the lower section of the arena, where Giordino moved right while Pitt cut left. Pitt worked his way across the first section of seats, scanning up and down, with no success. When the fans suddenly cheered, he glanced at the ring and saw a lone matador entering for the first fight. An ornery half-ton bull named Donatello was released to join him. Initially ignoring the matador, the beast stood, pawing the dirt and absorbing the crowd’s cheers.

Pitt wormed his way through the next section of spectators, dodging vendors selling cotton candy and cold drinks. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of a woman with blond hair seated by the aisle one section over. It was Ann. The burly figure of Pablo was wedged against her, busily scanning the crowd. He soon noticed Pitt and locked eyes on him. Pablo spoke rapidly to the driver beside him, then stood up, pulling Ann to her feet. She looked at Pitt for an instant, her face a mask of fear and pleading. While the driver stood and tracked Pitt, Pablo jerked Ann away, leading her down the aisle steps to a narrow walkway that circled the ring.

Separated by a full section of cheering fans, Pitt took off at a run down the nearest steps. In the next aisle, the driver hustled to match him. When Pitt reached the low wall that surrounded the bullring, he turned and needled his way toward Ann and Pablo, who were fleeing in the other direction just a few yards ahead. Then the driver leaped off the next set of steps and stood in his path.

He was an inch or two shorter than Pitt but carried broad shoulders on a thick frame. As he shook his head for Pitt to stop, he briefly hitched up his shirt to expose a gun holstered at his waist.

Pitt moved without hesitation, lunging forward and throwing a left cross that struck the driver on his cheekbone. The driver staggered to the wall. Giving him no time to recover, Pitt pressed the barrage with a quick combination to the head.

The driver instinctively tried to block the blows, raising his hands in protection rather than reach for the gun. Then he regained his senses. He charged back at Pitt, swinging with both fists. Pitt ducked the first punch but caught a blow to the ribs that made him gasp.

Pitt countered with more blows to the head as the driver hurtled into him, knocking them both hard against the safety wall. The driver got his left arm hooked around Pitt while grabbing for his gun with his right. But his feet became entangled with Pitt’s, causing both men to lose balance as they fell back.

As they teetered against the wall, the driver pulled the gun free but was forced to catch himself with the same hand. As he grasped for the wall, Pitt swung an elbow into his arm. The gun fell free, and both men tumbled over the side.

Nearby spectators gasped as the men dropped six feet into the ring. At its center, a matador stood with his back to them, not seeing their intrusion, as he flirted with the fresh bull.

Pitt took the brunt of the fall, landing hard on his shoulder, as the two men struck the dirt together, then rolled apart. The driver bounced to his feet first and searched the ground for his lost gun. As he shuffled toward the wall, he bumped into a wooden rack stocked with banderillas . Long, razor-sharp darts wrapped in colorful ribbons, they were the tools of the banderilleros who assisted the matador. They would fling the banderillas into a knotty mass on the bull’s back, which would agitate the bull and weaken his neck muscles so he would charge with his head lowered.

Pitt was just regaining his feet when the driver grabbed one of the darts and flung it at him. The throw was high, and Pitt easily ducked the projectile. He backpedaled along the wall as the driver grabbed three more banderillas . Pitt spotted a matador’s cape hanging on a peg beside him. He grabbed it and wadded it into a makeshift shield.

Across the ring, a pair of banderilleros on foot noted the scuffle and began to make their way around the perimeter wall. The matador was still oblivious, his attention focused solely on the bull. Dangling his cape in an orchestrated movement called a veronica , the matador lured the bull to charge. The animal brushed by, just inches from his body. Clearing the matador’s cape, the bull trotted a few paces—then stopped, seeing Pitt and the driver moving along the wall.

Some bulls are calm in the ring, requiring much prodding and wounding to entice them to charge. Others are naturally aggressive, bolting after anything that moves. The rust-colored beast named Donatello rated at the top of the belligerence scale. Yet to be speared by the banderilleros , he was an ornery bull at full strength. He trotted closer to the new targets, carefully eyeing the two men.

Pitt saw the bull draw near but was more concerned with fending off his attacker’s banderillas. Facing Pitt, the driver didn’t see the bull.

The driver stepped forward and began to release his barrage on Pitt, heaving the darts like a lancer. Pitt kept his eyes focused on the projectiles. Still stepping backward, he batted the first dart away with the wadded cape. The second throw went a centimeter wide when Pitt jumped to one side. The driver yanked back his arm with the last banderilla , then took a step closer for a better aim. As he flung the dart, the bull charged.

The throw was perfect. The razor tip shot straight at Pitt—and would have struck him in the chest if he hadn’t blocked it with the cape. The dart tore through the fabric, losing just enough of its momentum before slicing Pitt’s hand. As if touching a scalding pot, Pitt hurled the balled cape and embedded spear back at the driver, then dove to the ground.