Clive Cussler - Poseidon's Arrow

Any uncertainty over which figure to target vanished from the galloping bull. The brute animal followed the airborne cape to the driver, who reached out and grabbed the bundle.

The bull lowered his head and accelerated.

The driver was confused by Pitt’s sudden dive to the ground, and then he detected movement behind him. He turned, seeing the charging bull just a few feet away, and froze.

Donatello barreled straight into the man. The crowd screamed as the bull’s horns punctured the driver’s stomach, nearly breaking through to his back. Tossing his head, the bull lifted the impaled man into the air and paraded him for several feet before dumping the limp, bloodied body onto the dirt.

Pitt heard a delayed solitary scream from the crowd and looked behind him. A short distance across the ring, Ann tussled with Pablo. In a quick motion, the big gunman scooped Ann off her feet and tossed her into the ring. Her hands still bound, she landed awkwardly and fell to the ground. She struggled to get up, then felt a burning pain in her ankle. She could stand on only one foot.

Frenzied by his fresh kill, the bull studied Ann for a moment and snorted. Lowering his head, he angled toward the woman and charged.

The two banderilleros and the matador sprinted across the ring, yelling, but the bull ignored them. They were too distant to attract the bull’s wrath. But Pitt wasn’t.

He jumped to his feet, ran and scooped up the shredded cape, then bolted for the bull. Charging hard, the animal was less than twenty feet from Ann.

She tried shuffling to the wall but could barely move from the pain in her ankle. Her heart pounded as she faced the charging animal, then froze like the driver had. Her frightened trance was broken by a sudden shout.

“¡Toro! ¡Toro!”

She turned to see Pitt rushing toward her, wildly waving the shredded cape. The bull took one look at the tall, bounding man with the bright magenta cape—and bit.

Ann felt the heat from the beast’s breath as it veered away from her at the last second and chased after Pitt.

He skidded in the dirt as the bull overtook him. Extending the cape to his side, he shook the material like a dusty rug, drawing the bull’s eye. Donatello followed the movement. He burst into and through the cape, his sharp horns skimming just millimeters past Pitt’s body.

Pitt yanked the cape upward as the bull tore through, then spun to face the animal. He was too engrossed in self-preservation to hear the applause and chants of Olé that poured from the crowd. He shook the cape, then stepped aside as the bull charged once more.

“Allow me, señor ,” the matador said, rushing up with an embarrassed look.

With the aid of a banderillero, the matador drove the bull to the center of the ring while two other men dragged away the driver’s body.

Pitt turned to approach Ann, only to see her hoisted into the stands by Giordino. He stepped closer and grasped Giordino’s outstretched left hand. To the thunderous applause of the crowd, Pitt climbed over the wall. A pale and shaken Ann grabbed him by the arm. “That bull would have mauled me if you hadn’t stepped in. It was a crazy thing to do, but thank you.”

Pitt gave her a tired grin. “You forget that I work in Washington. I’m fighting bull all the time.”

Then his face grew serious, and he gazed around them. “Your abductor, Pablo?”

Ann shook her head. Giordino was already scanning the crowds, but he too came up empty.

The big man had made himself small in the crowd and disappeared.

20

I’M THINKING WE REALLY SHOULDN’T LOLLYGAG TO chat with the authorities,” Giordino said. He tilted his head toward a bullring official who was making his way across the stadium with two security guards.

“Lead on,” Pitt said, and cinched his arm tight around Ann’s waist.

She took a hesitant step with her injured leg, then grasped Pitt’s shoulder for support as a burst of pain bolted through her ankle.

“Just put your weight on the good leg, and we’ll get there,” Pitt said. He easily supported her one-hundred-and-ten-pound frame.

Giordino charged through the crowd like a snowplow, clearing a path for the hobbling duo following close behind. They found the rear exit ramp and hustled out of the stadium, to the crowd’s fading cheers. Unable to draw close, the bullring authorities could only watch in puzzlement as the three Americans jumped into a taxi and roared off into the night.

Ann begged to be taken to the American consulate but was outvoted by the NUMA men, who had already negotiated a supplemental fuel purchase from the taxi driver. As the cab zipped across Tijuana, the exhaustion of the chase caught up with them and the conversation fell silent. Pitt had plenty of questions for Ann, but now was not the time to ask.

She had kept her emotions bottled up since leaving the ship, refusing to allow her fears to overcome her. Now that she was free from Pablo’s death threats and safe in the company of Pitt and Giordino, the fright seeped out. She shivered in the warm night air and fought back her emotions. Pitt gently tucked an arm around her and gave her a light squeeze, which seemed to purge her stressful feelings. Within a few minutes, she had drifted off to sleep.

The drive to the coast took over an hour at legal speeds, pushing the clock to almost ten when they arrived at the small sandy beach. Pitt was relieved to spot the barge’s inflatable sitting where they had left it. He dragged it down to the surf and helped Ann climb aboard. Giordino retrieved the inflatable’s fuel can and passed it to the cabby, who siphoned a few gallons of gas from his car with an old hose he kept in the trunk.

“Gracias, amigo,” Giordino said as he parted with the balance of his poker winnings. Then he hauled the fuel can down to the beach.

Counting his cash windfall, the cabby beamed and shouted, “¡Buen viaje!”

Pitt attached the engine’s fuel line to the gas can and then with Giordino’s assistance shoved the inflatable past the surf line and climbed aboard. The outboard fired up with little trouble, and they were soon racing past the rocky breakwater.

“You sure you can find the Drake ?” Ann asked, scanning the black horizon. Her eyes were again alert but tinged with apprehension.

Pitt nodded. “I think Rudi will leave the lights on for us.”

Once clear of the jetty, he turned the inflatable north and followed the coast. After a mile or so, he veered out to sea to retrace their original course. Gazing over his shoulder, he found a bearing, the lights of a lone house high on a hill that lined up vertically with a pale yellow streetlamp near the shoreline. Steering to keep the two lights in alignment, he guided the inflatable offshore until the beacons vanished. They motored on for several minutes in complete darkness, Ann fighting her fears that they would become lost at sea. Just as the waters around them became blackest, a faint glow appeared a few points off the bow. A single white light emerged from the distant sea, gradually morphing into several lights. As they bore closer, they could see they belonged to three vessels grouped together.

The Drake and the barge were stationed alongside each other, while a larger ship waited nearby. Pitt observed its white-and-orange-banded hull, signifying a U.S. Coast Guard vessel. A pair of lookouts on its deck monitored the inflatable as Pitt eased it alongside the Drake and killed the engine.

When he saw Ann, a visibly relieved Rudi Gunn leaned over the rail above them. “Thank heavens, you’re safe.”