Read Online Crescent Dawn by Clive; Dirk Cussler Cussler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clive; Dirk Cussler Cussler
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taxis to avoid detection. The van’s rear panel doors had tinted windows, but Pitt could make out a figure seated on the right side who either had very short hair or was wearing a ski cap.
The light turned green, and the van lurched forward, then stopped, forced to wait while the lackadaisical garbageman slowly disposed of the pile of bulging plastic trash bags. Pitt approached the van in a crouch and placed a foot on its bumper, then grabbed the door handle with his right hand. Flinging the door open, he lunged in, his balled left fist coiled to strike.
It was a risky move, one that could get both Loren and himself killed. But he had the element of surprise on his side and rightly figured the gunman in the rear had let his guard down and was relishing the success of the theft. Deep down, there was another motive for abandoning caution. Pitt knew he could never live with himself if he failed to act and something happened to Loren.
With the door flung open, Pitt peered into the rear compartment while already in motion. He had gambled correctly and found the uninjured gunman seated on a bench to the right. Seated opposite was the original van driver, who was slowly regaining his color. Loren was seated beside him, wedged against a partition that divided the rear from the driver’s compartment. In the fraction of a second that they made eye contact, Pitt could see a look of fright in his wife’s eyes.
Surprise was completely his, as the gunman didn’t even have his pistol on Loren but was holding it down at his side. He gave Pitt a startled look through his ski mask before Pitt’s balled fist struck him on the chin. With surging adrenaline and controlled rage, Pitt could have probably put his fist through the van’s side panel had he aimed differently. The blow instantly knocked the man cold, sending him teetering to the floorboard without ever raising his weapon.
The other man reacted quickly, perhaps relishing the opportunity to retaliate against the earlier assault. He dove onto the back of Pitt’s outstretched body, pinning Pitt’s torso against the floor. The man had a gun in his pocket, which he struggled to retrieve while wrapping his other arm around Pitt. Pushed flat, Pitt immediately raised himself with his arms but couldn’t quite shake the man’s half bear hug. Seeking any measure of leverage he could, Pitt wedged a foot against the rear bumper, then tried shifting his weight to the rear. With his attacker glued to his back, Pitt heaved with both his arms and legs, flinging himself backward and out of the van.
The taxicab was idling just a foot or two behind the van. Hurtling through the air, the two intertwined bodies slammed backward onto the cab’s hood, the van driver sandwiched beneath Pitt and bearing the brunt of the impact. The man gasped as the breath was knocked from his lungs, and Pitt felt the grip around his torso soften. Spinning to his feet, Pitt pulled the man’s arm away, then shoved an elbow into the driver’s head with repeated blows. It was enough to stun the man into submission and he sank to the pavement before he could find the grip on his gun.
Catching his breath, Pitt looked up to see Loren scampering out of the van. In her hand, she was clutching one of the black bags.
“Quick, let’s go,” he urged, grabbing her arm and pulling her down the street. They staggered a few steps to the sidewalk, Loren resisting any attempts at speed.
“I can’t run in these shoes,” she pleaded.
Pitt heard a yell from the direction of the van but wasted no time looking. Instead, he roughly grabbed his wife and shoved her toward the alcove of a small square building a few steps away. He dove after her as two quick cracks from a pistol rang out. A pair of concrete chips flew in the air as the bullets peppered the ground near their feet.
The doorway provided cover, but just temporarily. It would only be seconds before the woman with the pistol stepped down the street far enough to have
The light turned green, and the van lurched forward, then stopped, forced to wait while the lackadaisical garbageman slowly disposed of the pile of bulging plastic trash bags. Pitt approached the van in a crouch and placed a foot on its bumper, then grabbed the door handle with his right hand. Flinging the door open, he lunged in, his balled left fist coiled to strike.
It was a risky move, one that could get both Loren and himself killed. But he had the element of surprise on his side and rightly figured the gunman in the rear had let his guard down and was relishing the success of the theft. Deep down, there was another motive for abandoning caution. Pitt knew he could never live with himself if he failed to act and something happened to Loren.
With the door flung open, Pitt peered into the rear compartment while already in motion. He had gambled correctly and found the uninjured gunman seated on a bench to the right. Seated opposite was the original van driver, who was slowly regaining his color. Loren was seated beside him, wedged against a partition that divided the rear from the driver’s compartment. In the fraction of a second that they made eye contact, Pitt could see a look of fright in his wife’s eyes.
Surprise was completely his, as the gunman didn’t even have his pistol on Loren but was holding it down at his side. He gave Pitt a startled look through his ski mask before Pitt’s balled fist struck him on the chin. With surging adrenaline and controlled rage, Pitt could have probably put his fist through the van’s side panel had he aimed differently. The blow instantly knocked the man cold, sending him teetering to the floorboard without ever raising his weapon.
The other man reacted quickly, perhaps relishing the opportunity to retaliate against the earlier assault. He dove onto the back of Pitt’s outstretched body, pinning Pitt’s torso against the floor. The man had a gun in his pocket, which he struggled to retrieve while wrapping his other arm around Pitt. Pushed flat, Pitt immediately raised himself with his arms but couldn’t quite shake the man’s half bear hug. Seeking any measure of leverage he could, Pitt wedged a foot against the rear bumper, then tried shifting his weight to the rear. With his attacker glued to his back, Pitt heaved with both his arms and legs, flinging himself backward and out of the van.
The taxicab was idling just a foot or two behind the van. Hurtling through the air, the two intertwined bodies slammed backward onto the cab’s hood, the van driver sandwiched beneath Pitt and bearing the brunt of the impact. The man gasped as the breath was knocked from his lungs, and Pitt felt the grip around his torso soften. Spinning to his feet, Pitt pulled the man’s arm away, then shoved an elbow into the driver’s head with repeated blows. It was enough to stun the man into submission and he sank to the pavement before he could find the grip on his gun.
Catching his breath, Pitt looked up to see Loren scampering out of the van. In her hand, she was clutching one of the black bags.
“Quick, let’s go,” he urged, grabbing her arm and pulling her down the street. They staggered a few steps to the sidewalk, Loren resisting any attempts at speed.
“I can’t run in these shoes,” she pleaded.
Pitt heard a yell from the direction of the van but wasted no time looking. Instead, he roughly grabbed his wife and shoved her toward the alcove of a small square building a few steps away. He dove after her as two quick cracks from a pistol rang out. A pair of concrete chips flew in the air as the bullets peppered the ground near their feet.
The doorway provided cover, but just temporarily. It would only be seconds before the woman with the pistol stepped down the street far enough to have
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