Read Online Dirk Pitt 1 - Pacific Vortex by Clive Cussler - Free Book Online
Authors: Clive Cussler
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traffic. Now his only hope was to get back to Honolulu before the next shot took the top of his head off. With a little luck he might happen onto a cruising police car. But Pitt was stunned by the next glance in the mirror. The truck had pulled to within ten yards of the AC's bumper.
The road reached the two-thousand-foot crest and started the sharp descent in a series of meandering arcs to the city below. Pitt roared onto a mile-long straightaway and the truck made an effort to close. Pitt held his speed constant in readiness for the next corner, crouching as low as the confining interior of the AC would allow. The needle on his speedometer was touching seventy-five as the pursuing driver crossed the centerline of the road and pulled abreast. Pitt shot a look out the window; he never forgot the picture of the black, long-haired man who grinned back at him through irregular, tobacco-stained teeth. It was only a flicker in time, but Pitt saw every detail of the pockmarked face, the black burning eyes, the huge hooked nose covered by swarthy walnut skin.
All Pitt could feel was frustration; frustration at not being able to shoot back, to blow that bastard's face to pieces. He had a perfectly good machine gun resting behind his seat not ten inches away, and he couldn't even reach it. A contortionist four feet tall might have been able to get his hands on the Mauser's grip, but not six-foot three-inch Pitt.
The next option was to simply stop the car, get out, lean back in and grab the gun from behind the seat, unwrap the towel that covered it, pop off the safety, and begin firing. The only problem was the timing. The old truck was too close. The hook-nosed driver could have stopped his truck and pumped five shots into Pitt's guts before he'd even reached the towel-unwrapping stage.
The road ahead swept sharply to the left into a dangerous hairpin corner marked by a yellow sign whose black letters proclaimed: SLOW TO 20. Pitt drifted through the curve at fifty-five. The truck couldn't handle the centrifugal pull and lost ground, dropping back momentarily before the driver called on his ample supply of horsepower.
Plan after plan shot through Pitt's mind, each new one discarded along with the ones before. Then, as he braked for the next corner, he began to apply still heavier pressure to the accelerator while watching the rearview mirror, studying the movements of the trades driver as he began to pull even with the AC once more.
It was small consolation that the man was not aiming a gun at Pitt's cranium. He meant to force Pitt off the road, over a steep cliff that fell several hundred feet to the valley below.
Another two hundred yards and they would meet the next curve, yet Pitt maintained his speed. The gray Dodge inched closer to the sports car's front fender. One final nudge and Pitt would be airborne. Then, with only a hundred more yards to go, Pitt mashed the accelerator down hard, held it, and suddenly let up and braked. The abrupt maneuver caught the grinning stalker off guard. He had also increased his speed, attempting to stay even with his quarry, working again toward the position that would send Pitt hurtling over the cliff edge. Too late! They were on the curve.
Pitt kept braking hard; he downshifted, and threw the car around the bend, the tires shrieking in friction-al protest across the pavement. The AC was in a four-wheel drift, the back end beginning to break away. A quick twist to the right and the skid was compensated and then, accelerating again, Pitt shot onto the next straight. A glance in the mirror showed that the road behind him was empty. The gray truck had vanished.
He slowed down, relying on gravity and momentum to cany the car for the next half mile. Still no sign of the truck. Cautiously, Pitt spun a U-turn and drove back toward the curve, ready to crank another hundred-eigjhty-degree turn if the old Dodge should suddenly come into sight. He reached the curve, stopped the car, and got out,
The road reached the two-thousand-foot crest and started the sharp descent in a series of meandering arcs to the city below. Pitt roared onto a mile-long straightaway and the truck made an effort to close. Pitt held his speed constant in readiness for the next corner, crouching as low as the confining interior of the AC would allow. The needle on his speedometer was touching seventy-five as the pursuing driver crossed the centerline of the road and pulled abreast. Pitt shot a look out the window; he never forgot the picture of the black, long-haired man who grinned back at him through irregular, tobacco-stained teeth. It was only a flicker in time, but Pitt saw every detail of the pockmarked face, the black burning eyes, the huge hooked nose covered by swarthy walnut skin.
All Pitt could feel was frustration; frustration at not being able to shoot back, to blow that bastard's face to pieces. He had a perfectly good machine gun resting behind his seat not ten inches away, and he couldn't even reach it. A contortionist four feet tall might have been able to get his hands on the Mauser's grip, but not six-foot three-inch Pitt.
The next option was to simply stop the car, get out, lean back in and grab the gun from behind the seat, unwrap the towel that covered it, pop off the safety, and begin firing. The only problem was the timing. The old truck was too close. The hook-nosed driver could have stopped his truck and pumped five shots into Pitt's guts before he'd even reached the towel-unwrapping stage.
The road ahead swept sharply to the left into a dangerous hairpin corner marked by a yellow sign whose black letters proclaimed: SLOW TO 20. Pitt drifted through the curve at fifty-five. The truck couldn't handle the centrifugal pull and lost ground, dropping back momentarily before the driver called on his ample supply of horsepower.
Plan after plan shot through Pitt's mind, each new one discarded along with the ones before. Then, as he braked for the next corner, he began to apply still heavier pressure to the accelerator while watching the rearview mirror, studying the movements of the trades driver as he began to pull even with the AC once more.
It was small consolation that the man was not aiming a gun at Pitt's cranium. He meant to force Pitt off the road, over a steep cliff that fell several hundred feet to the valley below.
Another two hundred yards and they would meet the next curve, yet Pitt maintained his speed. The gray Dodge inched closer to the sports car's front fender. One final nudge and Pitt would be airborne. Then, with only a hundred more yards to go, Pitt mashed the accelerator down hard, held it, and suddenly let up and braked. The abrupt maneuver caught the grinning stalker off guard. He had also increased his speed, attempting to stay even with his quarry, working again toward the position that would send Pitt hurtling over the cliff edge. Too late! They were on the curve.
Pitt kept braking hard; he downshifted, and threw the car around the bend, the tires shrieking in friction-al protest across the pavement. The AC was in a four-wheel drift, the back end beginning to break away. A quick twist to the right and the skid was compensated and then, accelerating again, Pitt shot onto the next straight. A glance in the mirror showed that the road behind him was empty. The gray truck had vanished.
He slowed down, relying on gravity and momentum to cany the car for the next half mile. Still no sign of the truck. Cautiously, Pitt spun a U-turn and drove back toward the curve, ready to crank another hundred-eigjhty-degree turn if the old Dodge should suddenly come into sight. He reached the curve, stopped the car, and got out,
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