Page 5 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm (An Isaac Bell Adventure #15)

K nowing Marion was none the worse for their close call if she could crack a joke, Bell bulled his way through the celebrating throng and raced for the bridge support tower.

There was a set of spiral stairs that coiled their way up to the overhead truss within the spindly structure.

It was closed off by a padlocked iron gate.

Bell had his gun in hand when he reached the gate.

It proved to be a stubborn lock that took two bullets before it fell away.

Bell barreled into the gate, crashing it back against its stops before he took the curving steps two at a time.

It was an eight-story climb to the level of the suspended box truss that spanned the river and Bell was breathing heavily, but by no means winded.

The slow-moving transporter platform was about halfway across, with the fifty-foot-long scaffold dangling just a dozen or so feet above the river.

From this height, it looked smaller than Bell would have thought.

Apart from the great girders that made up the enormous truss, there were two thick cables that pulled the trolley back and forth across the Mersey and a narrow path for maintenance workers to safely traverse the span.

Bell took off at a run, mindful that the steel was slick with rainwater and his shoes more befitting of an ocean liner crossing than a high-wire act.

Because of the way the structure was held together, with innumerable cross braces, Bell couldn’t see what was happening on the platform below.

He imagined the abrupt departure had rattled the passengers, but he didn’t know how they would react.

He hoped that they stayed together in the enclosed lounge because he was determined not to let the transporter dock at the far side.

He ran at almost twice the speed of the moving platform, but he’d lost so much time in the Austin and then climbing the tower that he had only a few seconds before the thieves would be on the opposite bank.

He reached the slowly trundling trolley and its dozens of cables that suspended the platform above the water.

There was no easy access because there was no need for anyone to attempt what he was about to do.

Bell double-checked that the Browning pistol was strapped in his shoulder holster as he stripped off his suit jacket.

No one down below had spotted him high above the platform, and for that he was grateful.

The cables supporting the transporter were as thick around as his wrist and made of countless braided wires.

Though the bridge was only a decade old, rust had turned the outer wires scaly, with hundreds of burrs sharp enough to peel the skin from his hands.

Bending low to wrap his jacket around the cable, Bell tightened his grip as hard as he could and let himself fall, controlling his descent by yanking at the sleeves of his jacket as though it were a garrote.

He plummeted the seventy feet in just a couple of seconds, but slow enough that when he hit the deck and shoulder-rolled away from the cable, he could immediately bounce up onto his feet.

His sudden appearance made the few people standing outside gasp and point in surprise.

The thief high above in the operator’s cab saw him land as well.

He shouted something that was muffled by the glass and he redoubled his threats of violence to the bridge worker.

There were two more thieves. One was in the cab of the truck, while the other stood in the back of the lorry guarding their prize.

Bell had always known that guns were hard to come by in England even for seasoned criminals.

That was why none had been used in the hijacking back on the dock and why the transporter operator had a knife to his throat rather than a gun to his head.

Bell knew he had the advantage when he pulled the 9-millimeter automatic from his shoulder rig and pointed it at the truck.

“Shut off the engine and step down with your hands up,” he shouted in his most authoritative voice. It was the type of command he rarely had to give twice.

It didn’t have the desired effect.

With a swirl of his waterproof mackintosh, the thief in the back of the truck pulled out a sawed-off shotgun from under his coat.

Bell wanted to dive to his right, behind a piece of structural steel that gave the platform rigidity, but it would put the greenhouse-like passenger gondola between him and the shooter.

Instead he dove left, finding scant cover behind a high-sprung wagon filled with winter potatoes.

He edged around to the side of the wooden wagon, aware that if the gunman jumped down from his truck he could send a spray of buckshot under the carriage that would tear his legs to shreds.

A female passenger, already on edge because of the odd departure from the canal side of the river, noticed the shotgun and let out a bloodcurdling scream that sent an electric jolt of panic through the rest of the riders.

People pushed and shoved in a vague attempt to get away, even though they were all trapped on the platform, which was still several yards from reaching the far bank.

Glass shattered as bodies were shoved against the gondola’s delicate walls, and soon blood began to flow as people were sliced open by the shards.

Bell understood that the panic would soon morph into a full-blown frenzy, the kind of melee where people were killed for being in the way of someone bigger and stronger than themselves.

With little regard for his own safety, he stepped up onto the hub of one of the wagon’s wheels.

The gunman in the truck had a rough sense of where he was, but needed a second to swing the shotgun a couple of degrees for it to center on his target.

For his part, Bell knew exactly where the shooter was standing and had a bead on him as soon as he emerged over the cart’s high side.

Pop, pop . Two to the chest so tightly grouped it looked like a single hole.

The impact drove the man against the truck’s bed and he pinwheeled out of the back and over the side of the platform.

His corpse hit the water hard enough to sink below the surface and wouldn’t pop up again until it was a half mile downriver.

Bell whirled to draw a bead on the knife-wielding thief up in the control cupola, but with the ironwork frames and all the glass windows, it was impossible to take a safe shot that wouldn’t hit the operator.

Just then came the painful crack of a Webley revolver firing in Bell’s direction.

The thieves might have acquired firearms, but they’d had little practice with them.

The shot whizzed by several feet wide and overhead.

The shooter had been in the cab. He’d taken the shot while standing on the truck’s running board and the recoil had lifted his arm, and the heavy top-break revolver, high into the air.

So ill-trained in armed combat, the man hadn’t bothered to duck back behind the truck’s cab.

Bell fired just as the moving platform hit the loading ramp on the far side of the river.

The impact threw his aim off and so the round missed.

Now the driver ducked back into the cab.

The engine had been left running and he wasn’t about to wait for his partner up in the cupola to make his way down to the main deck.

He gunned the motor as he jammed it into gear.

Knowing he had only one chance, Bell vaulted up to the wagon’s seat.

The horses must have been used to gunfire because neither of them paused at nibbling from the canvas feed bags the wagoner had tied around their noses.

The truck was just starting to move. Bell put a round through the truck’s rear window and knew he’d hit the driver when the windshield was suddenly a red dripping curtain.

The truck veered slightly, hit a guardrail, and ground to a stop.

Bell swiveled his aim up to the control cupola once again. This time he didn’t need to worry about hitting anyone. The third thief had dropped his knife and stood with his hands up. Apparently he believed a few years in prison was better than a lifetime in a casket.

Despite the efforts of the crewman tasked with securing the platform to the ramp, passengers were rushing from the scene en masse . Those waiting on the ramp hadn’t been close enough to see exactly what had happened and waited like a flock of nervous sheep.

The wagon’s owner, a raw-boned farmer with just a monk’s tonsure of white hair, approached, hat in hand. He was clearly more concerned with his animals’ welfare than his own safety.

“I’m a private detective,” Bell stated, making flicking motions with his Browning’s barrel that told the thief to exit the cupola and join him on the main deck. “Those men stole cargo off a ship unloading a ways down the road.”

“American?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“Never met one before.” He paused, considering something, and then asked, “Why aren’t you helping us with this war?”

To Bell it sounded more like an accusation than a question. “For the same reason we didn’t get involved the last time the French and Germans had at each other. This is a European problem.”

The thief approached, his hands still held aloft. Bell asked the farmer if he had any rope, which the man found after rummaging under the wagon’s bench seat. Bell had the thief sit and tied his hands to one of the cable anchors.

“You know this war’s different.”

Bell did know, but said nothing. The two men regarded each other for a few seconds and then the farmer turned away to lead his team and their load of potatoes off the transporter.

It took twenty minutes for some senior police detectives to arrive and another two hours of interrogations before they were satisfied they had all the details sorted out.

The cops and government agents who’d been jumped at the docks had helped smooth the proceedings and had taken possession of the truck for its eventual transport down to London.

By then the shotgun-wielding thief had been fished out of the river and the lone survivor had been carted off to a jail cell in Liverpool.

Marion finally joined him on the transporter’s first run after its continued operation had been authorized by the police.

The few broken glass panes had been replaced with bits of canvas and the shards swept over the side.

Buckets of water had sluiced any blood from lacerated passengers into the river.

She pressed herself hard against his body and kissed him long enough for some of the men milling about to turn away in embarrassment. “It’s a good thing I don’t watch you take foolish chances very often. My heart was pounding the whole time.”

“Mine, too,” he admitted. “And just so you know, that wasn’t a foolish chance, but rather a calculated risk.”

“Pish.” She dismissed him with a wave and a flash of her Caribbean-blue eyes.

“We’ve missed our train to London, I’m afraid,” he told her.

“No matter. We can spend the night here and head down tomorrow.” A sudden thought struck her and her excitement was infectious.

“We can get a room at the Adelphi. We always sail out of Southampton, so we’ve never stayed here in Liverpool.

Friends have said the Adelphi is lovely, and everyone is absolutely mad for their turtle soup. ”

Bell considered the idea for a moment. “Turtle soup it is. I can telegraph the London office from the hotel and tell them we’ve been delayed a day, as well as notify the Savoy so we don’t lose our suite.

The police offered me a ride back to the docks now that we’re done here and I’m sure the steamship line is holding our baggage. ”

She threaded an arm through his and said with mock innocence, “If they don’t, I won’t have a single thing to wear to bed tonight.”