Page 62 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm (An Isaac Bell Adventure #15)

They’d just completed burying it under the bags they’d just moved when a shadow crossed the room’s open hatch.

“Oi!” shouted a bearded crewman.

Bell whirled and brought the shotgun to his shoulder before realizing a discharge in here would blow the battleship in half. The crewman took off running.

Bell shrugged out of his heavy pack and gave it to Joe. “You know what to do. Good luck.”

He sprinted out of the magazine and stopped.

He looked fore and aft. The man had vanished.

Bell held his breath and strained his ears.

He heard a soft noise to aft and took off running.

He saw a shadow flicker in the stairwell vestibule.

Bell raised the shotgun, but there was no target.

He raced for the stairs, climbing them two and three at a time, not knowing if the other man was armed and laying an ambush.

At the top of the stairs, Bell peered out into the hallway.

It looked very much like the one below. He heard feet slapping against the metal deck and gave chase, running for the ship’s bow this time.

He leapt over the door coamings like a steeplechaser, his shoulder and head hunched so as not to hit the top lip, his gun cradled in both hands. Bell spotted his man as he tried to slow himself and turn a sharp corner. It gave him all the opportunity he needed.

The shotgun roared twice with two quick pulls on the trigger. Twenty pellets sprayed from the weapon in an expanding arc that literally filled the hallway with lead. The anarchist made it out of the line of fire, but many of the pellets ricocheted off the steel walls.

Bell heard the man scream and fall just out of view.

He ran up, the shotgun swung around his back and an automatic pistol now in his right hand.

He darted his head around the corner. The anarchist was on the deck, but he wasn’t down by any count.

It didn’t look like he’d been hit at all.

He was sitting with his knees bent to help stabilize the big revolver in his hands.

Bell ducked back an instant before the man fired.

The slug hit a bulkhead and left a golf ball–sized divot.

Bell fired blind at the wall near where the anarchist sat to distract him enough so that he could reach around the corner with his Browning.

He emptied the clip at where he knew the man sat, cycling the pistol as fast as he could, knowing muscle memory was bringing the barrel back at his target following each shot.

He switched the pistol to his left and held the shotgun one-handed when he chanced another glance around the corner. He hadn’t hit the man with every shot, but there were enough holes in him and in the right places for him to stay down, permanently.

Bell took a second to get his bearings. Up ahead he saw the curved wall of the barbette, the armored structural support for the ship’s forward turret.

The hallway the dead man took led to some officer’s quarters.

There was a great deal of wood paneling and tarnished brass accents and better-quality light fixtures.

This was where the Brazilians had been living.

It smelled of dirty laundry and unwashed men.

He turned to retrace his steps when he heard men coming toward him.

They were running hard. His gun battle had drawn their attention.

He dashed from the corridor, his gun aimed down the main passageway.

He saw three men running abreast, all armed.

Bell ran in the opposite direction, trying to get out of their range.

A few shots were fired his way, but none came close.

He turned a corner and went a dozen paces before finding a stairwell.

He went down it by lifting his feet and sliding on his hands.

At the base he turned and raised the shotgun.

The anarchists were smart, they fired down the steps before they could see him, forcing Bell to retreat.

He ran into a room off the ship’s central corridor.

It was a vast dining area, with heavy round tables bolted to the floor and a kitchen visible through a pass window.

He waited by the door, wishing he had a small hand mirror.

He had to trust his hearing and instincts.

He’d been hunted so many times before he knew that the need for caution by the hunter balanced with the desire of the kill produced a certain pace.

He waited, imagining the men reaching the bottom of the stairs.

He could almost see them exchange glances and point to the open dining room door.

They would feel a sense of confidence. They knew the ship better than the man they hunted.

They would know there was no place to hide.

They’d start striding faster and faster.

With a shout Bell swung around the door and opened fire, charging at them for added confusion as it was the opposite of what they’d expect.

They were exactly where he’d thought they would be.

He emptied the shotgun’s magazine, filling the hall with a scything gale of lead shot.

Each man was hit multiple times at almost point-blank range.

It was as if the deck had vanished under their feet when all three men went down, limbs like rubber, pistols clattering to the floor.

After jacking a fresh magazine into the side of the shotgun’s receiver, Bell went to check on the men. They were all dead. He recognized one as the man who’d caught him sneaking around Rath’s training facility, the one with the compass rose tattoo.

A pistol shot rang out from down the corridor and a bullet came close enough for Bell to feel its motion.

He whirled, dropping so his chest was on the deck, and returned fire.

His attacker had vanished around a corner.

Bell thought about giving chase but the clock running in his head told him he’d wasted enough time. His mission had been accomplished.

He climbed up three flights of stairs before he reached the main deck. Bell walked down yet another corridor, looking for a way to get outside so he could get off the ship. Before he could find a hatch, he froze as he heard yet more men ahead.