Page 19 of Clive Cussler Desolation Code

As the grinding slide came to a stop, water began pouring into the cab from a ruptured hose while foam retardant from the main tank spread across the highway in all directions.

Joe—who had smartly belted himself in—popped the release on his harness. “At least we won’t catch on fire.”

“That was my plan all along,” Kurt insisted.

Swinging around onto his back, he kicked the battered windshield with both feet. It bent with the first blow and then popped free with the second. With the windshield gone, he and Joe could climb out. On foot, they edged around the vehicle until they could see the wrecked van. It lay on its side, smoking and venting steam from a shattered radiator.

“See any movement?” Joe asked.

They were both aware that their target was armed, while they were not.

Kurt stared through the smoke and steam. All he saw was the fire-retardant foam pouring out of the vehicle. He grabbed a Halligan bar from the back of the truck. The tool was a combination crowbar and pickax, used by firefighters to break through walls and smash open windows. “I’m going to take a look,” he said. “Stay here, in case he’s still got that peashooter.”

Halligan bar in hand, Kurt marched down the road while Joe acted as a traffic cop, holding up a growing crowd that was stopping behind the accident scene.

As Kurt neared the van, a pair of shots rang out. He dropped to one knee, but the shots weren’t aimed at him.

The driver came staggering out, hand clutching a bloody gut. Another shot hit him in the back of the head, sending him to the ground, as a second figure ran from the van, hopping across the divider and charging to the far side of the road.

Kurt recognized the man in black, a backpack over his shoulders and the laptop in his hand. He rushed to follow, but the man turned back toward Kurt and raised the pistol.

With no choice but to take cover, Kurt dove behind the concretemedian. He pressed into it as the shells pinged off the other side. Looking through a gap in the sections of concrete, he saw the man dashing to the far side of the road, where he scaled the wall and stood looking down.

Kurt raised his head above the median. “You might as well give up,” he shouted. “There’s nowhere left to go.”

To Kurt’s surprise, the man turned back toward him and answered. “Such a vigorous pursuer,” he yelled back. “And yet, you think only of the end, forgetting to savor the thrill of the chase.”

“Throw down the gun and I’ll chase you all the way back to Saint-Denis if you want.”

“Another time,” the man replied. “For now, I bid you adieu.”

Then he leaned back and allowed himself to fall, arms wide, face calm, as if he were flopping into the softest of feather beds.

Surprised, if not shocked, Kurt jumped up, hurdled the median, and raced across the three lanes of stopped traffic to the edge of the elevated road. He looked down at the dark water below. A small circle of foam caught his eye, and then the man surfaced and began swimming for an oncoming speedboat. Helping hands pulled the swimmer aboard and he took a seat. It was hard to tell for certain, but Kurt thought he saw the man salute and wave as the boat sped off toward the open sea.

Joe arrived at Kurt’s side, easing up to the edge and marveling at the drop. “I can’t believe he jumped. And backwards, too.”

Kurt considered himself a brave man, but he would have been hard-pressed to backflip off the viaduct himself, no matter what he was facing. And yet the man in black almost seemed to enjoy the stunt. “He really didn’t want to miss the boat.”

“He’s lucky he missed the rocks near the pylon,” Joe said.

By now, the sound of emergency vehicles could be heard approaching from all directions. It gave them both a moment to appreciate allthat had happened. The grenades. The carnage on the road. The wrecked vehicles and a dead getaway driver, shot in the face by his own passenger so he wouldn’t be easy to identify.

“This isn’t part of the riot,” Joe said. “This is something else.”

Kurt nodded. “The riot was just a cover. Drummed up so this guy could get to our lab and blow it to bits.”

“Someone really didn’t want us examining those dead whales,” Joe concluded.

Kurt agreed with that conclusion as well. He was determined to figure out who and why.

Chapter 11

The prefect’s office in Saint-Denis was besieged by reporters, photographers, and other members of the press. Between the mass stranding, the riot on the beach, and the high-speed chase along the NR-1, the island of Reunion had seen more excitement in twenty-four hours than it usually enjoyed over the course of a year.

The reporters wanted quotes, the photographers wanted video of the heroes or villains, it didn’t matter which, and the regular citizens wanted answers.

In a crowded third-floor conference room, Lacourt and a half dozen members of his staff tried to get everyone on the same page, including Kurt, Joe, Paul, and Gamay.

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