Clive Cussler - The Race

Table of Contents

DIRK PITT ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER

Crescent Dawn (with Dirk Cussler)
Arctic Drift
Dragon (with Dirk Cussler)
Treasure of Khan (with Dirk Cussler)
Black Wind
Cyclops (with Dirk Cussler)
Trojan Odyssey
Deep Six
Valhalla Rising
Pacific Vortex!
Atlantis Found
Night Probe!
Flood Tide
Vixen 03
Shock Wave
Raise the Titanic !
Inca Gold
Iceberg
Sahara
The Mediterranean Caper

FARGO ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER

(with Grant Blackwood)

The Kingdom
Lost Empire
Spartan Gold

ISAAC BELL NOVELS BY CLIVE CUSSLER

The Spy (with Justin Scott)
The Wrecker (with Justin Scott)
The Chase

KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER

(with Paul Kemprecos)

Medusa
White Death
The Navigator
Fire Ice
Polar Shift
Blue Gold
Lost City
Serpent

OREGON FILES ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER

(with Jack Du Brul )

The Jungle
The Silent Sea
Corsair
Plague Ship
Skeleton Coast
Dark Watch

(with Craig Dirgo)
Golden Buddha
Sacred Stone

NONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER AND CRAIG DIRGO

The Sea Hunters
The Sea Hunters II
Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed

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Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cussler, Clive.
The race / Clive Cussler and Justin Scott.
p. cm.

ISBN : 978-1-101-54773-1

1. Bell, Isaac (Fictitious character)Fiction. 2. Private investigatorsFiction.
I. Scott, Justin. II. Title.
PS3553.U75R
813.54dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the authors have made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the authors assume any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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PROLOGUE

the moon is on fire

Chicago

1899

A TALL DRUNK DANCED ALONE IN THE GUTTER, singing a Stephen Foster song loved by the Anti-Saloon League. The melody was mournful, reminiscent of Scottish pipes, the tempo a slow waltz. His voice, a warm baritone, rang with heartfelt regret for promises broken.

Oh! comrades, fill no glass for me

To drown my soul in liquid flame...

He had a golden head of hair, and a fine, strong profile. His extreme youthhe could not have been more than twentymade his condition even sadder. His clothes looked slept in, matted with straw, and short in the arms and legs, like handouts from a church basement or lifted from a clothesline. His linen collar was askew, his shirt was missing a cuff, and he had no hat despite the cold. Of gentlemans treasures to sell for drink, made-to-order calfskin boots were all he had left.

He bumped into a lamppost and lost the thread of the lyric. Still humming the poignant tune, still trying to waltz, he dodged a potters field morgue wagon pulling up at the curb. The driver tied his horses and bounded through the swinging doors of the nearest of the many saloons spilling yellow light on the cobblestones.

The drunken youth reeled against the somber black wagon and held on tight.

He studied the saloon. Was it one where he would be welcomed? Or had he already been thrown out? He patted empty pockets. He shrugged sadly. His eyes roved the storefronts: five-cent lodging houses, brothels, pawnbrokers. He considered his boots. Then he lifted his gaze to the newspaper dealers depot on the corner, where press wagons were delivering Chicagos early editions.

Could he beg a few pennies work unloading the bundled newspapers? He squared his shoulders and commenced a slow waltz toward the depot.

When I was young I felt the tide

Of aspiration undefiled.

But manhoods years have wronged the pride

My parents centered in their child.

The newsboys lining up to buy their papers were street-toughened twelve-year-olds. They made fun of the drunk as he approached until one of them locked gazes with his strangely soft violet-blue eyes. Leave him alone! he told his friends, and the tall young man whispered, Thanks, shonny. Whuss yer name?

Wally Laughlin.

Youve a kind soul, Wally Laughlin. Dont end up like me.

I TOLD YOU TO GET RID OF THE DRUNK, said Harry Frost, a giant of a man with a heavy jaw and merciless eyes. He straddled a crate of Vulcan dynamite inside the morgue wagon. Two ex-prizefighters from his West Side gang crouched at his feet. They were watching the newspaper depot through peepholes drilled in the side, waiting for the owner to return from his supper.

I chased him off. He came back.

Run him in that alley. I dont want to see him again, except carried on a shutter.

Hes just a drunk, Mr. Frost.

Yeah? What if that newspaper dealer hired detectives to protect his depot?

Are you crazy? Thats no detective.

Harry Frosts fist shot fifteen inches with the concentrated power of a forge hammer. The man he hit fell over, clutching his side in pain and disbelief. One second hed been crouched beside the boss, the next he was on the floor, trying to breathe as splintered bone pierced his lung. You busted my ribs, he gasped.

Frosts face was red. His own breath raced with anger. I am not crazy.

You dont know your own strength, Mr. Frost, protested the other boxer. You could have killed him.

If I meant to kill him, I would have hit him harder. Get rid of that drunk!

The boxer scrambled out of the back of the wagon, closed the door behind him, and shoved through the sleepy newsboys lined up to buy their papers.