Hurricane by L. Ron Hubbard Read Free Book Online Page B

said, and went down the steps, humming to himself, Enrico close behind him, gun ready.
    Folston knocked on the door, and then, when he received no answer, followed Spar down.
    Spar planted himself wearily in a big chair before the mammoth table and surveyed the unholy crew who stood about. There were fifty or more men there, all of them of the worst.
    “Nice selection,” mused Spar.
    And Folston, who possessed the ego in common with his craving of power, smiled. “Aren’t they? They’ll all kill at a moment’s notice. Recognize any of them?”
    “Recognize them? Why should I?”
    “Some of your old friends of the penal camps, that’s all. Deeply grateful for my rescues. Most of them went there for murder and such like. Delightful fellows.” He turned to the men. “One of your past brothers,” he said, indicating Spar. “He tipped off the police once that twelve of your former friends were stowed upon his ship, and for pay they sent him to the penal camp, back with your friends.”
    Spar sat forward, his silver gray eyes as luminous as a wolf’s, his hands clutching the table and his mouth set in a twisted snarl.
    “So,” said Spar, “I have the pleasure of meeting my old friend, the Saint.”
    Folston bowed, mockingly. “Aye, the Saint.”
    “And someday,” said Spar, “I am going to have the extreme pleasure of tearing out your throat with my bare hands and watching you kick out your life.”
    “I am overwhelmed,” said the Saint. “At your pleasure.”
    They nodded to each other and Spar sat back, smiling, looking at Folston’s throat, and back at his hands.

CHAPTER SIX
     
    Escape
     
    T HE doleful clacks of a big clock were loud in the brooding solemnness of the gray hall. Far away the sea muttered and clawed at the black cliffs, a restless grasping sea shifting uneasily under the midnight sky.
    The guard at Spar’s door grunted wearily, leaning against the panel, staring with vacant eyes into the gray gloom, holding a rifle carelessly before him on the rough stone.
    The bearded, wasted face of the guard was creased with a hundred deep lines, each one more evil than the next. For murder, for assault, to the prison camps, and then, after rescue, to the festering sore called Hurricane Hill.
    The panel moved an inch, unheard. A white hand slid easily through the crack, sinuous, softly venomous. The fingers advanced slowly. Suddenly the hand blurred. The guard dropped his gun and jerked his fists to his throat, eyes already staring.
    Another hand caught the rifle before it fell, propped it against the wall. The body of the guard was laid its length upon the flinty stone.
    Spar stepped all the way out of his room and looked up and down the corridor. Only the moaning wind greeted him there in the drafty dimness. He put away the length of bedspring wire with which he had quietly picked the lock.
    Feeling his way, with never a backward glance at the dead guard, Spar went along through the shadows, melting into them.
    He reached the main room. One bulb burned in the chandelier, casting down a pool of yellow light over the mammoth table, deepening the blackness of the arches, thickening rather than lightening the dense gloom.
    Spar saw that the place was empty of men. He approached the staircase with cautious steps and started up. A faint stream of light came from the top landing and with it the scuff of leather on stone.
    Spar continued his silent ascent, peering before him with all the intensity of his silver gray eyes. At last he saw that the light came from a slit under the door and that a shadow stood before it. Doubtless, it was a guard.
    Without the least sound, Spar reached the landing. The guard suddenly moved forward, sensing another presence. Spar struck out. The sharp crack of the blow echoed through the dismal hallways and then the monotonous clacking of the clock was once more all the sound.
    He eased the unconscious guard to the floor. The fellow’s mouth was running a thin trickle of