Spartan Gold by Clive Cussler Read Free Book Online Page A

away, the former landing with a plop in the mud, the latter rolling toward Ted. From the corner of his eye Sam saw Remi appear behind Ted. She lifted him to his feet and together they started running.
    The stranger was lying on his back, half sunken in the mud, groaning. Tough customer, Sam thought. That uppercut should have solidly shut off his lights. Sam switched the rebar to his right hand.
    The sirens were coming closer now, not two minutes away.
    Sam picked up the flashlight and cast it around until he spotted the man’s pistol half buried in the mud a few feet away. Using the tip of his shoe, Sam pried it free, slipped the top of his foot beneath it, and kicked it far into the trees.
    He turned back and shined the light into the man’s face. The man stopped moving, eyes squinting against the glare. His face was lean and weathered and he had small, mean eyes and a nose that had clearly been broken many times over. The white line of a scar ran from the bridge of his nose across his right eyebrow and ended just above his temple. Not just tough, Sam now thought. But cruel, too. The eyes told him that much.
    Sam said, “Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who you are or why you’re here, would you?”
    The man blinked rapidly, clearing away the cobwebs, then focused on Sam and spat out a word. Russian, Sam thought. Though his Russian was passable for tourist purposes, he didn’t recognize the word. Still, it was a safe bet it had something to do with either his mother, some form of carnal knowledge, or both.
    “That had a distinctly unfriendly sound to it,” Sam said. “Let’s try this one more time: Who are you and what’s your business with our friend?”
    Another curse, this one a full sentence.
    “Didn’t think so,” Sam said. “Well, better luck next time, pal.”
    With that he leaned forward and swung the rebar in a tight arc, tapping the man behind the ear with what he hoped was just enough force. Rebar wasn’t the most delicate of weapons. The man grunted and went limp.
    “Here’s hoping we never meet again,” Sam said, then turned and started running.

CHAPTER 6
    H ere, Ted, drink this,” Sam said, handing Frobisher a snifter of warm brandy.
    “What is it?” Frobisher grumbled. Surprising neither Sam nor Remi, Ted’s adventure in the boiler graveyard had done nothing to improve his disposition. Then again, Ted wouldn’t be Ted if he were sunny.
    “Just drink it,” Remi said and gave his hand a pat.
    Frobisher took a gulp, scrunched up his face, then took a second gulp.
    Sam put another log on the fire, then joined Remi on the love seat. Frobisher sat opposite them in a wingback chair, wrapped in a flannel blanket and fresh from a hot shower.
    After leaving Frobisher’s mystery man lying in the mud, Sam had sprinted back to the BMW, which Remi had turned around and pulled up to the driveway. His decision to leave before the police had been an instinctive one: Though they’d done nothing wrong, being embroiled in a police investigation would also entangle them with Frobisher’s attacker. Sam’s gut told him the more distance they put between themselves and the man, the better.
    With Sam back in the car they’d sped back down Black Road, then headed west on Mount Vernon Road. Thirty seconds later they saw flashing lights come around the corner behind them and pull onto Black Road. At Sam’s direction Remi did a quick U-turn, pulled over to the shoulder, and doused the headlights, waiting until the emergency responders—a police cruiser and a fire truck, it appeared—reached the boiler graveyard. She then pulled out and headed back toward Princess Anne. Forty minutes later they were back in their room at the B&B.
    “How do you feel?” Sam asked Frobisher.
    “How do you think I feel? I’ve been kidnapped and assaulted.”
    Frobisher was in his mid sixties and bald save a monk’s fringe of silver. He wore a pair of Ben Franklin half-glasses; behind them, his eyes were a pale,