Devil's Gate (NUMA Files 9)

Kurt nodded. Yes, it was.

“I?

?ll see you there,” Wallace said. He smiled at Katarina, thumbed his nose at the Russian expert, and walked back to the boat he’d motored in on. It took a moment for him to climb aboard. Once there, Wallace grabbed a wreath and held it out. Then, with a gentle toss, he laid it out on the water.

THREE DAYS LATER, after finishing the recovery and spending forty-eight hours with Katarina that actually qualified as R & R, Kurt was back in the States.

Katarina denied it, but he had a sneaking suspicion she’d enjoyed her time as a spy of sorts. They promised to meet again someday, and Kurt wondered if it would happen first from careful planning or at random in some out-of-the-way place with a swirl of international intrigue unfolding. Either way, he looked forward to it.

He wandered by the NUMA headquarters and found the place empty for the weekend. A message from Joe told him to go home.

Heading the advice, he made his way back to his boathouse on the Potomac.

Suspiciously, he detected the scent of marinated steaks grilling on a barbecue emanating from his own deck. He walked around to the back of the boathouse.

Joe and Paul were standing on the deck above the river. Gamay sat nearby on a chaise longue. Paul appeared to have commandeered Kurt’s gas grill, and what looked like rib-eye steaks for the four of them were sizzling away on it.

Joe was scribbling something on a Dry Erase Board, and a bottle of merlot sat on his corner table along with a cooler of beer and some travel brochures.

Gamay hugged him. “Welcome home.”

“You guys know this is my home,” he said, “not a dormitory.”

They laughed, and Kurt leafed through the brochures, noticing a theme.

Joe handed him an ice-cold Bohemia, just like the one he’d liberated from the captain’s stash on the Argo.

The Trouts sipped the wine.

“What’s going on?” Kurt asked, feeling as if he’d stumbled upon a secret gathering.

“We’re planning a trip,” Joe announced.

“Haven’t we spent enough time together?” Kurt said, kidding, and well aware that he was standing amid family.

“This will be a vacation,” Gamay said. “No running, no shooting, no explosions.”

“Really?” Kurt said, taking a sip of the beer. “Where are we going?”

“Glad you asked,” Joe said. He walked over to the Dry Erase Board on which three names had been written. Each had a single check mark on it.

“We’ve all voted once,” Paul said, “but we have only white smoke to send up the chimney.”

“So I’m the tiebreaker,” Kurt guessed.

“Correcto,” Joe said. “And don’t let all the times I’ve saved your life influence you.”

Kurt stepped closer to the board, cutting a sideways glance at Joe. “Or all the times you’ve caused me trouble.”

He studied the choices.

“Eight-Day Moroccan Camel Safari,” he said, reading choice number one. It had Paul’s name next to it. “Have you ever been on a camel, Paul?”

“No, but…”

“Eight minutes might be fun, but eight days…” Kurt shook his head.

Paul looked hurt. Gamay and Joe smiled.