The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

As the boat bumped the dock, the taxi driver cut the throttle and threw a rope to another man onshore.

Kurt stood, tipped the driver and stepped off the small boat. Ahead, on the shore, tourists strolled in the sunlight, moving in and out of the shops of the waterfront. A group of men in bright reflective vests worked on a broken section of concrete, stopping mid-project to lean on their shovels and stare at a rather attractive Polynesian woman who walked by.

Kurt really couldn’t blame them. Her lush black hair draped like ink against a sleeveless white top. Her tan face, high cheekbones and full lips glistened in the sun. And while her legs were covered by conservative gray slacks, Kurt had no doubt they were toned and tan like the rest of her.

She ducked into a jewelry store, and both Kurt and the construction workers went back to their respective tasks.

“You ready?” Kurt said.

“As I’ll ever be,” Joe replied.

Kurt pulled on his pack, and the two men hiked up the dock. Two other figures waited for them: a man of great height, nearly six foot eight, with a stern, intense look securely plastered on his face; and a woman with a kind yet mischievous look on her face, blue-green eyes and slightly curly hair the color of red wine. She stood about five foot ten, but she looked petite by the man’s side.

“Looks like the Trouts beat us here,” Kurt said, pointing them out to Joe.

Paul and Gamay Trout were two of their closest friends and invaluable members of the Special Projects team. Her irrepressible spirit and mischievous nature was the yin to his serious, sensible yang.

“Welcome to paradise,” Gamay said. Originally from Wisconsin, she still spoke with a soft midwestern accent.

“You’re the second person to call it that,” Kurt said.

“It’s in the brochure.”

Kurt hugged her and then shook Paul’s hand. Joe did the same.

“How in the world did you guys get here so fast?”

Gamay smiled. “We had a head start. We were in Thailand, sampling some of the most fantastic food I’ve ever tasted.”

“Lucky you,” Kurt said.

“Do you want to check into the hotel?” Paul asked.

Kurt shook his head. “I want to get a look at the catamaran. They bring it in yet?”

“A rescue boat from the Maldives NDF (National Defense Force) towed it in an hour ago. At our request, they’ve kept it quarantined.”

That was good news. “Then let’s go see what we can find.”

A seven-minute walk took them along the harbor to a jetty manned by a few sailors. Two fast patrol boats were moored just beyond it, while the burned-out hulk of the NUMA catamaran was tied to the dock cleats at its side.

At a small kiosk, Kurt filled out some paperwork and handed over copies of his ID and passport. As they waited for the stamp of approval, Kurt glanced around the dockside and noticed something odd. He kept it to himself for a moment, took his identification back and addressed the man in the uniform.

“Do you speak English?”

“Very much so,” the young man said proudly.

“Tell me,” Kurt continued, “without staring—is there a beautiful brunette in a white blouse watching us from the walkway?”

The guard began to move his head for a better look.

“Without staring,” Kurt reminded him.

He was more cautious this time. “Yes, she’s there. Is she a problem?”

“Not if you don’t mind being followed by beautiful women,” Kurt replied. “Keep an eye on her for us.”

The man smiled. “Gladly,” he said, then added before Kurt could, “without staring.”