The van rumbled down the street two hundred yards ahead of him. Its brake lights came on and it turned left, moving inland.
Kurt followed, nearly taking out a bicyclist and a street vendor selling fish. He swerved and went up onto the sidewalk, nearly dumping the scooter in the process. A moment later he was back on the street.
The van had widened its lead substantially, and Kurt was afraid he might not be able to catch it on his underpowered ride.
“Great,” he mumbled to himself as bugs began hitting him in the face. “All those years listening to Dirk tell stories about the Duesenbergs and Packards he borrowed, and I end up on a thirty-horsepower scooter.”
He ducked down, trying to make himself more aerodynamic, and decided to count himself lucky that the scooter didn’t have tassels on the handlebars or a basket for Toto on the front.
A group of pedestrians lay ahead, moving along the crosswalk. Kurt’s thumb found the horn.
Meep-meep.
The annoying, high-pitched buzz was just enough to part the line of people. Kurt zipped through the gap like a madman and focused in on the van.
They were racing inland now, traveling along a road with so many letters and vowels in the name Kurt didn’t bother trying to read or remember it. All that mattered was keeping the delivery van in sight.
He wasn’t sure how fast other scooters went, but this little Vespa topped out at about forty miles per hour. Just as he began thinking his task was impossible, his luck began to change for the better.
Despite the guard’s rhetorical question as to who needed a car, plenty of people seemed to have them. The narrow streets were filled with cars—not to East Coast rush-hour standards perhaps—but enough to make the road into an obstacle course.
As Kurt swerved around one sedan and then cut between two others traveling side by side, he found himself gaining on the van. He could see it up ahead, trying to bull its way through a busy intersection.
As he whizzed around another slow car, he could hear the van’s horn blowing loudly. It made it to the corner and turned right.
Kurt negotiated the turn easily, knifing between a pair of stopped cars and hoping no one decided to open a door.
They were headed west now, and Kurt was closing in on the van, suddenly thrilled with his little orange steed. He saw the water approaching. Somehow, they’d reached the other side of the island already.
The van broke out into the open, zoomed along past the containers and equipment of the commercial harbor. It skidded to a stop across from a waiting speedboat, and the door opened.
The two men who’d thrown the mystery woman inside dragged her out. The van itself raced off.
Kurt ignored it and bore down on the Polynesian woman and her captors. He sped toward them and jumped off the scooter.
Without a rider, the Vespa went down and slid across the concrete. Kurt flew through the air and tackled the two men and the woman all at once.
The four of them tumbled and rolled across the concrete. Kurt felt his knee and hip scraping on the street, the familiar pain of road rash shooting through him. But he hopped up and charged the assailants.
One of them ran for the boat. The other stood, drawing out a knife. He faced Kurt for a second, backed up a few steps and then threw the knife.
Kurt dodged it, but the effort gave the man a precious second or two. He followed his friend to the boat and jumped in. The outboard engine roared and the utility boat moved off in rapid fashion. Kurt saw no identifying numbers or marks on it.
He shook his head. The match was a draw. The thugs had been denied their captive, but they’d made a clean getaway.
He turned his attention to the woman. She was crouched on the ground, holding a bloody elbow and looking as if she were in great pain.
He walked toward her.
“You all right?” he asked gruffly.
She looked up, her face streaked with tears, her mascara running. She nodded but continued to cradle her arm. “I think my arm is broken,” she said, speaking English.
Kurt’s natural protective instincts kicked in, but he reminded himself that, moments before, this woman had been spying on him and his friends and even taking pictures of the catamaran. He figured she owed him a few answers.
“I’ll get you to a hospital,” he said, helping her up, “but first you need to tell me who you are, why you’re following me, and what you find so interesting about a derelict catamaran?”
“You’re Kurt Austin,” she said in a tone of determined certainty. “You work for NUMA.”