The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

“Now or never, Joe.”

“I have an idea,” Joe said. He climbed forward onto the bow, grabbing the anchor.

“A friend of mine in Colorado taught me how to rope,” he shouted. He began whirling the twenty-pound anchor on its cord like a one-sided bolo.

Kurt guessed at his intentions and firewalled the throttle one last time. They began closing the gap. The gunfire returned, but Kurt swung the boat to the pilot’s side and ran it up under the seaplane.

Joe spun and released the anchor like an Olympic hammer thrower just as the plane came off the water. It flew forward and wrapped around the pontoon struts and pulled taut.

The plane’s nose came up, yanking the front end of the speedboat out of the water. The weight and drag were too much. The left wing dropped, hit the water, and the seaplane tumbled in a cartwheel, shedding pieces in all directions.

The speedboat was yanked sideways, the anchor cleat ripped free, but Kurt managed to keep the boat from flipping. He turned to port, backed off the throttle and wheeled around to see the carnage behind them.

The seaplane had come to rest with one pontoon missing, its wings bent and folded and part of the tail ripped off. It was being swamped by the water pouring in and looked to be going down.

“Yes!” Joe shouted, firing a fist pump into the air.

“We have to get you in the rodeo,” Kurt said, bringing the boat back around toward the shattered airplane.

He pulled up beside it. The plane was sinking fast, the two occupants trying desperately to get free. Matson got out first and was soon clinging to the speedboat. Otero made it over next.

They began to climb in, but each time they did Kurt bumped the throttles.

“Please,” Otero shouted, “I can’t swim well.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t live on a floating island then,” Kurt said, goosing the throttle until they dropped off the side and then chopping it again. They dog-paddled back to the boat, grabbing at the handrail.

Kurt scraped them off again.

“It was all his idea,” Otero said, trying to tread water.

“What was?” Kurt asked.

“To steal the microbots,” Otero said.

“Shut up,” Matson said.

“Who’d you give them to?” Joe asked.

The half-drowned duo latched onto the boat, and Otero clammed up once again.

“Mr. Austin,” Joe said, “I believe we have a policy against boarders and hangers-on.”

Kurt nodded and smiled. “That we do, Mr. Zavala. That we do.”

He pushed the throttle a little more this time. The two stragglers tried to hold on, but they were soon pulled free. This time Kurt continued to idle away from them.

“Wait!” Otero shouted, splashing around furiously. “I’ll tell you.”

Kurt put a hand to his ear. “Before we get too far away,” he shouted.

“His name is Jinn,” Otero sputtered. “Jinn al-Khalif.”

Kurt cut the throttle, and the boat settled.

“And where do I find this Jinn?” he shouted.

Otero looked at Matson, who was shaking his head.