The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

“Suppose we see a ship on the horizon,” he said. “We’ll need to intercept it, to get in front of it or at least alongside.”

She nodded. “Sorry.”

He smiled. “It’s okay.”

In the absence of the droning outboard, the silence felt oppressive and ominous, like a sign of their eventual doom. There was no wind. The only sound that could be heard was the light chop slapping against the sides of the boat.

Bathed in this silence, they bobbed up and down, wallowing in the low swells, three people aboard a sixteen-foot inflatable boat in a million square miles of ocean.

“Now what?” Leilani asked.

“Now we wait,” Kurt said patiently. “And see what fortune holds for us.”

CHAPTER 39

JOE ZAVALA HAD SPENT FIFTEEN HOURS IN THE CARGO HOLD of an unknown ship with only a group of trucks and untold billions of microbots for company. Another man might have gone stir-crazy and given himself up, banging on the doors just to get out. Joe had put the time to good use.

He’d searched each truck thoroughly. He’d found three bottles of water, drinking two of them and saving the third. He’d also discovered a plastic Ziploc-style bag filled with some type of jerky. Beef it wasn’t, but goat or camel or lamb it might have been. He ate as much as he could and put the rest back.

He’d also measured out the confines, took a look under the hoods of the trucks and come up with several alternate plans of action. He’d even considered sabotaging the engines, pulling out distributor wires, tampering with the carburetors or attempting to loosen the oil plugs so the big rigs either wouldn’t start or would break down shortly after they got going.

He chose not to. If the trucks couldn’t go, he couldn’t get off the ship. If they moved an

d then broke down twenty miles into whatever land they were heading to, Joe might be stuck somewhere worse than Yemen—and surrounded by angry militants to boot.

He considered breaking out. The huge doors were still pinned shut, but Joe was pretty certain he could bash them open with all the horsepower he had available. But then what? Based on what he remembered about their entry into the freighter and the thick layer of tire marks on the floor, he figured he was near the back end of some kind of dedicated transport. Almost like an auto ferry.

It wasn’t a roll on/roll off ship because there was no front exit, but it was definitely designed for vehicles. From the way it wallowed and swayed he didn’t think it was all that large either, which meant they probably weren’t taking him too far.

He decided not to break out. The only thing that would lead to was going overboard. Instead he waited, took a nap in the bed of the lead truck and woke to the sound of shouting on the decks above.

It felt as if the ship was slowing and maneuvering in smaller increments.

The sound of horns and whistles from other ships suggested they were near a port or harbor somewhere. Joe sensed the time for action approaching. If the ship docked in this mystery port, he was finding a way off even if this wasn’t the truck’s final destination.

Finally the sound of rattling came from the rear doors. Someone was working a heavy padlock. Moments later light spilled into the hold as the doors began to slide open.

CHAPTER 40

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON. THE SUN WAS SETTING IN THE western sky. Jinn had secured his ownership of the floating island, bringing on board thirty men, heavy machine guns, RPGs and even a dozen ground-to-air missiles, minus the one he’d used against Kurt Austin.

The flying boat sat, fueled and waiting, in the marina in case he had to leave quickly. He felt safe, he felt secure. He would not have to concern himself with Xhou or the other members of the consortium here, nor would he face any repercussions from the Americans who were still in the dark as to his methods and goals.

Such success had put him in a boasting mood. He stood on the observation deck that jutted out from Aqua-Terra’s control room. The annoying Americans and the Italian billionaire stood near the edge, hands cuffed to the rail in front of them. Zarrina and a couple of Jinn’s men stood behind them. Otero sat just inside the door of the control room, his fingers on the keys of a laptop.

“I suppose you’re wondering why you’re still alive,” he said to his three most important prisoners.

“We’re alive because you need us to keep up the façade,” the tall man said, apparently speaking for the others. “To pretend everything is smooth as silk here if anyone calls in. Which will happen soon and which we’re not going to help you to do.”

A smirk crossed Jinn’s face. They weren’t stupid, but they were certainly not up on current events. Jinn approached the tall man from behind.

“Paul, is it?”

“That’s right.”

It bothered Jinn that this man Paul was so much taller than him. He remembered Sabah telling him that a king’s throne was always the tallest chair in the room and that the Shah of Iran used to hold court in a room with only one chair, his. All others had to stand while he sat a full head higher than them.

Jinn swung his leg, bringing the pointed toe of his boot across the back of the American’s knees, chopping him down.