Zero Hour (NUMA Files 11)

“At least they match,” he said, offering a hand. “Kurt Austin.”

“Hayley Anderson,” she replied. “Proud owner of the most expensive flats in all of Oz.”

Kurt had to laugh.

“I suppose you’re escaping the keynote,” she said.

“Guilty as charged,” he admitted. “Can you really blame me?”

“Not in the least,” she replied. “If I didn’t need to be here, I’d be off to the beach myself.”

She stood up and stepped toward the door from which Kurt had emerged. It seemed a shame to have the encounter end so soon.

“Flat shoes work well on the sand,” Kurt offered. “Almost as well as bare feet.”

“Sorry,” she said, “can’t miss this or someone will have my guts for garters. You could come back in with me, I promise to keep you entertained.”

“Tempting,” Kurt said. “But my hard-won freedom is worth too much at this point. If you get bored in there, you’ll find me on Bondi Beach. I’ll be the one who’s slightly overdressed.”

She laughed lightly and grabbed quickly for the door. She seemed to be rushing. She pulled the door open and then stopped. Her gaze drifted past Kurt. She was looking across Sydney Harbour.

Kurt turned. In the fading light, he spotted the curving wake of a powerboat. It cut across the harbor, coming dangerously close to the front of a ferry. A scolding blast from the ship’s horn followed, but the boat never slowed.

An instant later, Kurt saw why. A dark-colored helicopter raced over the top of the ferry, flashing across the crowded vessel in the blink of an eye and dropping back toward the water in hot pursuit.

The speeding boat turned left and then right, carving an S in the water and intentionally skirting the edges of a slow-moving sailboat. It was a madman’s path across the harbor.

“He must be insane,” Hayley said, gawking at the boat.

Kurt took a good look at the helicopter, a dark blue Eurocopter EC145. A stubby, bulbous cabin that jutted forward gave its nose an odd compact look, somet

hing like the snout of a great white shark. A four-bladed rotor whirled overhead, leaving a white blur, while its short, boomlike tail ended in three small vertical stabilizers something like a trident.

Kurt saw no markings or navigation lights, but he noticed flashes coming from the open cargo door: muzzle flashes.

He grabbed his phone and dialed 911. Nothing happened.

Hayley took a step forward. “They’re shooting. They’re trying to kill those people.”

“What’s the emergency number here?”

“Zero zero zero,” she said.

Kurt typed it in and hit CALL. By the time he was connected, the speedboat had turned head-on toward the Opera House. It raced at them at full throttle, aiming for the rounded promenade that stuck out into Sydney Harbour like a great pier.

Most of the promenade was a wall of solid concrete, but a single flight of stairs on the left-hand side led down to the water. The speeding boat was drawing a line right to them. The helicopter was following, trying to set up a kill shot for the sniper.

More flashes lit out from the door.

The boat jerked to the left as the popping sound of gunfire reached the shore. It swerved a bit, then came back on course and hit the stairwell at high speed. It flew up into the air at an angle like a stunt car launching off a jump ramp in catty-corner fashion. It traveled fifty feet and rolled halfway over before it slammed down on its side.

From there, the boat skidded across the concrete deck, hit a lightpost, and came apart. Shattered fiberglass fluttered in all directions as the post bent over and its bulbs exploded with a flash.

“Emergency Service,” a voice said over the phone.

Kurt was too mesmerized by the accident to respond.

“Hello? This is Emergency Service.”